The Enigma of Arrival

Sahasranshu died yesterday.That much is fact; but the rest is...
Okay,okay,you can’t blame the people,they hardly knew anything about the circumstances that led to his passing.At least not as much as I did.But have you really HEARD what they’ve been saying??? Whoa,talk about weird. Rubbish! He didn’t “succumb” to any metaphysical mumbo-jumbo,nor was he consumed by an obsession that led him to suicide...It’s simple: I KILLED HIM.
I’m Kabita, fifteen going on sixteen,five feet and six inches,dusky, successful student and unsuccessful dancer. I’ve known Sahasranshu for the past five years,since the day he told me I was VERY pretty.I was in turns his friend, confidante,inamorata,MURDERER and now---alas!---his obituarist.I’ve come to tell you his story: the story of an enigma,THE ENIGMA OF ARRIVAL.Allow me.
To tell you his story,you might want me to tell you our story;our passionate,but insincere romance that led to his murder and my vindication,details of how we held each other,details of this and details of that.Sorry,I won’t oblige.I do not deal in the lurid,I’m soft-spoken,nuanced,a lady .Suffice it to say that we were close enough for me to know the exact date of his Great Escape,the exact location of the black spot on his lower lip,the exact pattern of his fingerprints on my legs and the exact moment of his death(Of course,he didn’t die as soon as I pressed the trigger,but that is besides the point).
I told him this,time and again,“Baby,why can’t you be normal for a change? Why can’t you be like the others? People think I’m dating a jerk!”.But would he listen?
He always dreamt of the Great Escape,he dreamt colourless,peaceful dreams of beauty,music and yes,of his tall,beautiful,unattainable desiree even as other people saw armies in their dreams(colourful dreams,powerful dreams,dreams full of activity,destruction and death):red armies blowing up jeeps and trains, green armies gunning down people in hotels and railway platforms, saffron armies burning babies,raping nuns...It wasn’t his fault,not at all. The time was at fault,the circumstances were(You see,he could NEVER be like everyone else,couldn’t even ****ing DREAM like everyone else),not him,not him...Born into a slaughterhouse of the senses with hope and despair fighting their violent battles before his eyes,day in and day out,he always dreamt of the Great Escape.He finally escaped on the day they bought the seventeenth Drum Of Hopelessness(Without so much as kissing me goodbye).He beat the odds and set sail,hoping to reach the distant Elsewheres of his imagination.BUT DID HE REALLY ARRIVE?
The day he reached the shore,he was too cold from the journey to hear anything.Thank Goodness he didn’t.The sound in the air wasn’t what he would have imagined: one of desolation,of mystery,of the emptiness of arrival.Contrary to his captain’s words(“There.You are there.Your journey’s over”),he was no longer Here,nor There,nor in those distant Elsewheres of his imagination he’d so desperately sought out.He’d become a citizen of a rootless,terrible Nowhere that would draw him in,eat at his soul.My only thought was: God help you now,my atheist Sehraan,God help you now.
Sure enough,he moved from that silence and desolation,that blankness,to a gateway---a gateway that led him to the noisy bazaars of the breezy City of Everlasting Hope(or so it ought to be),its roadside cafes,its art galleries and its state-of-the-art theatre of dreams(Big dreams,bigger dreams,dreams that shrink,dreams that bloat,dreams-that-are-just-dreams-and-nothing-else and of course,other kinds of dreams...)its pubs and discos,its criminals and heroes.He was overwhelmed,sucked in,delighted.He felt at home,even after having escaped from it(Though he did send me a letter now and then,oh-so-long and oh-so-unromantic, telling me how horrible it felt to be away,how desperately he wanted to come back ).He encountered all kinds of people there:fat men,who gave him food,gave him drink,chatted with him; thin men,who stroked their beards,beamed at him,and smiled at his accent; insufferable women who nagged him to misery; and exciting,alluring women who existed without really existing.
Then one fine day,he finally felt like a fraud,crushed under the weight of his lies and lost in a swamp of frustration,alienated,shown a final proof of his terrible uselessness.His feeling of adventure had given way to panic. He became aware of the rule of that cruel,ever-present breeze : he had to pay the price of entering the city.He had to attend The Lottery.He could win,which would send him back home(back to the cesspit of ignominy) or,he could lose,which meant staying on(further uprooting,further harshness,further torture): Quite a double-bind...In any case,he won.They led him to a door leading to the port of his arrival.BUT THE SHIP WAS NO LONGER THERE.He could neither stay,nor go back...He was left with nothing.No longer an energetic,expletive-spewing adolescence; but certainly not the all-knowing maturity of age.Neither rootedness,nor broad-mindedness.Neither comfort,nor adventure.Sehraan the traveller had lived out his life,but the enigma of arrival refused to stop tormenting him.
He couldn’t come to me,so I went to him,observed him as closely as I could.
He’d become a retard,lost to life,lost to human company.A wretch: mad,intolerable.
I asked him to come back,but he didn’t.He spoke about me to those who still wanted to hear,but waited patiently for that tall,beautiful aim.He dreamt the dreams that he was used to dreaming.He did not adapt to allow for me,to allow for a new life.I hated that.I hated him.I shot him down...
Yes,Sahasranshu died last night,and I KILLED HIM.