White

Do they remain? Memories? When the heart stops, does it stop your life?

Sitting atop a hillock, staring at the clouds, she tried to find the faces of those she had lost. Smita let the wind play with her hair, it flew all around her face, momentarily obscuring her vision and halting her quest.

The clouds swirled around her, barraging her with a multitude of visuals. It assaulted her senses. She could smell the clouds; they reminded her of old souls.

In all her 23 years, Smita had already felt the pain of being, her bones felt weary, weighing her steps like the moisture laden pregnant clouds.

If she tried, if she tried really hard, she could imagine herself standing in a land of white, surrounded by towering voluminous columns of cirrus clouds; and the people she wanted to see.

She saw unicorns and mammoths and chimaeras but she couldn’t find her mother’s face, she couldn’t feel her consciousness amongst the ones that tingled her skin.

“Umm, Excuse me?”

Smita turned around to face the person who had interrupted her mental soliloquy. She tucked her flyway hair behind her ears and looked questioningly at the intruder.

The first thing she noticed were the eyes, they had the same melancholy blankness that hers had seemed to acquire. Even though the laugh lines around her eyes seemed ironical, they somehow complemented each other. The art of having learnt to laugh in ones misery is hard learnt.

“I hate to bother you, but you’re standing in my spot.” She stated.

“Your spot?” Smita asked, a little bewildered, the concept belonging to classrooms in her mind. Since when did clouds figure in real estate?

“Yeah, it’s just that this is where I stand every time I come here.” She said, somberly, even thought the corners of her eyes had started crinkling in amusement.

“Yeah, ok, whatever. I’ll leave.” Smita gathered the corners of her mind and began to walk away when she felt a hand slide into hers. It betrayed hard work.

“You could stand with me if you want.”

Smita looked at her.

“Who are you mourning?” she asked.

“My mother, amongst others,” Smita said, “Who are you mourning?”

“Myself,” she stated matter of factly.

Both stood there together, letting their thoughts get lost in the faceless faces that shifted around them.

Somewhere in between her entangled thoughts, Smita realized that her hand was still clasped within the peaceable stranger’s comfortable grip.

“I’m Sunaina,”

The name suited her perfectly; the hollowness in Smita’s eyes began to acquire life. Sunaina’s hand never left hers since.