PROLOGUE
His face highly detailed extreme pain, covered with bruises and he was grabbing the gash in his belly in those poor hands; thick precious crimson blood pouring from this ugly wound crept through his cold fingers. Death, as common to man as life, hovered over him – maybe for home-calling! Twitching on the ground, he was soaked in rain mixed with his own blood, maybe of rare breed, like butchered animal meant for supreme sacrifice. Trapped in the hollow space between life and death he was throbbed with pain, and cold.
His head was in Mama’s palms which were on her bare laps, ancient though in nature but actually wrinkled in feature. Tears were pouring out of her eyes in astounding volume, seemed eroding her wrinkled cheeks…
Few minutes later, absolutely aware he was wasting away from her – or slipping off the hands she bore him with through his growing years as precious pearl of her soul – she gently placed his head on a large leaf and left awkwardly into the trees shrouded in gloom and terror. She returned with anesthetic-endowed herbs. She also made for the creek and brought water in a mud-marred plastic cup she had washed in the creek, however not absolutely thorough. Kneeling beside him she meshed the herbs and applied one or two of its sap into the gash in his belly. His face been contorted he fought the sharp pain from the aftereffect of the herbs as though with his life, also traded his groan for, or against, immortal relief.
So carefully she returned his head onto her laps, having torn the hem of her wrapper, soaked with water and squeezed, and then massaged the bruises and gash with it. With the herbal effect his blood ceased from drifting life from his very soul.
He said at length, his voice fluttering as well as his blurring eyes in simultaneity, his face flushed with agony predominant in his flesh: ‘I–I amm go-go-going tto die-e.’
Mama said in consolatory tone, ‘No! No, my child.’ Letting out a globule of tear on her left lower eyelash which would later stream down her left cheek, she added, ‘I will not live to watch you slip away from me. I am supposed to leave before you.’ She switched to sob with that last sentence. This gravity was too hard to bear. Time of sowing tears has gone by raising him; only to reap the same tears again instead of joy watching this somber moment slinked by tugging on his heels.
‘I-I know, Mama. But–’ He too could not hold himself; he had to pile the moment with plaintive sob. ‘The pain is e-xcruciaating,’ he slurred. ‘I-I amm
a-fraid fate is taking-ing its toll on-on us. I am-am sli-slipping away fr-rom you. I am sorry–’
‘Please, please keep quiet. Keep quiet, child.’ She tried as tenderly as she could to offer that from her mild tongue. With this tongue she raised him with wise counsels, only now to hold on to him with it as though string tying onto his feet against immortal path. ‘You are only having this pain in your heart, trust me. I believe with time it will heal. Shut your heart off it and feel it is not there. The herbs in its curative property will terminate it. Just believe me, child.’
‘I-I amm trying…but I can’t. Th-that is j…ust cons…onsolatory. This is j-just a fate…a pure fate.’ He couldn’t hold on any longer to his soul, a soul every man is loaned with: debt to mankind. The world around him – the world he had lived himself, enjoyed or loathed – was dissipating into dark void. His head was getting shrouded with shadow of life well-lived, or worst.
She watched him gave the last shut of his eyelids to humble himself to death, closing up the last line on this mortal script.
Death is a relief to all turmoil and strain of life, a consolation for all struggle and loss and answers to endless questions, reunion of soul with spirit. We have walked this common path long enough. It has taking from us fortitude, leaving a remnant of hope to fight for life only to survive; after all, we only end up in eternal bliss or damnation. The question is: does this perfectly articulate our
