Afterlife.

Of many stories I heard while staying in that distant land that reeked of eucalyptus, I sadly remember this one.

There was a sad boy. Perhaps his heart was broken. His intangible sadness was enough for him to perform puerile acts that’s characteristic of adolescent boys. But I shouldn’t judge him, hell, I don’t understand him.

I never got to know the reason of his sadness. I was told that he was sad, and hence he had to die. He is just this person who died for no reason at all.

Although with little pride I would like to say that, I fondly remember the story where he had a close friend, the one who died of a reason. At least a reason that I could grasp, not entirely, but in ways I would like to.

The history of this dry country was full of men with barren hearts-‘lack of water’, noted a famous historian was the reason for it. Not much were said about the women. Nothing much grew here, there was no life. Whatever lived here was harsh and strong- just like the men who ambled those red country roads.  In the pursuit of maintaining order the colonial masters had devised a plan of bringing in water to cool these parts and change the heart of men. The masters knew that, it was easier to rule over contented and feeble hearts. And like that as had happened ‘n’ times before in the compendium of human history, the idea of the visionaries began to take effect. Laborers had to fulfill it.

Years after meticulous digging, the ground had boasted the waters that came from a holy river. Soon the land changed, green grass and exotic seeds sprouted at the touch of these astral waters.

With the disappearance of the barren topography, the heart of men changed too, if not considerably. They had decided to harbor emotions which were rather human, if not practical.

Perhaps that led to the birth of sadness and remorse in the heart of little boys. There was so much life and activity that one couldn’t ignore the palpitations of the heart. But emotions, like everything else breeds in asymmetry, so there would be friction within them (preferably between boys and girls) and this would lead to some being happier than others, and some being sadder than the rest. And thus one would have stories to tell.  

So it was perhaps one of these reasons that led to the general sadness of this boy. A preferred friction between him and a little girl?  

It was a full moon’s day. There was a sad boy who sat by the side of a canal to cool and soothe his aching heart. He could not be found since the morning. If one would call him by his name they would only hear their echo amongst the distant mango trees that had grown along with the new found human emotions.

The boy had a family. It was worried. It sent out words to the boy’s friends. None of them knew where he was. But then there was one friend. The one who shared a sense of commonality with him. He had to know where he was. He had an idea. So he went to look for him by the side of the canal. He knew the ‘spot that soothed the heart’. And he had found the sad boy looking distastefully into that torrent of water. He would call him by his name and ask him to end this drama. The sad boy would agree. He had taken it way too far. He would get up now and turn back to climb up the levee. His friend would wait up for him to come up.

There was life everywhere. A little bit of moss had grown on the side of the dams. This was perhaps the curse of the land. Too much life. The boy rests his feet on this lively vegetation. He slips. He falls down in that flowing water. He drifts away amidst the current frantically waving his hands. The friend who is full of raw emotions jumps to save him. It’s all too human. This sense of honor, this sense of protecting a compatriot’s life.

But in that moment of human valor he realizes the graveness of his menial decision that I like many others, always mistake for impeccable valor. The invisible whirlpool entangles his feet and sucks him in. He can’t see his sad friend any more. He thinks of his own life now. A terror sets in his heart and now he struggles like a fish taken out in air. There’s no fishermen to save him. His struggles are meaningless after a point. He would give up soon, as his lungs would choke with the holy water. Nobody would see his terror, that final moment of panic before that inevitable lull of death. A faraway girl while passing by the arch bridge would probably notice that episode where he had jumped in to save his sad friend. She would tell others of her bravery. They would pass this down to many others orally. His death would mean something now. A boy of valor- his meed of death.

But, alas, he didn’t want to die. Neither did the sad boy. Yet they would end up there, comrades in death. But there would be a difference in their afterlife.

Downstream, a few longing kilometers from there, the sad boy’s cadaver would float and get stuck in a net. His friend the one who jumped in to save him would not be found. Ever.

It has been almost thirty years since that incident and no one ever found his body, not even a single bone, but yet no body has forgotten him. It’s true as the locals once told me that no boys have ever drowned in that canal since that fateful day. They told me that his ghost moves around the banks guarding it, scaring away little children who tries to appear and go play in that water.

Yet, the legend ignored what I found out from an aching mother. On a certain full moon’s day every year, it wasn’t common to find cadavers of little girls floating merrily in that holy water.