Memories from another life

 I take care to temper the volume now- too many shushed whispers about a bloodthirsty ghost that doesn't budge to the bloody-mary chants. Humans and their stories, eysh. The trees shade my spot, there is a light breeze and I see a lone student walking up, talking- I try to guess who is on the other end. There is a sparkle in his eyes - could be his family, or newfound love, this place was always conducive to newfound love. There it is- the unmistakable blush and the smile. I smirk and acknowledge the unchanging legacy of the institute. 

Thoughts pause the music- being a ghost is awfully convenient, but only if you are focused. Since I live in thoughts now, I am alive more frequently, especially now that the rumors of a campus ghost has stirred up. Once alive, I channel my thoughts. If I think about a song, it plays in my memory, smooth, silky and mellow as ever. If I think about people, they arrive before my eyes- very much and sadly, only as I remember them. I focus back on the music, an old favorite, which reminds me of my old room mate. Humming along to my favorite lyrics, I look around the ground. 

The trees still stand, drizzling leaves on the romantic, blessing them with joy and dreams or throwing shadows of mystery on the dreamers. I used to sit there, sit there and listen to my Walkman, sit there wide eyed and dream. 

Looking back, life was so full of potential then. The vast thrilling unknowns that sucked me in and then transformed into ugly reality, beating my spirit and tying it to the sorrows of million other similar women. Did I know, back then, sitting here and dreaming about a soulful marriage and writing poems in the light of the lone bulb in the ground, that it would be among the last vestiges of contentment left in life? If I did, would I have tried to take charge? Or was I far too tired of fighting against the burdened stigma of an education weighing down on my womanhood?

The music has stopped again. As a ghost, I realize, reflections are not only painful, they are also  annoying. I should stop thinking about the marriage that was, before he appears, crooked nose and flaky eyebrows furrowed in irritation at my breaths and being. No. I block it out.

As hard as I try, I cannot think of the sweet melody that was playing before. A similar unease had swept over me the day I had decided to not go back indoors through the night. People saw me walk back to my room in my night cloths and am certain, assumed the worst. Whatever little social life a loner could stitch together all tore apart post that night. I never stopped going to my spot though. The air was too sweet and the mellow hold of the night was too precious to be of any consequence against ugly baseless rumors. 

And then, all of a sudden, it was the day our college concluded. My life let go of dreams soon after. 

And then, as randomly as ever, I received a mail about the Reunion of the Class of '95. I remember my elaborate staging with my daughter to convince her father to drop me there. Subsequent to his disinterested agreement, I finally alighted his car and walked in to the campus, taking in the little changes to and endurance of the campus. It all felt exactly like when I was a student- a certain detachment, little hellos and how are you?s, where are your kids? and so sorry your husband couldn't make its. 

I felt a stirring when I walked into the library, the venue of our reunion, hosted and sponsored by the Alumni association, on the occasion of the silver jubilee of the fifth bachelors' degree batch in the college. This was my area, where I would shape to my dreams, writing stuff down and give substance to my dreams, by reading about things. Once all the excitement had died down, we were left alone to explore our campus. Some people walked around in groups, I drifted alone to my spot in the ground, the cozy grass beneath the trees.

Walking up, I'd felt a stirring in my soul, an irrational happiness about being alive to come back to these memories. Memories of that life came coursing in, cradling me in beautiful assurances and familiarity. As I stood there, gently shaking hands with the person I once was, I hear someone. "How I wish I could turn back time! I always wanted to click a picture of you just being here- with your pens and books and the Walkman. You were so lost to the world, I think that was why I was too sacred to come speak to you then." Chandran concludes with a sheepish smile. I smile back at him and reflect on my lost personality that insulated me and gave my beautiful brittle dreams the protection they needed. Too philosophical to engage him further, I tell him "I dream of it sometimes too" and smile and walk away. 

The realization that I had already begun dreaming then came to me only in the hospital bed, looking at my daughter's sad and his scary faces. I didn't quite mind dying, you see. I had tired of whatever life I had then. I wanted my old self back and my body was beaten. I wanted to preserve my spirit, take it back to where it would be in its most authentic form- the grassy patch beneath the trees. I hope my daughter understands and is content with her mother going off to find herself and I hope she acknowledges the sad reality that her mother had to die before she could be true to herself. 

These reflections are calming. I don't mind the pause in the music now. As I look up, I see the boy on the phone walking up to my spot. He settles down next to me and opens a blank document on his phone and starts writing something, the smile and the blush never leaving his face. I tune back into my song. After a while I notice him swaying to the rhythm. He turns and looks at me and smiles. I smile back, allying with the world in spirit.