My Late Ms. Rekha

This is the edited version of the previously published short story, 'Thank you, Rekha'.

My Late Ms. Rekha

Aug 09, 2022 

I don't know if she's watching me from over there. I hope she does. But who on this bloody Earth knows if a person - dead, can watch us from over there. Over where? I don’t know but somewhere over there; over the sky, probably. I wish Rekha's parents had considered burying her rather than cremating. Had they buried her, at least I will know she lies under the surface in the closed coffin there. Flesh that's decaying but still, it is her. I would’ve had a place to go and look for her. But now that they'd burned her to ashes and threw the ashes in the river, I cannot sense her anymore. She is disappearing. Into thin air? I don't know how that works. One doesn’t know the business of dying unless it’s their own life that’s clearing off the land. I don't know if death means the escaping of a soul. Some call it a liberation. But I don't know. I don’t know if there is a soul. I don't know if the soul disintegrates. I don't know if the disintegrated soul dissolves in the air leaving no trace whatsoever.

We were in the same class. She was in the front row and I was in the last. Nope, I don't sit there because I am funny and mischievous. I am not disobedient in any way (I think Rekha knew that). But, it is my height that defies the standard parameters of growth. I grew taller than any person of my age and gender. My mother stopped giving me Horlicks or Boost or Bournvita, whichever had ads promising the growth of children, ever since. But I still sprouted upright. Circle of no control! So, I had to sit at the back of the class for obvious reasons. But she wasn't tall. She wasn't short either. She looked alright, height wise. But she was a little too fat. Sometimes, in the evening, when she sat on her scooter, she looked stunted. I don’t want to be harsh but it looked like she was peering over the front when she waited at the signals. No, I am not judging her. If Rekha is reading this from over there, what would she think about me? I hope even dead people have the dignity of not reading someone’s personal diary. But, I know, we should not talk ill of the dead.

Rekha was alright. I liked her nonetheless. No, I liked her.

I never tried to talk to her in person though. I followed her on Instagram. I still do with no hope of receiving an update from her side. She was a writer. But she never published anything. She might have, if only she hadn’t decided to throw herself from the stairs. It wasn’t a suicide. It could’ve been. Nobody knows. 

I know it would sound weird to strangers when I say this. I watched 13 Reasons Why soon after I learned of Rekha’s death. And I'm pretty sure she didn't show signs like Hannah in the show did. If I had to tell you the reason for watching it then, it would be my need to understand suicide. To understand if Rekha did that to herself. You might think, ‘As if watching a series could help one do that’. But you cannot guess what one does in grief. I never thought I would buy a diary and write anything. But here I am, doing just that.

That’s enough of my crap. I am here to write about Rekha. Poor Rekha! She was my classmate. Argh, I cannot call her a friend. Now that I think about it, I realize I could never do that. We weren’t friends when she was alive. And I cannot be friends with someone who’s dead unless and until I know some paranormal stuff. Right?

___

Aug 13, 2022

There wasn’t any note. Also, there wasn’t any reason for her to kill herself. Or was there? I could’ve overlooked it. I watched the series, all the while thinking about Rekha. No, she never had issues with anyone. Not that I know of. She always kept her business. As far as I know, she wasn’t terminally ill. And her family seemed pretty cool. Her parents were doting. But if this was a suicide, there should be something. Something out of order. I cannot quite wrap my mind around it. At least, not yet.

But it might as well be an accident. Maybe, she did trip on the steps. She may have worn a long skirt that she tripped on. Or there may have been water on the tiled steps that made her lose balance. This could be an accident. Something she never saw coming. Something no one saw coming.

Five days before her unexpected and untimely death, she uploaded a novel on Wattpad. It had 7 chapters and was uploaded all at once. They say there are seven worlds in total. Also, there are seven lives to human beings. Does the number mean anything? Is that a hint? Why did she upload them all together? As if she knew she was going to die and wanted to do something before because she couldn’t do it later. Can that be coincidental?

I have never read a book before. But I wanted to read hers. For her. If she is watching me from above, she would smile at me for my efforts. She sure would.

