The feeling was one of the most inexplicable ones in the world. The tedious, turbulent hours had gone by in a blur and now, here he was, quiet and still. Shekhar could feel himself drowning into a dense fog, falling into an endless pit, never quite hitting the ground. His eyelids felt heavy, and he could not make out anything except the stark white shut window on his left that rattled vigorously in the impish wind, as if trying to break free. A stench that fought to enter his lungs from under the oxygen mask seemed to withdraw in fear as he soon got used to it. There was a tonally steady instrumental beeping nearby that punctuated the silence and thus complimented the window in inciting him to kill the source. The strange part was that he could not tell for how long he had been like this. Was it hours, or days? Why wasn’t he asleep, or unconscious or better still, dead? He could barely move a limb and yet, he could not stop the noisy whirring in his brain. He wanted to be on one side- either fully awake, or peacefully off. His brain refused to stop thinking and yet there was a lull that spread across his body making him feel strangely numb making this limbo painfully chaotic. He wanted to quieten the window by opening it.

He glanced at the restlessly wrestling window in the otherwise dark room, tried to lift himself up, and a fierce, sickening pain rose up his chest pinning him down. The spasm shot to his head, as an adrenaline rush flashed through him again, making his limbs tremble. The proximate beeping intensified and was immediately dimmed out by an arresting, ringing pain. He shut his eyes tight hoping to let it pass and dug his head back into the pillow arching his back which excruciatingly rebelled any motion.  The absolute terror he had experienced while listening to a voice explain Barkha’s plight to him on the phone returned, as he clenched his fist trying to hold on to the memory. His head exploded as agony cut into him, as cruelly as a hot knife piercing butter; blackening his sight and burying his eyes into his skull. He felt his fears return as the dread now broke free- Barkha’s weekend journalistic assignment had turned into a nightmare! Countless images that he had long fought against, burst in front of him. He saw himself end the phone call and take the keys from Sumeet, justifying to him that a bike was the fastest way to reach Mumbai then. He saw the highway fly past as he sped through, fighting the swelling tide of grief and angst. The trepidation now rose like a valiant dragon, as he pictured Barkha’s screams echoing through the abandoned factory. The dragon seemed to take flight as Shekhar helplessly clutched on to its frail chain trying to cage it again. His body writhed in pain and flimsy clothes stuck to his increasingly cold, sweaty and shivering torso. He would have welcomed the warmth now trickling down from under his left ear had it not been for the racking convulsions that throbbed under what felt like a turban. The blood met a cold stream at his neck as his eyes could no longer contain the tears. He silently screamed inside his mask, crying in earnest, contorting his body as much as possible, hurting himself, battling the demons that chained him, as anger and sorrow flooded through. Sobbing mute tears, he rocked his head in frustration as another seizure shot through his head, trampling his motion. The sight of the truck returned, he heard the deafening bang again, felt the flight from his motorcycle to the scarp, relived the agonizing seconds of mind-numbing pain and the eclipsing darkness that had swiftly tried to rescue him from it, and suffered the pang of concern again as Barkha’s face floated inches from his, calling out to him before the blackout pulled her away once more.

Seconds, or perhaps days later, he found himself staring at the shut window again, not remembering how, when or what had woken him up. The room was still dark, the window still was struggling with the wind, but there was now a melody to it. It was not as agitated. It simply seemed to bide its time before a gale let it loose. A cool breeze was now seeping in through the wavering slit.  There was no stench. Perhaps he had just immunized himself to it by now.  The fog was lifting, and lifting fast. He slowly attempted to move his head. There was no pain except for an inertial spike. He gently dared to pull aside the constraints binding him to the bed and found that his body no longer seemed to rebel. He sat up and felt his back crumble, but instantly gather itself, like a dozing student in a classroom. The growling wind smelled of something familiar. He stood up and limped towards the eager-to-open window. With each step he felt exponentially amplifying strength fuel him. He wanted to push the window open to smell and identify the nudging, familiar scent. He reached the window feeling almost back to normal. The miraculous healing cracked a modest smile on his face as he thought of meeting Barkha, and unbolted the window. It flew open, and the breeze gushed inside his seemingly empty lungs and the clammy room, illuminating it with blinding whiteness.

Outside, the Arabian Sea blended into the horizon blurring their foggy boundaries. It was beautiful. He was fine. He inhaled the current, drinking in life. The intimacy with the scent still escaped him, but it bothered him no more. It will come, he thought, feeling close to the answer. He looked skyward as the clouds roared. The white sky just seemed to be serenely waiting for him. A virginal bead of water dropped on his cheeks, making him blink happily. The drizzle tapped his face, soaking him gradually as he closed his eyes and stretched out his arms, resigning himself completely. A second later it hit him. The Petrichor. Barkha always smells like fresh rain on soil, he remembered. ‘Petrichor,’ she always corrects him, ‘it is called Petrichor.’ He smiled, feeling closer to her than ever. Perhaps it is someone out there signaling him that she is fine, that they will be fine, together. He sighed. The signs, the answers completed him, gave him calm. He stood for hours, feeling Barkha embrace him, drench him, kiss him, and take him away with her, into their memories and their laughter.

A rustle behind him broke his rumination. He turned. A nurse was standing in front his bed, facing a man who seemed to steer a stretcher out to the door. ‘What should I enter as the time of death?’ asked the nurse. ‘Write the current time, hardly makes a difference,’ replied the attendant casually, as he tried to carefully maneuver the stretcher out into the hallway. ‘Okay…um… Shekhar… Joshi…,’ she muttered, scribbling into her pad, ‘time… 3.45 pm.’ She then followed him to the door, stopped midway, turned and walked past Shekhar to the window, irritatingly pulled it and bolted it shut; before walking out of the room leaving him in silent darkness. It is ok, he thought, I have escaped already. I am outside, in the rain, free. The window was quiet.

-Prasanna Ulhas Vighne