OSMOSIS

"Mom, something strange is happening to me. My skin….my flesh, there's a strong stench coming from it– a nauseating cadaverine odor. My body feels hot, as if it's been laid under a burning pyre– the crackling sound grows louder and louder, it's deafening. I'm scared. I miss you, I wish–"

I'm interrupted by a 'ting-tong!'

I walk towards the door with my heart pounding back and forth against the walls of my chest, jarred from the sudden sound of the bell.

The door knob is just a little over an arm's length but somehow feels awfully far– like a stretched out scene from a movie before it hits climax. The air around me carries an eerie stillness with a whiff of hysteria diffused in it, and the only thing breaking the spectral silence of the room is the sound of my chunky soles against the wooden floor.

I grab the knob and twist it– the door neighs open, a hat pokes my nose and I flinch on my toes. I take two steps back, so that there's a distance between us.

"Umm..excuse me? You're standing too close…could you please move back?"

There's no response.

"Hello? Can you hear me?"

At this point, my left hand is suspended in the air, making windshield movements to try and catch their attention.

Still, no response.

By now, I'm more than annoyed and also spooked out by this unfazed behaviour and rightly so, because who in their right mind would be acting so peculiar? I was beginning to feel alarmed. Who was this stranger in front of me?

I guess it's only true when they say, "curiosity killed the cat", because the next thing I know, my body's breaking in cold sweats and my nostrils are flaring heavy breaths. Curiosity got a hold of me, so I tapped on the brim of the flamboyant hat before me. When I was met with no response for the zillionth time, I've had it. I flicked off the hat over their head, leaving it bare for me to see, but what I did not know was that it would be horror awaiting me.

Before I could even let out a shriek, my stomach emptied itself out on the floor– I was bent down, in tears and palpitating. There's no way I was seeing this right. Did I really see the walking dead? I'm certain, those were spiracles that I saw on her face. But more than anything, how could she be here? She's been dead and buried for years now. It doesn't make sense. My mind must be playing games on me, there's no way she's standing before my eyes.

"My baby, I've missed you."

I couldn't deny it further. It was my Mom's voice, this was my Mom before me, speaking to me, telling me she's missed me.

"Mom? Is it really you?" I had tears brimming down my cheeks. I held onto her, I wrapped my arms around her body as I soaked in her presence, I realised how I had yearned for it.

"I'm here to take you."

"Take me where?"

"With me. Wherever I go."

She smiled.

I feel something pierce my skin– then a hundred stings all at once, chiseling through the layers of my skin make me cry in agony as I try to shake off the electric jitters rummaging through my body.

"Mom, what's going on? Let go of me!"

My mother had pinned me to the ground, her grip was strong– I couldn't even make her arms budge a little.

"It'll all be over in a minute. Don't panic, my baby. Mom will never leave you again."

She opened her mouth to the most bizzare sight– what should have been her tongue was split ends of wriggling worms that somehow grew longer and longer as it tried to reach my cheeks. I was frantically crying as the worms slithered on my face and towards the back of my head– creating a sturdy support on my neck and pulling me in– closer and closer to her mouth.

"My baby, it's warm inside me. The womb that carried you for nine months, it will carry you forever now. You are a part of me. We are one."

Just the thought of it shuddered me.

"No, no…please. No…. " Drenched in sweat and tears, I woke up to the sound of my alarm buzzing.

*

It's been six years since Mother's death and the beginning of these recurring dreams.

When awake, I'm reminded of the times I took certain things for granted until it was gone and I was left with nothing but a memory to hold onto. That's the tale of an unbuilt sandcastle–collecting sand, till it's already time for the waves to come.

Hi, I'm Annie. I live life in constant denial and espionage on worldly affairs, those which are capable of anesthetizing this stifling loneliness that wraps and shudders me. After all, it's only humane to protect yourself, isn't it? I mean, isn't it innate to man? To seek protection and yearn for shelter in the arms of another being; someone supreme than our own selves. Perhaps, this quest results from man's birth from a womb. As a consequence of which, throughout our lives, we are engaged in a constant search for a fertile womb that can best preserve our ego.

