Analysing death...

Crazy Chemistry

As I find no subject of any ‘great or grave interest’ to write on, I am going to write yet another self-centered piece. I hope that readers will pardon my ramblings on the subject, and not take any offence at anything that I may write. All the formalities completed, the tale starts…

I am attending my Chemistry tuition. As I sit on the sofa, waiting for the others to arrive and the start of the class, I find myself rather blank. Blank ‘in’ the head, that is, with my body covered by a really irritating layer of sticky perspiration. As I realize this, my mind is no longer blank. The machinery of my conscious mind slowly starts to rumble and grumble to a start, with thoughts on how hot it is becoming, day by day. Must be the bloody fan over my head, speaks my mind. Of course the mind’s still not started. How the hell can I reach a conclusion without even analyzing the situation? I realize this, and turn my head upwards to look at the fan. It’s working better and faster than my mind. I feel ashamed. Shame works on my mind better than my own will. The blood flowing to my brain starts being utilized better as my mind starts whirring and replaces the grumble. Of course it’s the humidity and the heat. This bloody summer’s supposed to be the worst- the daily temperatures are generally 2°C above normal and the rainless cloud cover is trapping all the humidity. I remember reading that in the newspapers the same morning. “That’s better”, I say to myself, rhetorically patting my own back for my brain’s ability at analysis. How foolish I am becoming, I realize later.

The bell rings, even though the door’s ajar. What courtesy and manners. I rise from my seat and widen the door-opening. It’s my friend, greeting me with a smile on a sleepy face. I feel better, realizing I’m not the only one. And, far better is the fact that he hadn’t actually realized the door was ajar and so, had rung the bell. Not fr*****g courtesy and manners. We start chatting, and I hope that this works up my brain to complete working condition. But, of course we don’t talk about anything related to studies, but remain on inane topics. Slowly everyone starts trooping in, breaking our conversation and finally putting an end to it as more or less all the students, except for a friend of mine, have arrived. The general murmur starts among everyone, whether anyone has studied anything or not of the previous class’ topics. Some say ‘nothing’, and some ‘something’. I’ve done ‘some things’, I say, though not memorized ‘anything’. My memory sucks. I’ve known this for long, with it having betrayed me a number of times, before. I didn’t know it was again going to betray me again. Anyway, I had done some ‘numericals’ and could do more, if tested. With this notion, class started.

Mam had entered the room. She is a brilliant teacher, a nice person and someone I greatly revere. I enquire whether some topics are in the syllabus and receive the answer. They are. D’Arvit! (that’s supposed to be an unspeakable swear word in the fairy world of Artemis Fowl), I exclaim, more things to study. Anyway, the class starts. But badly. Mam starts by asking questions on previous topics. I try to remember the definition, and in the meantime just tell her the formula involved. She specifically asks for the definition. I falter. Some keep quiet, some tell parts of it. I am silent, with my head hanging down with shame for not being able to answer the question and silent anger at myself, for another betrayal. Mam tells us, in a very soft voice that we’re not studying enough. She says we’ve got enough brains to pull through, but we’re not studying. Probably she’s right. “I am not studying”, says me inside of my head. I again listen. Mam speaks to make me see sense, tells me at least think about my future. I myself saw nothing but pitch black. No way out of this vacuum of darkness, no door of light. Nothing. The processes in my head start rewinding. Everything slows down. The class starts… but today I am not in it. I take down notes and nod my head as a sign of understanding, laying the onus for actual capture, later retrieval and understanding on my unconscious and books. But still I hear my brain whirring to work once again. This time things just come into my head. I bother to write some of them down. I wonder…

Death is the inevitable journey, the very thing that gives existence to life. No death, no life. The very essence of life is lost with the death of death. Life is like a sentence that is given its meaning by the very punctuation of death. As in a sentence, where the place of punctuation decides the meaning of the sentence; the meaning of life is decided by the event and place of death. The ‘drain’ of thoughts is troubling me and drowning me in its dirty water. The more I write, more is the extent of the staining of my hands and my mind with the dirty water. This water is dirty because it stops the light of education from reaching me and probably enlightening me. I stop here.

The class ends. So, it’s time to go. As I troop out with everyone and start walking down the road, hearing my friends taking to me and myself mumbling replies, I realize something. The sentence of life is given its meaning by the punctuation of death. But, probably if I write more before ending the sentence, I might leave something more to be understood, or probably less. Or I might just complicate it. But, the fact remains that I don’t know what will happen. So, in the meantime, I decide upon continuing writing. As I find an excuse (I don’t know if its even a lame one or a nice one) to delay the punctuation, I wonder is there anything like ‘the death of death’? I don’t yet have the answer and don’t know if I’m even suitable for the answer, if there is even one. But, yes I have posed a question, however incorrect it might be. I’m sure the quest for the answer has begun, if not here, then surely somewhere else. And, I have a thought that as long as I don’t get the answer, I will not know what happens after and hence will continue writing. But, surely I’ll have to go, as people have and people will. Or do they ever go? Or is it that the pen falls in mid-sentence and there is a displacement of the idea, just a displacement, not a complete stop, though by another hand (or maybe the same hand). Because we know that new energy and new matter can’t be created, but can only undergo inter-conversions.

Anyway, I’m starting to heed my teacher’s advice. ‘Coz if I need to continue writing, I need the ink to do so.

I think I have rambled too much, and should stop for today. Hope I haven’t bored anyone to death. And even if I have done, have I not helped in the quest? This question, I pose to the readers and expect an answer.

Till then, thanks for reading.