The Letter ~ Part II

Flash Back....

Shruti flipped through the pages of the classic, “The Burial”. Then she closed the book and eyed the maroon hard bound cover. Running her fingers through the text on the cover, she considered whether she should read it. She had never heard of the author.

“Erin Mathew…” said a voice behind her. She turned around to find an African American woman standing there. “He ain’t a famous author but that ain’t enough a reason to keep that book back.”, she said with a smile. Shruti felt a little embarrassed and surprised to find someone reading her thoughts. “No.. uhmm. I was just..”
“Oh come on!... I’m Emily”, the woman said and extended her right hand.
“Shruti”
“That’s a lovely name I must say!” said Emily. “And that..”, she said pointing at the Shruti’s hand, “is a lovely book, Shrewti. You can trust me on that.”

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Emily was one of the very first friends Shruti had made since she and her father had shifted base to Calcutta… and perhaps the only foreigner friend that she ever had. She was a native of Ethiopia, born and brought up in the South America… a middle aged woman, mother of two and a proud owner of a huge library that she often mentioned about. She had come to Calcutta with her group to serve at ‘Nirmal Hriday’, a home for the needy in Calcutta. After a months stint as her friends made their way back, Emily had preferred to stay back.

“For good?” she was asked.

And she had replied, “I may come back if I find another reason to live.”

Shruti never asked Emily much about her past, about why she was in India when her family was miles away in Peru. Perhaps an unsuccessful marriage, or maybe her kids had disowned her.. or maybe she just wanted to run away from her past.

Despite her altruistic nature, Emily would prefer burying herself deep in the world of books otherwise spend her time helping the needy in foster homes as a part of a Baptist mission. Some days, Emily would excuse herself from everything and go missing. On being asked where she had been, she would smile and say, “Just stepped out to breathe.” Shruti would roll her eyes when Emily uttered her favorite line, “You are the queen of your life, Shruti. Never let anyone rule you.”

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Shruti quickly made her way into the house. Carelessly flinging the bag full of grocery into a corner of the kitchen slab, she rushed into the living room with the letter. “God knows how long it has been inside the box. Sheh! How could I not see it there? How could I!”She opened the envelope carefully, making sure she dint tear the priceless sheet of paper inside.

“Dear Shruti…” It read…

“I had this weird feeling that I was getting old. One day I was coming back to my place and I realized I had forgotten how to climb the stairs. Another day, I spent hours after a shower, wondering how to button my shirt. And when one day I found I had kept my books inside the closet instead of the bookshelf, I realized it couldn’t just be old age. They say it’s a disease. But I am of another opinion. I call it Nirvana. It’s just a way you give up everything that you ever had, before you finally rest in peace. Your belongings, your habits, your identity... Everything.

I knew I had to let my Queenie know that in some time, I may be stepping out for good. All I had was your address. Hence the letter.

These girls here are very kind. They remind me of my efforts to help people at Nirmal Hriday. Albeit, it’s weird to realize that I had never envisaged myself, lying in one of these beds one day.

They asked me a few days ago what I would want t do before I die a cerebral death. I told them I want to write to two people – to you and to my daughter, Queenie. And I told them that when I die, I wish to be cremated, and not put inside a coffin. In the so called happy half of my life, Shruti, I have lived inside a box. I know I won’t find peace lying inside one, albeit dead.

I’d love it if you could come and meet me once. I have no idea for how long my brain can fight senility. But if I smile and call you Queenie, you’ll know I’ve not stepped out yet.”

Shruti folded the paper and felt the envelope. She could not tell whether it were her tears or the shock that blurred her sight. Inside her mind, were a thousand questions gyrating in a maddening rhythm.

“Emm…” She mumbled.

Her mobile phone rang, whirring on top of the dining table. She stared at it, not being able to move… and watched it ring till the tone died down and gave way to a deafening silence.

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P.S.: The Letter has been written, inspired by a Queen Latifah movie. I dont remember the movie's name. But i loved the way her letter said she wished to be cremated and not put inside a box..... At the risk of sounding stupid, I must confess I took that line and built a story around it. And i must say, i simply loved writing the story nevertheless. Heh.