2020 was a cruel year: It took humans and turned them into statistics.
Nobody pays attention to numbers unless there is something exceptional about them. This year, everyone did. We counted from 1, the beginning of chaos.
We looked at China — dazed — as we saw videos of empty streets and our heart calmed when we listened to them singing from balconies. Many ridiculed the extreme step this country took; we could not understand why. We assured ourselves that we would not have to live through it, until we did.
All of us counted, until we couldn’t. We grew tired. After a point, the end seemed nowhere in sight. Some of us stopped checking the statistics at 10,000; others at 50,000. By the time we reached September, some of us had stopped caring.
We had been in stuck in our homes for six months by then. Well, some of us are the optimists. We found ways to entertain ourselves — finding joys in silly little things which had been always around. However, we had forgotten to check on those amidst life.
We had forgotten to live life with these simple pleasures. We had grown so used to ordering food, that we found baking ‘therapeutic’; we went back to our homes and discovered the joys of simple conversations over evening tea.
All our family members were home — something which had never happened before.
We sought solace in books when we needed escape from social media. Some of us went back to our school-time interests, which we had forgotten while running a race against time for our better future.
Only some us, though. A lot of plans were ruined — the batch of 2020 graduated in the recession with no jobs.
Some had to walk back hundreds of kilometres to get to home; there were others who lost livelihood; there were some who lost loved ones.
There were some who lost found themselves, and others who lost themselves.
Lost themselves against the race with time.
I lost one of my friends to suicide. I don’t know why. I cannot find out why.
The Book Thief by Markus Zusak was her favorite book. Death narrates this story. That’s why the title of the post.
“Usually we walk around constantly believing ourselves. “I’m okay” we say. “I’m alright”. But sometimes the truth arrives on you and you can’t get it off. That’s when you realize that sometimes it isn’t even an answer — it’s a question. Even now, I wonder how much of my life is convinced.”
I have sat around staring at the wall, and I have listened to songs she had shared with me in previous chats. All this while, I have wondered if I could have picked up the hints -for all those books she loved obsessively, the dark movies she would ask me to watch over and over again, the death-embedded songs she would listen to.
I don’t know. I have no idea. I had not met her in a year and half. I hadn’t talked to her in a year. I used to see her stories — I knew she was happier than she used to be. But social media is a scam — it is overwhelming, but it is inconsiderate.
I keep looking at this stupid card I had made for her birthday and had forgotten to give her. Photos keeps showing me memories of a few years back and I can only stare at them and go numb for a while.
I am at the point where I am able to write about it. But you never get over such a thing, do you ?
Okay! If you do, tell me something. Their voice in your head when you think about them — does it ever fade ?
Would it be better if it did?
I will remember you,
Will you remember me?
Hope you’re at peace, wherever you are.
