I was dead for five years. But that day, I go back to my house. My house is absolutely beautiful. Beautiful, and I have only one vision of it to describe. I am at the top floor and there is a big glass door and the corridor beyond it is overlooking a lake. It was the time of sunset. Golden sparkles from the lake, from reflection of the rays, is all I see. I sit at the closed door gazing at the giant sun of the summer, trying to absorb the grandeur of the sight that welcomes me back home.
But, in the depths of my heart, I am sorry for myself. I had been dead for five years and I have not the slightest idea how I am back here or why I had been away. I sit at the door, like a refugee in my own house, like a pilgrim sitting alone at God’s quiet presence and reflecting upon all the misdeeds in the life that was, unable to raise the head to see Him. Life had been hard, my return at once exposed me to the old wounds. From non-existence, I am back to my house to continue my life where it had abruptly paused.
I had been dead. The sudden sensation of life, of being able to do something, of getting agitated in its absence is making me very uncomfortable.
Mother. She gently sits by my side and pats me at the back. Her soulful eyes heal everything. She looks at me. I look back. She did not weep. She did not ask ‘Where have you been?’ Just there, ready to listen. As much as I try, words cannot express anything. A warm hug did the magic. Ma was quiet. She knows what I am going through. The Sun took leave for the day. Twilight blazed the sky as I sat quietly by the door, head bowed down.
This is not a dream, I tell myself. Returning home after a long time is not an unusual thing at all. Wonderful things are happening here. It is all true. I must write about all this before I forget, before the intensity of moment dies down. A wide glass door by the setting Sun overlooking a lake is real; this is not a dream. I just have to wait to see all my family, to hear them say how the days were.
I get my hands on the old camera: big, black and sturdy. Running my fingers through it, I try to click pictures. Once more, and more, and more. Ma is sitting before me. I shoot some beautiful images of my mother, a beautiful woman at peace with the world on a summer evening. But then, the reality of my experience begins to break down. First the camera breaks down; all nuts, knobs and wheels unscrew themselves as I stare in shock. Ma walks to the door. Dad enters the house. There will be talking now, not just the reflective silence my mother so generously allowed. I gather myself and ask, “Ma, now that I am back home, where is akka?”
Ma says something that at once dissolved everything. As I see my dad walking towards me, I strain to open my eyes, become aware of myself and sit up. It was a dream! If it did anything that day, it is to show me that one should believe in miracles. There is nothing unusual about miracles. They do happen everyday.