You, the World, and Other Things Broken

By Prince Kumar

The rain should have brought relief, but it came with an emptiness inside you. The doctor fled after the mother died, leaving her newborn in your lap. The baby had no idea what this world had become, and you couldn’t save the woman who brought her into it.

You were the one who wanted to die—an end to all regrets and to the life that never was. And with that, it was all too welcoming: wars, riots, mob justice, separatists, religions running wild, Celsius soaring past fifty, runaway prices, no mercy. And then there were the sirens, blaring out the threat of an imminent nuclear strike. Good. You could go to a prostitute and let everything drain into one last messy pleasure before you were vaporized. Or you could find solace with all the junk food left in the world, waiting for the crowd to break in and shoot you dead for not following their ideology. You wouldn’t hate your parents, wouldn’t face your wife’s lawyer, wouldn’t feel small holding that salary slip, wouldn’t swallow your boss’s daily humiliations, and you wouldn’t go sleepless all night thinking of the girl you ended up hurting. The guilt had killed you long ago, and this nuclear attack promised the closure you sought. No need to dwell on suicide, and no need to endure old age and pain and helplessness for an eternity before it was time to leave. Death wouldn’t be a mercy now, but a gift to be accepted with both hands. One giant mushroom cloud, and you’d be turned to dust.

But here was this girl from your workplace—the only person who seemed genuine with her smile. She'd say good morning, ask if you’d eaten, and always check on you when the boss was tough. But she was married. Pregnant. Expecting any time. And she wanted to give birth to her child! Your urge was to shake her, to scream in her face that a mob had just slaughtered her husband—and she could easily be the next. And if that didn’t happen, couldn’t she hear the nuclear missiles flying towards them? How could she still want to have a baby, in case the heat had not already killed it inside? But what other choice did she have? She hugged her belly as if protecting her child from all the loss and tragedy crashing down on her. She said she could feel it moving, tears streaming down as she looked at you, pleading for help. There was no way you could deny her the last thread of life. You felt like a coward, but this cowardice pushed you to go rummage the nearby medical store for whatever you could find. But when the frenzied crowd wouldn’t let you through, you realized you couldn’t. And you never could. You couldn’t stop your parents from tearing each other apart every single day, couldn’t prove to your coach that you were a worthy player, couldn’t give what your studies demanded, and you couldn’t fight when the world snatched your love away. You didn’t know whose pocket it was in–just that your hand slipped into the chaos, gripped the cold metal, and pulled out the one thing that could make the world listen–a gun. You fired at the ceiling. The crowd froze. Your message was clear–you’d be the one to take first. You grabbed whatever your scrambling brain could think of–cotton, oxytocin injections, ibuprofen, electrolytes, glucose biscuits, milk powder, Horlicks, water bottles. No one asked for money. With the gun in one hand and the supplies in the other, you staggered back to where you’d left that damned pregnant girl. Your breath burned as you dragged yourself up the stairs, the heat blurring your vision and your head throbbing with each step. Eventually, your body gave out, collapsing as if melted. Somewhere in the darkness, you heard your fear: “She’ll die one day, and no one will tell me she’s gone”.

She died. It had been a long, long night. She’d held on, holding her belly in the backseat while you drove like a madman–fighting, dodging, running down anyone who tried to obstruct or rob, and you did that all night, desperate to protect her, to get her somewhere far and safe, until the van broke down. To your luck, a private clinic stood right ahead. Everyone had already run away–except for the doctor who stayed behind, probably to gather the hoarded cash when no one was looking. A mistake, though. You raised the gun and left him no choice but to help her. She poured every ounce of strength into bringing her baby into this world, fighting the excruciating pain for just one glimpse of her child. You clutched her hands, rubbing them, at times holding her face as she watched you with burning eyes, but nothing relieved her pain by a fraction. She bled too much, and the dehydration stole what little life remained. She was denied the chance to see her baby’s face. You sat motionless with the baby crying in your lap. Just days ago, she had a beautiful life: husband, family, baby shower, gifts, lots of love… and weren’t you in this world only because she too was here? But no questions ran through your head. Your heart didn’t clench the way it had been doing for ages. Had you become heartless? Or maybe you were too tired to go back to the broken corners of your mind. It wasn’t as hot anymore, but you realized only when the raindrops tapped against the broken window panes. If it were only about you, you’d have slouched against the wall and stayed there, maybe for hours, maybe forever. But the baby was squirming and rubbing her legs inside the shabby towel. Her skin was cold.

For the next few days, you moved in a meditative state, aware and focused on keeping the baby alive. She had asked you to take care of her child if something happened to her. “You’re not a bad person,” she’d said, “Don’t punish yourself for things that were beyond your control.” But the government conceded defeat on the external fronts to deal with internal enemies first. Rioters were jailed, separatists hunted, punishments for mob assemblies, compensations to the dead, incentives for farmers, and free food schemes. It was a severe fiscal crisis and a global humiliation, but the nuclear missiles were put on hold for now. The world raced back to normal, though everyone knew the hostilities would come back harder, and surprisingly sooner. The heat, the nation-breakers, communal clashes, border conflicts escalated to wars, taxes, burnouts, and in the wake of another crisis, people had learned to kill for bread and water and everything else. 

When the world returned to normal, it also returned to vaccines, birth certificates, and verifications. That meant you couldn’t keep the baby. You took her to her grandparents, but couldn’t look into the eyes of the old couple whose son and daughter-in-law were gutted in this madness. They sobbed into each other as they pressed the baby to their hearts. You turned back, not knowing what to say to them, or how. The government was identifying the bodies and reaching out to the relatives, and you counted on that for them. From there, you went to your parents, living every second of the journey like never before. This old couple had not lost their son, and it took hunger and all sorts of fear to make them realize what it meant. They both hugged you together, and you couldn’t hate the feeling that came with it. All you’d ever wanted was for them to understand you, or at least try. Yes, your inner child was traumatized watching them quarrel. Yes, you cared more about cricket than your studies. And yes, you really loved that girl they refused to accept.

You went to your wife next, half expecting her mother to shout you away, but it was she who opened the door. You’d married her only because your parents wouldn’t stop pushing, and maybe this was what fate had wanted. But it wasn’t’ long before you both stopped caring, and it ended with your wife going back to her parents and filing for divorce. You looked at each other for a long time before falling into the hug of your lives, and you learned how magical the touch of the opposite sex can be, especially when it’s from your wife. You stood there, foreheads pressed as the silence spoke for you: you two were going to try again. You didn’t want to let go of this moment, but there was one more person you had to go to–your lost love. You didn’t have her address, though. After she was married to the boy who truly deserved her, you didn’t chase her. No texts, no contacts, nothing. Your part in her life was over, and you buried all the ache inside. You went to the temple where you’d met for the first time, and also the last. The world had parks, cafés, rooftop sunsets, and whatnot, but you had this temple, and it was beautiful. You were going to get married and come to pray here together every day for the rest of your lives. You sank on the cold marble floor and curled into yourself, eyes shut, remembering her graceful bare feet walking, running, dancing on this very stone, her payal ringing your favourite melody. For a moment, it felt like she was right there, and by only reaching out your hands, you’d touch her and she’d be yours forever. But you had to leave her there, and with your eyes pressed against the weight of a lifetime’s pain, you finally let the tears fall.

By Prince Kumar