Just wanted to share this wonderful piece by Ms. Baruah. Those of us who still have our Dueta/Ma with us, should cherish every moment, and those that don't, this piece should bring back fond memories.
--Ram Deuta Rupanjali Baruah He lay face up on a bed in one corner of a hospital room. Deuta was then on an endless trial with pricks of needles while the blood cake dried on his scalp and his bones ached to rest in his own room. In fact, he had been preparing to fall asleep for several hours but something did not let him. It was probably the harsh glare of a bulb that tugged at his eyelids. He was already on his way inside a dark aisle that would soon lead him out of the trappings of plaster and pins to an altar where many fruits were piled on top of the other as offerings. He tried to pronounce his name, Nagen, the five simple letters would not come easily to his lips. His lips felt too dry at the edges, he could do with a sip of cold water if someone would get him. It was a wise thought but he did not know how he was to put that into words for others to understand. A red blanket wrapped him, his hands lay on either side solemnly acknowledging the many wounds of needles on him. He was unwilling to raise his fingers to point at something. He sank more and more into solitude where his thoughts were soon to become too intricate to decipher. He did not understand a word of what he was saying, only his lips moved awkwardly to indicate that he was still breathing. The dates are all false to him, Deuta could be at any time at any place now. It did not matter to him. He lost his calm suddenly in the early morning and muttered something about a smell of grease in the air. He had stumbled several steps a day before this had happened to him. Earlier, it would have mattered to him a lot if he did not get a matter straight in good time. Now time came in between to distance him from the rest of us. He wore a solemn look on the face that had once resonated with details of beautiful memories. Now we stood around to gather the last remnants of that past from his feeble ramblings, those memories now have different place names for him. His uncertain days were then struggling with the snares of earth. A few weeks before we could not take him out of the confinements of his bed, he loved to remain there almost the whole of a day, and night had seemed to him the best part because no one would then ask him to stay awake. And he would refuse to get out of his pale pair of pyjamas since they fell softly on his thin frame. He would turn away from the dishes of food; he nibbled reluctantly at the single piece of fried fish or an arrowroot biscuit and would say that he was full already. Small noises annoyed him much, just as the loud bellow of the cows downstairs for their midday meal or the irregular cawing of crows shook him easily out of sleep. He would keep a woolen shawl like a cowl over his head to keep out some thought that perhaps hovered over him. He seemed to be pursued by several ghosts of men, long dead and he would say with a little reproach that some voices bothered him at regular intervals. Sometimes he would let out a cry of alarm and when Ma would rush to his side he would ask with tears in his eyes "have you found them, where are they?" To us it was a mere thought in passing but it was a different texture of fear that showed as goose bumps on his skin. Someone had told us that these are ominous signals, we should be prepared for something though we would not be flattered by the ingenuity of such a discovery that seemed to stand on the edge of absurdity. We would rather not know it. Some nine nights were then left for our leave taking. Though none of us knew it. Death does not arrive with a siren of warning though some say that a date is assigned for everybody. Some die without being aware of it. Some die waiting too long for it, some with disappointments for leaving behind too many unfinished things. I wonder if any of these happened to Deuta. His memories left him too quickly, we became mere strange faces though he seemed quite familiar when he conversed at length about certain daily happenings. He forgot to raise a whimper of a complaint when his cup of tea was not too hot on his lips. His thoughts had drifted, wandering already beyond our habitation, the ties of affection became unknown things though his eyes would open hesitatingly looking for the familiar feel of our hands on him. The blood looked blue under his skin, I did not wish to think that very soon it would stop flowing. The only thing I had asked God for several years since the day I had seen the father of a friend pass away, that I should predecease my own Deuta to save myself from the agony of living without him and I had believed that God would listen and truly concede. A selfish thought may be, but very natural as I now come to think of it. In spite of my repeated pleas to God, Deuta left as I stood waiting at the gate for him to return; he returned though wrapped in a white shroud, I thought it would stifle him. I did not wish to be told that he would not be breathing. He had left his last breath so far away in a hospital room. I have survived one whole year without him. Strange it seems to believe. He looks at me now and always from two different photographs in his room that are the remaining semblances of Deuta to me. I often stagger as I see his room, full of all his other things that stare at me. This too is so hard to believe. I am yet to arrive at the beginning of that preparation to believe it. _______________________________________________ Assam mailing list Assam@pikespeak.uccs.edu http://pikespeak.uccs.edu/mailman/listinfo/assam Mailing list FAQ: http://pikespeak.uccs.edu/assam/assam-faq.html To unsubscribe or change options: http://pikespeak.uccs.edu/mailman/options/assam
