Puranay Rastay ✓

chapter ‣ 12

It's interesting what you can think of even when you're facing death.

The stench of burning rubber filled the air, blaring red and blue sirens brightened the night as far as the eye could see, and the pool of blood obstructing my vision as I lay motionless, indicated that death hung near. Yet all I could think about was that one time I visited the local carnival and took the big ferris wheel.

Ami and Phopo were in the car, sipping tea out of styrofoam cups while Ifra slept in the backseat. Me, Khaled and Kainat were walking around the carnival, looking for things to do while Baba used the restroom and our mothers finished their drinks.

We had been to Lahore's Joyland many times, but the ferris wheel of this local attraction was calling out to us.

"It looks really high, baji," Kainat whispered in horror.

"It's fine, K," I assured. "Isn't it, Khaled?"

"I think it would be a good ride," he said, his tone soft.

"I'll hold your hand," I whispered. "And Khaled will be with us too, right, Khaled?"

"Yes."

Hesitantly, Kainat agreed and we got in line. The wheel was glowing and colorful. It would be fast and high and exciting, I thought, but didn't voice it to Kainat, who was expecting it to be gentle and calm.

I liked the thrill, I liked the rush of blood before the jump. I wanted the wheel to be like that, but instead, it was tranquil, and surprisingly so much better than what I had wanted. There was one initial jolt once we'd buckled ourselves in. One small, uncomfortable jump that made our hearts exhilarate and our hands grip the sidebars. But the rest of the ride had been mellow and smooth, even the end had been a gradual progression before a seamless stop.

"Is this really the end?" I had exclaimed, half disappointed, half relieved. "I wasn't ready."

"Are we ever ready for the end?" Khaled asked.

I wanted to roll my eyes at him. Him and his poetic monologues again. "No, but sometimes we can see the beginning of the end, and that helps," I insisted.

I hadn't seen the wheel go down. I knew it was bound to go down sooner or later, but I was so focused on getting to the peak and enjoying the view, I forgot that we would eventually return.

Now, as I lay on the hard concrete road, my head aching like it had been run over several times, I thought to myself how it couldn't be the end. It's not the end.

It couldn't.

I hadn't seen the outline of the approaching end. I hadn't predicted that this day would come so soon. I was unprepared, I was incomplete.

It couldn't be, I told myself, knowing deep down that the second the other car had collided with us, the end had come.

Aqib's neck snapping with the lurch of the impact was soundless, yet it was a sound I could hear in each fiber of my body.

He had met his end. And so had our story.

like the sun meeting the horizon sooner or later

I know I have to say goodbye,

yet I cannot deny this feeling inside,

I am ready and yet not.

I knew death. I understood it. I believed in the finite nature of man, and I welcomed the belief of man's return to where he came from. And yet, death wasn't easy.

A young death, an untimely death, was like a full stop at the end of an incomplete sentence.

He had promised to be.

It was unsettling; like smelling the rain and not seeing any dark clouds, like reaching for a face in the mirror but not being able to touch, like hearing the whistle of a train but never seeing it arrive.

It was an awful and numbing feeling that never quite went away. It lingered in my heart, it lingered in all the places he wouldn't visit again, it lingered in the balcony where we dreamed of tomorrow, it lingered in the promises he left unfulfilled.

The promises. Oh the promises.

Once the connection between the brain and body has been severed, it can take up to two minutes to die.

The moment from when his neck snapped to the last breath that left his lips, I wonder what went through Aqib's head? Did he have a repeat of the same feelings from that robbery at the park? Did he see his life flash before his eyes? Did he think he had been on the right course? Did it finally feel like the past few years, months, moments, had been used well? Did he think of all the promises he couldn't fulfill?

I had no answers because I didn't know what went through his head. I didn't know him enough, and now I never would. 

a/n: a year or two ago, someone said to me, "sorry bolnay ki zaroorat nahi hai," which sounds a lot like saying, I forgive you, but actually meant I'm never going to forgive or forget this.

sorry  guys.