Grief, postmortem

By Upama Bhattacharjee

Yesterday, you called at two a.m.,

said you were sorry for disturbing me—

it's been a rough day,

and you needed a friend.

I said, “Yes, I would listen”,

but could you hear the exhaustion in my voice?

The slight irritation?

I wonder.

Because the next moment, you'd changed your mind,

Told me to rest.

“Put it off till tomorrow,”

“It's not that big of a deal,” you'd laughed.

Last Wednesday, after school,

you had asked me to stay.

Broke down in the washroom,

hands gripping the sink till your knuckles turned white.

You said they have been harsher lately,

that you'd gone without food for a week.

I asked, “Why?”—

and you didn't answer.

But could you hear the terror in my voice? The raw, bone-deep fear?

I wonder.

Because the next moment,

you were smiling in that heartbreaking way.

“I'm here,” I said, as I held onto you—

“I'm here.”

I could barely speak over the lump forming in my throat.

Last month, before class,

I asked why you loved all the people who could never love you back.

Why you give so much of yourself to them.

You looked startled.

Then said,

"It's better than being lonely."

I asked if that actually was true,

and you kept quiet.

But could you sense the regret in my words? The tension that followed in the silence?

I wonder.

Because the next moment,

you'd smiled too widely,

and said, “They don't pretend, either.”

At least, you're prepared.

At least, you know.

Last year, after your swim meet,

I asked if you were ill.

You'd grown thinner,

and turned down your favorite burger.

You promptly said that it was nothing,

that you just didn't feel like eating anymore.

I asked why—

and you simply shrugged.

But could you hear the surprise in my voice? The way it cracked at the edges?

I wonder.

Because the next moment,

you'd shoved salad in your mouth,

rushed to the washroom in the next.

I pretended not to hear you throw up,

as I pretended to search the stalls.

When you came out,

I said only then, “You're beautiful just the way you are.”

You smiled, helpless. “Must I be?”

Tomorrow, after your funeral,

I'll ask if that was absolutely necessary.

If you're truly happy now,

wherever now is.

You'll say that you are, no doubt,

I know you just well enough

to have learnt your lies by heart.

I'll ask if you'll miss me,

and you'll keep quiet.

But would you hear the pain in my voice?

The remnants of regret, of the salty grief?

I wonder.

Because the next moment,

the time will be up.

They'll put you six feet under earth,

far away from all that had hurt over the years—

Away from me.

Away from you.

By Upama Bhattacharjee