The Room In-between

The room was quiet, except for the soft gust of wind and the occasional flick of dust falling through the warm air.

A door creaked open, and a man stepped aside to let someone in.

Tall, dressed in black, face hidden in shadow he didn’t speak. He only waited.

An old man stepped in. There was no sound. Not of footsteps. Not of breath.

Old man looked to be in his late sixties. Shoulders slightly bent, not from age, but from the kind of tiredness that builds over time . His shirt was wrinkled in places. His hair was neatly combed, but his eyes held the hollow calm of someone who had long made peace with unfinished endings. There was a slight dip in his cheeks, the kind left behind when teeth start to vanish... quietly with time.

He scanned the room.

Suitcases surrounded him , stacked on shelves, crammed in corners. But the room had no ceiling. Above him, more suitcases hung upside down, clinging to each other as if gravity itself had given up.

Some were tagged. Others had no names. Some were never touched. Others sat half-open, lids tilted like mouths that never finished speaking. A thin red string ran through them all threading from handle to handle, weaving across shelves and beams, disappearing into the darkness above.

He didn’t ask where he was. What he was doing here.

He simply wanted to get through.

He passed one suitcase marked:

“The First Time I Lied.”

Another:

“The Thing I could’ve become.”

And another :

“Promises.”

He didn’t touch them at all. He paused near a dull brown suitcase with a crooked label. "Lunch." The handwriting seemed familiar to him and he decided to open it. Inside was a familiar steel tiffin box. Still latched. Still warm.

He hesitated, then opened the tiers. Soft rotis. A bit of aloo curry which was his favourite when in school and a lone gulab jamun tucked to the side . In the bottom tier the old man found a folded note.

“Don’t forget to eat. Love, Maa.”

He touched his lips, almost in disbelief. His fingers lingered on his teeth. Whole. White. Different since he lost most of them . He smiled, barely and ate slowly ... As if time itself would wait.

In the corner of the room, an old clock ticked forward.

"11:55".

After eating ,the old man reached for another suitcase.

This one lay flat and the label was worn out.

He opened the suitcase anyway only to find a faded photograph inside. The photograph was of him, taken recently, standing in front of The Taj Mahal Palace in Mumbai ; its iconic domes behind him, unaware of the hours to come.

A date written on the back of the photograph, in blue ink.

"26/11/2008"

He didn’t move.

Behind him, the same tall figure stepped into the room. Silent. Dressed in black. The old man couldn’t see his face but the silhouette revealed a crown on his head and this time he was carrying a big golden mace in his hand .

The old man turned.

The crowned figure raised his mace and pointed to the clock .

"12:00"

The clock stopped, there were no more ticks.

The man rose leaving the photograph back in the suitcase . No words. No protest.

The crowned figure opened a door in the far wall. Together, they walked through.

They both entered the living room which was warm and foggy. There were soft cries filled in its air. Old man’s body lay still, wrapped in white. Cotton in his both nostrils. A woman knelt near his feet, clutching the white cloth. Their son beside her, old enough to understand. Few people lingered behind them in a circle. All in white and in sorrow.

The old man stared at his own body , wrapped tightly in white alongside his own family. Slowly, the sheet began to stain, red blooming in small, scattered bursts across his chest and side. He thought he looked at himself for too long.

He looked down at his own chest. Searched for the source. There was none.

Behind him, something scraped.

He turned. One suitcase had followed him to the door, its string tied to the others but the weight held it back. The label read: "Unsaid." The suitcase struggled and broke the string which set it free from all other suitcases. The suitcase followed the old man .

The old man paused before leaving the room. The crowned figure was waiting for him to step into the light. There was something about the figure’s presence. The stillness, the crown-like curve above his head, the mace , the silence that wasn't empty. The old man thought about a bedtime story which was more of a warning whispered by his grandmother.

He thought in her voice.

“When the time comes, Yamraj doesn’t knock. He waits.”

The old man understood that Yamraj is waiting for him at the door.

He simply stepped forward, past the body, into the light.

The suitcase of unsaid followed them and then..

...Tick. The clock went forward.

© Sahil Karnik

"In memory of the victims of the 26/11 Mumbai terror attacks on November 26, 2008"