

My End
Sowmini S K
"Life is indeed a blur. If only we can pause to feel the fleeting moments that stray into our lives. "My End" is an attempt to depict the fluidity of life and how thoughts and emotions just permeate from one universe to another, when death happens. Nothing stops, really."
Artwork - Two Women on the Shore, 1898 | Edvard Munch.

My End
Today is my last day — prophesy
of the little man in the white coat,
a steel serpent around his neck; I was
brought home last night, swaddled like
a newborn, cradled in an ambulance.
​
Tucked cozily in bed, I inhale the starch
in the sheets, so crisp and fresh, shrouding
my drooping self. A fan circles above noisily,
heedless of the humidity hanging heavy,
like the silence in the house.
​
My eyes dart around, looking for
someone near, dear, familiar; I see — faces
cupped in palms, bodies huddled close,
heads down, tongues clicking, nails bitten
fervently, awaiting the beginning of my end.
​
I wish to slide out secretly one last time — 
smell the jasmine by the window, feed
the chicks in the backyard, feel the breeze
in my hair, stroke the touch-me-not, and
watch the evening sky turn rouge.
​
A little girl in a pale white frock whispers
“Paati, please have some milk,” in all
earnest — a grandchild or an angel in disguise,
I wonder as moisture traverses my throat like
the wind whistling through the woods.
​
I part my lips to ask for more, like
young Oliver; The cup of elixir slips and
descends. “Paatiii!” screams the angel, panic
stricken; “Ammaaa!” shrieks someone; an acapella
of “Ammaaa” and “Paatiii” fills the room.
​
Doused with exotic scents from
distant Egypt, I blush like Cleopatra
draped in the finest silk, purple orchids
adorning my hair, I am lowered into the pit,
delicate, like a pretty plume in a basket.
​
Random lips converge on my
forehead, sealing it with farewell kisses;
They sprinkle dainty flowers and holy
water on me; I sneeze — salty droplets on
my face, no one bothers to wipe away.
​
I reminisce about the day I was lodged in
the lift alone, in darkness, gasping
for a gush of breath. I try to stretch, turn
and roll over, in vain. Don’t they know I am
but a stomach sleeper?
​
I hum a melancholy tune, an old song
etched in my frozen heart. It drizzles.
The sky weeps softly one last time; “Petrichor!”
I exclaim, as my lifeless head rests on
the wet bosom of the earth.


Sowmini is a boring software professional based in Bangalore. To compensate for the boredom, she dabbles in penning short stories, poems and plays. Her work has been published in magazines such as Women’s Web, Mean Pepper Vine and Festival of Poetry. Her debut book "Dandelions Don't Cry", a collection of poems, sold 38 copies out of which 12 were self-procured. She wakes up every day hoping to be a better writer. When not writing, Sowmini spends time staring at walls, looking out of the window and engaging in soliloquy.

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