The last four minutes

By Divya Balakumar

They stand in a triangle facing each other. Mala looks at Raj, Raj looks at Hema, Hema looks at Mala.

It is 10.56 am. It is March the 3rd, 2015. It is a Sunday.

They know the date all too well.

‘Four minutes,’ Raj says, breaking the silence.

Mala lets out a laugh. Worried, Raj takes a step forward, his right hand invariably reaching out to her.

‘Don’t,’ Mala says, her defensive stance in place, her 9mm pistol in hand. ‘I’ll shoot.’

Raj and Mala burst into a fit of laughter. No one would have the faintest idea, thought Hema, rolling her eyes.

Earlier that morning, Hema lazed in the waterless bathtub for 25 minutes. No one spoke, no one rushed her. The speaking had been done, their plans had been made. She tore the paper off her favourite bar of soap and held the heavy scent to her nose. She inhaled slowly and deeply, and in that moment, the violent beating of her heart took the present away from her. She was back at the hospital in the early hours of March the 3rd, 2014, sobbing relentlessly. She watched her brother’s chest expand and collapse knowing none of this was happening organically—the tubes held him together. In between the sobs, she yelled out prayers; there was no beautiful, rhythmic and harmonious chanting, only the screams of a scarred sister watching her brother die.

When Mala and Raj reached the hospital at noon that day, they were escorted to the morgue. Their son had been cold for hours now.

The volume of their laughter progressed, disturbing Hema’s thoughts. She looked at the clock and abruptly said, ‘Three. Three minutes. Stop laughing’.

Raj looked at his daughter, the vulnerability of her youth obviously missing.

Before they went to bed last night, Raj knocked on her door.

‘Darling, I love you.’

‘Okay,’ she replied icily, staring at her phone. He wondered what she was reading and tried to make conversation but she didn’t flinch when he probed and Raj left with questions unanswered.

Aggression and authority had replaced it on March the 3rd, 2014, but he accepted it—he hated it, but he accepted it. ‘You weren’t there, YOU DIDN’T SEE WHAT I SAW,’ she screamed every time they fought. He was guilt-ridden, but he never argued.

She was right.

They had hugged their son goodbye at the airport and never looked back to wave just once more.

The next day, funeral arrangements were being made.

Mala’s wails rang through his ears. Hema’s vacant disposition haunted him.

This was a team effort, a team decision, Raj thought to himself and smiled. We will all be reunited soon.

‘I can’t wait to see him,’ he said aloud.

‘I can’t wait, Raj. Only two minutes to go,’ she smiled the gentle, maternal smile.

My boy, the thoughts trailed. My sweet, beautiful boy.

‘Take care of Hema. Make sure she doesn’t stay out too late; please get her home safely,’ she told her son at the airport. She nagged him about his hair being too long. ‘Get it sorted before we get back, please. You’re starting to look a bit rough.’ But he wasn’t rough, he was her sweet, beautiful boy.

On the flight, she had thought about the year they were going to have. She couldn’t sleep but Raj snored next to her. She had thought about the four of them, and how life was panning out. Hema was graduating and her boy was starting a new job soon. This is how life works, she had thought on the flight.

She was anxious about flying but her boy squeezed her hand and nodded knowingly; she only ever revealed her fears to him. ‘Everything will be fine,’ he said as she hugged him.

They stand in a triangle facing each other. Mala looks at Raj, Raj looks at Hema, Hema looks at Mala.

It is 10.59 am.

‘One minute,’ they say in unison.

They were void of emotion; every conversation and confession in the last three months had danced its way to this very moment.

‘On your marks,’ Raj says as they turn away for the last time.

‘Get set,’ Mala adds as they each position their pistol.

Three guns held.

Bang; there goes one.