___

Aug 16, 2022

Even though I think about this diary all day, I am not a writer and I cannot write regularly. Anyway, I started scrolling through her Instagram posts one day. I had them all ‘liked’ for courtesy. She was some girl from my class and she took pains to write something and post them online for people to read. How could I not appreciate her for that? But, I never actually read her posts. So, I read them now. I am still reading them.

I read almost everything. God, there was so much going on in her head. She was calm, but not inside her head. I never had a clue. I felt like Rekha was a depressed old lady sitting in her verandah, worrying about the poor world and lamenting it all to an audience who couldn't guess her age. But there was nothing, nothing at all in all those posts that suggested her death. She was worried about worldly concerns but nothing seemed too personal for me to point it out and say, ‘There it is. That is when she decided she will not live long’. Her poems sure were sad but not suicidal. Maybe, it was just an accident!

___

Aug 17, 2022

I heard a friend of mine talking about a girl called Anne Rank whose diary was published as a book by her father after her death. I don’t know who that Rank was. I would’ve known if I was more attentive in my English classes at school or chose English for a degree instead of this dumb ECE. But I knew one thing for sure. If Rekha’s father ever finds her diary, he would destroy it. I don’t know why I think he would do that. But my gut feeling is he would never let anyone read her daughter’s diary. Diaries are quite personal. Like what I write here. I wouldn’t like anyone reading this, as well. But, I have a weird thought that someone is reading what I'm writing here.

___

Aug 26, 2022

It is cold outside. It is raining cats and dogs (I don’t know if people use that phrase in regular conversations. But, Rekha had used it in her book. She seemed to have wanted to sound scholarly). Sitting here by my barred windows and looking at the rain, I am wondering if the dead can feel heat and cold like we do. Do they feel anything, at all? Do they have clothes on? Do they walk around in heavenly garment? How will Rekha look? What colour would she choose? I remember she mostly chose green to wear. I must’ve noticed that because Sindhu once made fun of it. She might be wearing green there, too.

I swear I’ve never imagined her naked. I don’t think it is right to undress a dead person in one’s head. I tell you, don’t do that even if they are from your own gender. It is like insulting them – insulting the dead. So, I don’t allow any insulting thoughts in my head. When I think about Rekha, I picture her in two ways. I either see Rekha in white gown with wings and glowing skin (I bet it's movies that fed me that image) or like a half-decayed ghost in rugged clothes. It is her, but not like her. I dismiss the pictures as soon as I envision them, too. But they always come again, later.

___

Aug 27, 2022

I am done with 5 out of the 7 chapters of Rekha’s story. I just realized that it is incomplete. Come on, there’s no way that I am reading an unfinished book when it is the very first book I am reading! And there is no tomb for her, there is no hope that she will get out of it at one fine midnight to come and finish her book. Or will she? Boy, I really wish her parents considered burying her! But, they didn’t and I have to read an unfinished book!

Rekha, I’m mad at you for leaving this unfinished. You sure left a lot of stuff unfinished.

___

Aug 31, 2022

I read all the 7 chapters of Rekha’s story. I sure was reading too much in between those plain words. But there might be a clue. Can’t take chances. 

Also, I wrote a long paragraph about Rekha and her book. Her unfinished book! It is going nowhere except sitting on my table for her to examine. I’m happy that I managed to write something. I felt content doing something for her. I am not going to talk to anyone about her book. She might not be able to listen to my thoughts even from there. I seriously hope Rekha doesn’t read my diary. So, I wrote a note addressing her directly (didn’t mention her name, though) and placed it on my table. It is there; open for her for 3 days now. I hope she saw my note. It will lie there undisturbed for two more days. When she reads it, she will know she has a fan. She will know how much I liked her book. She will know I am still wondering what was going to happen to her characters. She will know and she probably will laugh at me because I have no idea what she had planned for her characters. 

She will laugh at my expense. But I can never know that she did it.

___

Sept 02, 2022

Remember the diary from Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets?

I bought an ink pen today. I assure you, I am not going mad. I don’t believe, like in the film, I will get answers to every question I ask here in my diary. I just felt like using it. It is good to use an ink pen again. It’s been years since I used one. But unlike me, Rekha kept using them. I remember her beautiful handwriting. What a waste of that beautiful handwriting!

___

Sept 05, 2022

Have you ever had an urge to do something that you know you cannot do?