I wonder, what's likely to happen if the womb pans out to be futile?

Regret? Perhaps.

But again, what is life? If not a web weaved with regret over lost opportunities. Even the cobwebs, on a full moon's night glitter so lavishly that even the loveliest butterfly can't help but envy its lume and fly towards its own delicately knitted death.

I'm not a sadist. Nor a romantic. I'm neither finding satisfaction nor
drawing romanticism off a deadbeat life.

On second thought, I could be a romantic.

I was once on a date with this super charming guy- tall, tanned, handsome, with a deep husky voice. He was articulate with his words, neatly dressed, and drenched in Giorgio Armani. God! He made me believe Archangel Haniel was looking out for me.

We were in this beautiful, um..Oriental restaurant for dinner, where we ordered a non-veg thali and fermented rice beer to rinse off the taste of curry. I had quit dating apps years ago, I wasn't a fan of meeting new people, the men I worked with were either married or cheating in marriage. So, naturally, I was overdosing on celibacy and sweating my guts out because I didn't want to screw this heaven-sent opportunity. I was acting coy but coquet, definitely not beating around the bush. Let the cat out the bag!

But just then, I sabotaged it.

We were done with dinner, and I complimented the dishes with grandeur words, making it sound like I was a woman of taste.

He looked pleased. The staff who overheard my recital looked pleased. I had made it known, I was nothing like my Occident cousins who couldn't acknowledge and enjoy exotic cultures. It was a lovely night! Everything was great– the ambience, food, music, service; even the unusual lemon water served in an earthen pot seemed great. It would have been perfect, if only I had known that it was meant for washing my hands rather than chugging it down.

I was so embarrassed, I could possibly drown in it and die.

*

But death's a heavy word.

It's no stranger, neither a playmate. It is but an ordain from Heavens, the decree of Nature. Some say it's a new beginning, some say it's the end. How I see it is as a plague that sticks to you until it slurps the last straw of breath from you. Death imprints you in a way you don't realise. You might be living a recycled life without batting an eye, where every day repeats itself– perhaps, you call it a hopeless life. One where you wake up without the plan to make a plan. In simpler words, you live recklessly– for days, weeks, months, years, half-a-decade or even a decade until one day, irony hits you in the face and it occurs to you that all this time you had been drinking and snacking, binging on Netflix whilst sitting on your own grave.

The next episode is of Hope– an attempt to reconcile with your rumored lost-self. But Hope can be diabolical– a psychedelic ecstasy that starves you of reality, and the more dormant you grow, the more you look out for a savior; perhaps the savior in you. It's blasphemous how Hope makes you its victim by playing you as the perpetrator.

*


Hi again.

My name is Annie. I'm a twenty five year old who grew up in a rusty, community-oriented, 'nothing ever happens here' type of a town. Later, I moved to the city for my Bachelor's degree. Soon after, I started working as an intern in a publishing house. And in less than a year, I decided to submit my resignation letter. It was not out of impulse, nor dissatisfaction from work. After all the pay was satisfactory, I guess? I might even have saved a quarter of fortune. Thank God! I've no mouths to feed, it could have been a problem then.

This week marks a year of my unemployment. I spend most days lying in my bed, facing the vast ceiling of thoughts. It feels like I am living in a void and consequently turning into one: letting the vast surrounding absorb me. Is this what osmosis feels like?

Every other day, I reminisce about my childhood days when I'd doll up as my mom while a neighborhood boy would dress as my husband and I reckon, we took our roles seriously. Back then, being an adult was the coolest thing to be. What a disappointment!

As a kid, my Mother always said that I was meant for big things. Parents always have big expectations out of their kids. There's nothing wrong with that but, I'm not convinced if it's the right thing either. As an only child, I was always put on a pedestal. My merits were never mine. That's how this fear was instilled in me: what's not yours, you must not lose. I was young, so I never grasped the audacity of it. However, growing up, I was constantly anxious, overly competitive and emotionally volatile.

For the most part of my school years, I kept to myself. Except for my junior year, when I hung out with a few girls from class. My Mother had warned me of my "antisocial" tendencies discussed during the PTA meeting. She insisted I make friends. So, I tried fitting into the cliché but that didn't last long.

