Sunday, 22 June 2014

Last day of my life.

So, what would you do if you are told that today is the last day of your life? Will you hurriedly attempt to do everything in your bucket list or would you retrospect about life up till now, instead? Your blog post should start with the line, “It is 6 in the morning…” 

It is 6 in the morning and I have just silenced the alarm sound of my old timepiece resting on my side-table. Its irritating buzz is the sole reason for making me get out from the luxury of my bed . That unattractive antique piece should have found its way to the 'kabaadiwallah'  . Since it has never failed in its service, I have retained it forcibly in my life, just like Ramukaka in the old Bollywood movies.

I look out of the window. The rain Gods have answered every prayer and are making their presence felt. The downpour seems to surpass the wettest day and threatening doomsday.

With the press of the button , the television screen spring to life and images of the island city being besieged with rising waters are flashed. I still feel gloomy despite being brushed and washed. The life-lines of Mumbai, the local trains , are stranded  in the middle of muddy water loaded with stranded people. I will remain indoors, I concluded.

Fixing  a sumptuous breakfast of vegetable omelette , I start to ruminate .

If the rising waters submerge the island city by tomorrow , how would I live the last day of my life?

Death does knock on everybody's door but only once in a life-time.

It is inevitable nor one can escape it as Lord Gautam Buddha  , said so wisely.

But the mad magnetic attraction to LIFE makes man greedy.

I am happily chomping on the buttered omelette and sipping hot coffee.

If my heart-beats were to cease 24 hours later how would I make the best use of it?

I smiled to myself. Neither an optimist nor a pessimist, I am more practical.

Life is a balance-sheet of assets and liabilities. I make a mental note of the people whom I had deliberately hurt , swindled , insulted   inadvertently too in the process. I will call up to apologize them. Some may forgive me while other may not but my heart will certainly be lighter.

I am not in touch with my parents. And for the past six months the tug of the hearts strings was strong but the devil of EGO prevented me  and I  have procrastinated   in connecting to them. I will make amends. I have erred and I do accept my mistake.

Today I will light a 'diya' . My grandmother insisted on a strict regime of prayer and lighting of the sacred lamp . I had deliberately as an act of defiance avoided this ritual and deluded my mind that work is worship. Today I realize that lighting a 'diya' is symbolic of dispelling the darkness of the mind and spreading light and enlightenment. Daadima , I am sorry.

I have been very unfair to Kiran , my childhood friend and neighbour. I devoured her tasty tiffin in school but did not share the goodies and she did not complain even when her stomach growled.
While she burnt the midnight oil studying , I had copied the Hindi assignments and altered a few words. I had patted my back for not getting caught. But deep down I was guilty.

The list is endless and I am amazed at the debits being garnered by me. Repentance clears the path and shows the way to God.  Admitting to my folly with folded hands does not mean what I did was okay but it takes a strong character to accept it. By asking for forgiveness , I have released the pain in my heart which I never acknowledged but unburdening  it makes room for peace to rush in.

When I cease to exist bodily in this world , my debts hopefully have been paid.



The trrrrrring of the time-piece is resonating in my ears and I open my eyes and the thud of the heartbeats are threatening to open my rib-cage. I press the button and my ears can hear the melody of silence. I smile. The nightmare has vanished but in hindsight taught me valuable lessons. Today may not be the last day of my life but I have to  tick off the points on my 'must-to-do-agenda'.

I pick up the phone and hear my own voice say , "Mummy" and the tears cannot stop flowing at the other end.

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

Read all the wonderful  posts here.

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