I want to go to her house. I want to check every nook of her room. There should be some clue hiding under her bed or over her cupboard or behind her table or somewhere. There should be. When I find the clues, I can put them together and I will know. I will know if she killed herself. I will know if we had all failed her. But how can I go there now? I’ve never visited her when she was alive. No doubt, she would never have mentioned me to her parents. I was a stranger to her when she was alive. I am as much a stranger to her parents now. They will not let me into their daughter’s shrine just like that and give me the piece of clue I am looking for.

If only miracles happened. If only the dead could make miracles happen. If only Rekha decides to do something about it.

___

Sept 05, 2022

Me again! Today, I reread our old chat. (Rekha, you are getting me more obsessed everyday) We never had long conversations. But when I went through our chat, I thought we could have become good friends. But we didn’t get proper chances. We get to choose our friends, yes. But, sometimes, circumstances do us that favour. In our case, circumstances weren’t quite good for us to forge a friendship.

Rekha once called me a ‘mean bitch’ because I said something mean about one of our teachers. (I took no offense in it though being called a bitch was unusual to me). I had once replied to her text with a ‘bruh’. (I don’t bruh anyone and everyone. I must’ve liked her before she died). But no, our gender neutral ‘bitch-bruh’ entitlement doesn’t really prove anything. The conversation looks all superficial. Now, why do I feel a deep connection with her when she is dead?

She is gone! What is this strange thought? Do I have a connection with her? Am I trying to build it now? Am I, Rekha?

___

Sept 07, 2022

I just realized that it was Anne Frank who wrote a diary about Nazi Germany and not Anne Rank. I feel embarrassed because my English major friend laughed at me when I said, “I want Anne Rank’s book. I'm going to rank Rank's book after reading.” I also winked at him because I thought it was good wordplay. Embarrassed!

Rekha wouldn’t have laughed at me even if she had known it was Ms. Frank. She was very considerate. I know she would’ve been nicer to me. 

___

Sept 09, 2022

I was reading Anne Frank’s diary for two days. I am in the middle of the book. I cannot read any further. I couldn’t read past her December 30, 1943 entry. I just don’t know why. I forced myself to read till January 15, 1944. But I don’t think I can go any further.

I don’t know if I liked this book. Personal diaries are a good way of knowing history and all. However, wartime or not, it is still her personal diary! She edited it for the public, I guess. I still feel it is wrong to read someone else’s diary.

I think Rekha’s father is cool because I know he will destroy Rekha’s diary or hide it from the public. He will never publish her diary. Rekha's father will respect his late daughter’s privacy. He will, right?

___

Sept 12, 2022

I imagined and constructed an ending for Rekha’s story (I meant her novel, not her life). Sure, it will not be the ending she had for the story. But it was fun, devising an unexpected ending for someone else’s novel. I wish I had read this the day she uploaded it online and talked to her about it. If I had told her my ending for her book, would she have laughed at it?

If it was a suicide, by any chance, my presence could have reduced the pressure and tension for her. Who knows, she might have decided otherwise. If it was a suicide, that is.

___

Sept 13, 2022

I am still scrolling through Rekha’s Instagram handle. I reread the 7 chapters of her story on Wattpad. There’s nobody to take her social media handles down. No one really cares about it now. I wonder if her followers miss her online presence. Obviously, most of them wouldn’t know they are following a dead poet’s Instagram.  

Sometimes, I wonder what her password might be. If only I can find it! I tried her birthday. But it didn’t work. Even if it did, what would I do with her social media handles? I don’t know. I do wonder what she might have archived in her Instagram. But do I really need to break into her privacy? No, I don’t want to. So what good will her password be? I know what she wanted the world to know. That is enough.

I’ve never talked to Rekha in person. I’ve had a few online moments with her. But I’ve seen her daily. She was in my class. I have been near her while my friends talk to her. I’ve observed her. I’ve smiled at her sometimes. But strangely, I miss her more than anyone. I think I have admired her from a distance. 

But, we were still strangers when she died. Maybe, I like what she writes. Maybe, I admire her as a writer. Poor Rekha, she could’ve done more!