*

During my senior year, I lost my Mother.

We had grown distant over the years. For most part of the year, she'd lock herself to her room. She made very few rare appearances at dinner. She stopped showing up to PTAs, despite constant calls and reminders from my homeroom teacher.

She was suffering from a chronic disease. Depression.

Over the years, she had grown bony from all the weight she'd lost, her hairline had disappeared into thin air, making her forehead pop out of her face, and her unkemptness just made it worse. When awake, she'd sit motionless, afloat in her thoughts. The rest of the time, she'd just be sleeping soundlessly. Every now and then, I'd put my finger under her nose to check if she was still breathing and she'd say, "I'm not dead yet. Go away." That was the most conversation we had in a year.

She had no presence whatsoever; neither in the house nor in my life. So, when I saw her body dangling by the fan, shriveled like a beef jerky, I accepted her fate. My father, on the other hand, wept like a child. I wondered what caused him so much pain. She was his victim. Was it normal for a perpetrator to cry over the death of their victim? I knew he wasn't in love with her. So why would he cry for the death of his ex-wife in the arms of his lover? Could it get any more satirical than this? He was like that one mathematical equation that fried my brain, I could never understand him.

*

After the funeral, there was hardly a month left for graduation. As soon as the exams were over, I packed my bags and hopped on the train to a nameless city in hopes of finding Hope. I buried everything before moving to this city– the memoirs of a happy family, a broken family, and the body, of course.

But as they say, easier said than done.

When I moved to this apartment, I had all the fans removed because it felt ominous. I joined therapy, but called it quits after a few months. Why? Because I sucked at opening up, although I was getting better at it. Initially, I had feigned amnesia. However, with successive sessions, I found myself breaking down details of the marital affair, abuse, divorce, reccuring suicidal attempts and the death of my Mother.

Still, a few things remained buried in the rusty town.

During the last session, my therapist confronted me saying that the sessions will make no difference unless I choose to be sincere with her. So I called it quits, because I was still insincere.

After my short-lived relationship with therapy, I decided to take matters into my own hands. By this time, I was acquainted with quite a few people who could help me with some recommendations for a surgeon. I wanted to get some work done on my face; I couldn't fathom the reflection of this uncanny resemblance in the mirror. I was scared. I couldn't help but worry if I shared the same fate as my look alike.

*

During my college years, I tried to avoid the rest of the flock as best as I could. I'd attend my classes, spend some time in the library, grab groceries whenever needed and spend the rest of my time in my room where I'd always be immersed in reading books– I had built an interest in reading and reviewing books. It started during my first year of college when I was informed that it was compulsory to join clubs. The book club seemed doable. The first few meetings did feel like a chore, but gradually I started enjoying it. That's also how I landed up with an internship at the publishing house during my final semester.

Although my office era was short-lived, I hadn't quit on reading as a hobby. But I could hardly concentrate these days, it made my body weary– which was only fair for someone whose body had been reduced to the size of an underweight fifteen year old, so a big brain load was definitely a no-no. It must be true that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree– my mother was an "ascetic-aesthetic" wannabe who'd go about days without food, surviving only on water, advocating for the benefits of fasting and what not…but deep down, we both knew it was anorexia.

When I close my eyes, I can still picture her wearing a black slip dress which gobbled up her gaunt body, blowing a cigarette off her cherry red lips. She had the most beautiful pair of doe eyes, slender nose, prominent cheekbones, porcelain skin, and luscious brunette hair.

Ever since I was a baby, people told me that I took after my mother's features– whom if I were to meet today would gravely disagree. After my surgery, I looked more like the Kardashian sisters than either of my parents. But, even after a fortune spent on this new face, the mirror exhibited the portrait of a cadaver— I felt like a moldy bread, a pound of infested flesh, a disposed placenta in an alley bin, a headless chicken at the meat market, a wrinkly fetus in a packaged can; the disheveled image of myself in the mirror was so identical, it only proved my suspicion right. Indeed, I carried my mother's legacy.