Wednesday, 23 March 2011

Life is a Desire, Not a Meaning - Charlie Chaplin.

His eyes stood still. For the first time in entire life I could see a sense of satisfaction in his eyes. He was not nervous.

But I was. He lay on the bed number eleven in this government hospital. After all, eleven was his lucky number. He was born on the Eleventh day of April, forty seven years back. Doctors have already left if up to God for him to live or to die.

I took his cold right hand in my hands and nervously started to tickle through in his palm with my fingers. “Your life line suggests nothing will happen to you.”, I said still moving my finger on his life line and looking deep into it as if to hide from something. “You still have a long way to go. You just cant leave it incomplete. It has been a long struggle. How can you do this?”, I upped my tone. “How can you do this to yourself? To me? Nothings gonna happen to you.” I carried on from before hoping for an instant reply, which he would always give. But this time it was not to be.

I lifted my chin up still holding his hand and looked into his eyes. For the first time since I've known him, he was quietly listening to me. I just kept looking towards him and waited. He just kept quiet.
Before my senses could tell me, a drop of tear fell on my hand running down to his palm. He felt it. He felt that drop of tear on his palm faster that I could realize that had I started crying.

Looked down towards his palm and then lifted his eye lids just enough to dive in my heart through my wet eyes and said, “Heena. The dream is not yet over.”.. He took a pause. He was already speaking with pauses between the words as if silence would speak up for him. “The dream is not yet over. Now I want to dream and go to a long sleep. You take if forward.”, he said slowly again with long breaths in between. Just as I was trying to understand and find a meaning in his words he disturbed, “ What do you want meaning for? Life is a desire, not a meaning.”.

“I think you should not speak much now. You need rest.”, I replied seriously. He replied as instantly as always, “We think too much, and feel too little.” “That's what the great Charlie said”, I completed the jargon as I always used to suddenly realizing that I may not get the chance to do so again. He was a great fan of the English comedian Charlie Chaplin.

Once again I broke into tears thinking of life without him. He did not stop me. He just lay there still, seemingly satisfied, and just looked.

“I have left a letter for you on the last page of my diary. Those will be my last words to you.”, he said slowly closing his eyes. “I will read it, OK?”, I replied kind of showing my annoyance and there was no response yet again.

I shook him to show him that he was hurting me with his words, and his head fell from the pillow to the side of it. “Doctor! Help! Help Someone!”, I screamed in fear. I suddenly realized that he was dead. He was gone and left me alone. Ironically, I did not cry. I just went silent and thought that he was gone.

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