___

Sept 18, 2022

I started reading a novel called The White Tiger. It is really good from page one. I wonder if Rekha had a chance to read this novel. I think she would’ve liked it. And… I have a strange feeling that Rekha is reading this while I write. Maybe she is.

Oh, I’m obsessed with her thoughts! Maybe, I should stop writing this to focus on other things.

___

Sept 20, 2022

            I seriously have no idea why I am doing this. But I am searching for unfinished books on Google. I want to read more unfinished books. Luckily for me, there is a Wikipedia page for it. But the titles are either boring or frightening. I don’t know what to choose from them. My English major friend gave me a book called 1984 to read. I will start it now. The one I chose to read two days ago, I gave it up midway. I started another one but gave it up again. I hope I will finish this one.

___ 

Sept 22, 2022

            I found that I can never finish reading a novel. 

___ 

Sept 24, 2022

I suspect my mother has read the note I wrote for Rekha about her book. She couldn’t have guessed if that was for a guy or a girl. But she presumed it was a love letter for a partner and now, she thinks that I’m in a relationship. I didn’t correct her because it is better for her to believe that than knowing how I am obsessed with a dead person. Also, I find it funny when she tries to talk me out of the relationship I never had.

___

Sept 28, 2022

I am stuck. I cannot go forward pushing against reality. But I cannot go back in time as well. I cannot change a thing about my conduct with Rekha. I ignored her most of the time and now I want to change it all, which I cannot.

My problem now is, I cannot think past her. Everything I do is connected to her. Someway or the other. Have you ever heard of a dumbass who tries to impress a person who is not even alive? Well, you have. It is me. Every single choice I make circles around her. Sometimes when I write this diary, I feel like I am writing to Rekha.

___ 

October 01, 2022

Is this what a reading slump means? I cannot read books from cover to cover. I stop, midway. I feel like I am forced to do that. There is no physical force. But I cannot focus anymore when I am in the most important scene of the plot. Maybe I am not a reader. Maybe I could read only for her. To please her. Perhaps, I could read only what she writes. That sounds ridiculous when I write it down.

I think there is something paranormal happening about. I could read only half of Rekha’s story for obvious reasons. She’s not going to complete the rest. Now I cannot read past half of any story. Does that make any sense? I think she should come alive to write her incomplete story for me. I laugh at myself but I think I can read a book fully only if I read Rekha’s story to the end. But she cannot come alive.

Or she does come alive. When I write this diary.

I think I should stop writing this. I should stop thinking about writing this all day. It is driving me crazy.

___

May 24, 2023

Hey, it’s been seven months. Or more. And life hasn't been any different from then. I've had rough and good times. I flunked in one of the Maths papers. I had to work hard to clear it the second time. I did. To appreciate it, my father bought me a bike.

If you are wondering, I did forcefully stop myself from writing this diary. I thought it's high time I gave up on the memories of Rekha. I hadn't talked or even thought about her much after that. I don't check her social media handles anymore. Rekha tried to persuade me into writing this diary regularly. But I was strong enough to resist her temptations. I have moved on. I don't know how Rekha's parents are. I don't spy on them anymore. Rekha has no effect on my life whatsoever. I am content. I live my life my way. I still read books though I don't always finish them. But it has nothing to do with Rekha. I mostly stop them right in the middle because they don't impress me from there where they’re supposed to pick up. Despite everything, I still enjoy reading.

I am grateful to you, Rekha. I know you are here. I know you are reading this while I write. I want to tell you how grateful I am to you for making me read. And, you probably know by now that I liked you so much. I started writing this for you. I wanted something between us. I failed to have it when you were very much alive and breathing. But now when I try to connect with you, it is just too much. It is overwhelming. I understand it is dangerous, too. I know you are gone. And I am living. We are not star-crossed lovers. We are lives apart. We cannot collide our worlds, can we? No.

I'm here again to finish this business. I want you to know, I liked you so much though I never expressed it to you. I blamed circumstances and chances but deep down, I always knew it was me who didn’t make efforts when I had a chance. Now, it is too late. I miss you and all, Rekha. But life has to go on. With or without each other. I am not going to write to you anymore. Goodbye.

_____

December 24, 2023

Hey, again. Did you miss me? True or not, I don’t care. I missed us… 

_____