by Shikha Poddar

Everything has changed. This realization dawns on me every time I come back to this town. Only on some visits, it feel like a dull noise in the background. While on others, like the one that day, this realization hits harder than a bus. And the way I’d been holding my breath told me I’d much rather get hit by an actual bus that instant.

I’d shared seats with Sufi back in 4th grade, and shared lunch some days too. It wasn’t until we reached 9th, that we actually became friends. After all the times I’d spent with her, never would I have imagined spending today here. Seated with a dozen or so other people, hearing some priest explain death and the afterlife.

There was a heavy silence in the air, as funerals often do but there was also a lot happening. Some lady lighting incense sticks on the mantle, house helps could be heard arranging the dinner table outside for the meal later, a five-year-old playing on his mother’s phone, clearly clueless about the concept of death.

 Meanwhile, I couldn’t take my eyes off Sufi. Her smiling picture frame was placed neatly on the mantle next to the recently lit incense sticks. There were some flowers laid around her too, probably her favorite. She looked peaceful.

On my way back home, I couldn’t help but gaze at the houses we drove past. It is a small town, always has been. At first glance, it seems as if nothing changes around here but it does. The house I grew up in looks the same from the outside but zoom in and you’ll see a different name on the door. The school I went to is still there but zoom in and you’ll see that the guard uncle has changed. The same way Sufi’s family looks the same but zoom in and you’ll see that their whole lives have changed.

That’s the thing about death. The abruptness. Even if it was something you saw coming, in cases of a prolonged illness, you can never be prepared for it. Everything simply changes. Nobody tells you how to carry on your days after that. Every day is a new normal. There are new changes you adjust to every day forth. Sufi’s sister will have to adjust to her newfound privacy in their shared bedroom. Sufi’s mother will have to adjust to cooking for one less. Sufi’s father will have to adjust to watching their favorite show alone. All of her family will have to adjust to the new frame hanging on the wall and the silence that her absence brings.

Every time that someone you know dies, a part of you changes. Regardless of the closeness of the bond. Sufi was a true friend of mine. And now there are things even I’ll find myself adjusting to. Like being reminded of her absence every time I see an internet post I think she’d like. Or the silence that’ll hangover every conversation I have with our old friends, even the ones she disliked. I’ll have to get used to laughing alone on all our inside jokes and try my best to hold back tears as I do.

Sitting in my bedroom, the things around me looked just as they had always been. The same creaky window frame, same Spiderman pencil cup on the table, even the mattress has been the same for years now. But it’ll be a different me sleeping on it tonight.

I’m used to roaming around these streets with Sufi, but now I’ll try to get used to her absence. As unreal as it may feel, every day forth is a grim reminder that Sufi’s gone.

Years passed as they do, life got busy as it does. When I visited home for the summer one year, I heard Sufi’s sister was getting married. My first thought was one of excitement, wow is she really grown? I haven’t seen her since… well, you know. Again, that heaviness. Fresh as the day it first arrived.

My whole family attended the wedding. Everyone looked so happy. They had that same picture of Sufi on one of the front tables. This time was placed with some gifts and flowers, probably not her favorite.

Looking at Sufi’s family on stage, I wondered if they’d gotten used to her absence. Or if they’d simply grown around it. Probably the latter.

Everything has changed. The same old realization occurs as I pack my things to leave. Almost all the contents of my suitcase had changed over the years, except for the smell of those incense sticks from Sufi’s funeral. I’ve carried it ever since. I hope I always do.

About the Author:

Shikha is a 20-year-old student currently pursuing B.com at Delhi University. She has always had a keen interest in fiction writing and poetry. Amongst other things, she’s also an aspiring copywriter. In her free time, she likes to learn about writing different genres and forms of creative writing.