Sunset – Part 2

In this mesmerizing tonality of vicious humanity, we stay closer to the dominance of the netherworld with an abstinence of youth lingering through the insurmountable pain of anachronistic virile humor that we call, and apparently seem to believe, the wheel of life, a wheel that transcends through the path of unforgettable and almost reproachful understanding carved amidst a sea of forgettable and unworthy causes and effects, both of them in sync, rising akin to smoke from the embers of our mere existence into the air of sanctimonious cruelty of truth and beauty.

It has been twenty-five years since Father left. I have a son who is a reader. Much has happened in the past and I have grown accustomed to it all. My son says that when he reads, he feels a sensation which cannot be explained. His heartbeat speeds up, he feels a certain level of ecstasy. I think he has a sixth sense – a sense that enables him to appreciate the elements of narrative art. Often, he would ask about his Grandfather and I would tell him that Grandfather was an explorer, he had gone to explore. He would ask To explore what? And I would say To explore what he needed to explore. This never satisfied him but he understood that it was the truth. So he would not mention him for a couple of months and then one day when some classmate of his would mention his trip to their grandfather’s place, he would come back to me with the same question.

To speak of the never ending remorse that ties us to the sermon of the old who, when lighted up by the acknowledgement of their experiences or an abjection of the same, never fail to embark on a journey back to the memories lying in the deep graves of days and hours and minutes and seconds, is to accept the inability to change the course of the our interpreting minds, for it is the truth that does not change but the interpretations show who their owners, in the lack of hope and amidst the despair, think of – a person, an idea, a feeling – and it is up to us, the recreated doppelgangers of the various selves that walk upon the land and sail through the water, to accept the ineptitude of the daily chore that is living to survive and to aim for the objective – a topline goal, a destination – and roll the wheel of life on its path.

My son was twenty years old when he came up to me and

“Mom, I want to travel to Greece, alone. I will be gone for five days and then travel to Paris.”

“Why?”

“Athens. Greek. Santorini. Louvre. Streets. Books.”

“Why alone?”

“I don’t want to accommodate interests.”

“Okay.”

The day he left for Greece, I stopped touching. My skin became a magnetic north and everything else south. Even the air floated on my skin – I could see the vacuum between the air and the skin. When I held something, I could not feel it because there was a millimeter gap between my palm and the object. I tried to touch my face and thankfully, I could. Frustrated, I sat on the chair at a millimeter height from the surface of the chair. So, it was me, literally detached from the world. It was the truth for me.
When my son was ten years old, I had stopped tasting. My taste buds had stopped functioning. Nothing was sweet and salty and hot. Water was as flavorful as Gnocchi or Khao-Suey. Salt was as sweet as Sugar was salty. It was disturbing but then I was reminded of the Sunset.

“Then.” – Father had said, pointing at the Sunset and I forgot what life tasted like. I missed him. I wanted him to be there so that we could discuss in detail the newly acquired absence of the sense of taste and the scientific and philosophical reasons and consequences of the same, respectively.

My mother had married Father’s friend and we liked him. It was unfortunate that he was not as brilliant as Father, and I knew I could never have a discussion on Quantum Theory with him. It was a chance that he liked Cinema and it was the only interest we shared. One day, he called me to his room. I would have been nineteen. He called me and asked me to sit on his side, on the bed. I did. My mother was at her parent’s house. He,

“What was your father like?”

I, instantly,

“Father was a crazy piece of shit. But a good crazy piece of shit. A really good one.”

He started laughing hysterically and I joined him too.

“But you were Father’s friend. Why are you asking this?”

“I knew your father as my friend, not as a father or a husband. I try to recreate the life your mother had but have failed to do so. She says she is happy, but I know, deep down, against all odds, she still pines for him. And it’s not her fault. So I don’t question it.”

“She still waits for him. I still wait for him. But he is gone. He said he would return on Sunset.”

“On Sunset?”

“Yes. That’s what he had said when he left. I know I will never be able to understand this but I still aim to.”

“Forgive me if I ever do something that hurts you.”

“Never mind. I know you’re a good person.” (I said, my voice trembling at the acknowledgement of how nice and genuine he was.)

I, after a pause,

“Tell me, is there a God?”

“Nothing is there unless its existence is proven.”

I smiled and left the room.

Now when I look back at my tasteful and touching life – a life before I lost my senses – I feel a certain remorse because of having failed at the objective of my life, the major reason being the absence of knowledge of the same. I didn’t know the purpose of my life, or life in general. And therefore, I failed. In one life, everything exists unless proven non-existent and in another, nothing exists unless its existence is proven. In my life, both lives exist. But I know for sure that in my life, I love my son and Father more.

Senses are the limitations rather than the facilitators of our experiences to which we are indefinitely bound, and are afraid of the possibility of losing them because we consider them as things inevitable for being able to live through time and space and acknowledge the glories of the world and beyond but we are not cognizant of the fact that people who are deaf by birth do not crib on being incapable to hear for it is not her incapability that limits her but the capability of others to experience it – others who have constructed an artificial world to glorify the objects they can sense – but they fail to understand the limitless possibilities of senses that might exist but since no human can experience them, their existence is beyond the capacity of their minds.

Today my son turns thirty years old, married to a girl he met in Greece. And I know I am going to lose a sense which turns out to be the ability to smell. I woke up in the morning and suddenly the world was aroma-less. I was prepared to lose one, and it interestingly turned out to be my nasal capabilities. I was bed-ridden, after a major heart-attack. My son and his wife come to me and,

“What is it Mom?”

“Smell.”

And they sigh, together.

I ask them to bring the aluminum case lying at the bottom shelf of my wardrobe and leave.

I open it and take out the notes from Father. Having lost the senses of touch, taste and smell – I can only see, hear and think, equipped with another one that allowed me to know that today is my last day on this planet. I love reading these notes that Father sent every ten years. Yesterday’s note was a short one –

To think of someone is to acknowledge his existence in one’s life which seems to be crowded but is actually an arid land with scattered bushes of people and thoughts.

Nine hours later, I look out at the sun, setting in the far horizon.

Father was still there, looking for truth. He was there, sending me the intermediate results of his expedition.

I look at the setting sun, and he comes back to me.

Then – he had said.

True.