You are dead to me. I have killed you from my memory and washed the blood-stained floors with saline water. I cordoned off the area with a 'Crime Scene - Do not cross' barrier tape. I sprayed liberal amounts of room-freshener to remove any lingering fragrance. (I chose Lavender because I am afraid Jasmine and Rose will resurrect you). And sanitised. Sanity. Sanitise. Sanity. Sanitise. Was it really over? Could that be it?
There was nothing left to do but return home and shower. I turned on the shower and tepid water trickled down my chin washing away tears. The water got warmer and warmer until you raised from the steam. Like a ghost but alive. Sure, I was startled, but why was I happy that you were not completely dead? I did not know why you were alive and in my shower. How could you have crossed the cordon? It said 'Do not cross'. Surely you are not allowed to disobey such explicit directives. You looked at me from your perch atop the curtains and smiled. And I smiled back. The last drop of the shower saw you vanish. I do not know if through the drain or through the window. I do not search you. I changed and went to work.
I filled my days with this and that. Honestly, I couldn't say with what but the days were filled and what did I care. And you did not return for days, sometimes weeks. But you always came. The other day from inside the oven. I am no longer surprised when you spring from the CD player when it plays Chopin's Nocturne in C Sharp Minor. Tin ta tin ta tin tin. Or that time when you emerged out of the bucket of popcorn at the movies. In fact, sometimes I know of your coming before you come. My friends are spooked when I tell them of your presence. They pity me, their pity like the excess oil in Eggplant Masala. Horrible, unhealthy and tasty. They recommend exorcism and take me to dinners and drinks. I do not want to be dispossessed but I am too polite to decline them. I go along but I know that it is futile. I don't want to be free of my demons, just in control of them. Not too much control. An illusion of control would do. I rue sharing your emergence with my friends. It should have been our secret. I have learnt/am learning to hide well. Emergence-submergence.
Of late I notice that your features aren't that well defined. Like a blurry picture. A despectacled vision. Unfocussed. Your eyes and that sharp nose. And the lips. You are losing it. The other day, you were irrecognisable. Just dark hair cascading to your shoulders. I wouldn't have known it was you. After all, there are other dark haired phantoms for me. But curiously enough you carried a name board. A nameboard with your name calligraphied Lucida style hung around your neck. I was terrified. I am terrified. What if all I have remaining of you is the nameboard? Maybe the dinners and drinks do work. I lock myself in my room and block the world. I don't want your ghost haunting me but it sure is nice to know that your trace is there. A preserved footprint in a vast and sifting desert. I invoke you. I want to refind refine your memory. I play the songs that resurrect you. Ah! music. Moonlight sonata and SPB singing of the raindrops that fell on him in Dvijavanthi raagam. Still, you do not come and I am beginning to panic. I bake cheesecakes and chocolate muffins but you are not enticed. I go mad looking for you. I look for you in dark haired maidens, the living ones. I imagine that when they smile it is your smile that they smile. That somehow you have slipped under their face. An echo of an echo remains, I think. Or maybe it is my fevered mind that creates this phantom echo. It is fading. You are fading. I go mad slowly, like a pig on the spit fire, roasting ever so slowly. It will glow golden before turning black. I go mad looking for you. I go mad looking for you.
