By Aadhya Sharma
I had imagined death a thousand times-
a shadow folding over a room,
a silence so heavy
it could swallow the air.
But it is none of that.
It is a body, stiff and unfamiliar,
dressed in its best clothes,
as if ready for a journey
it cannot, yet, explain.
The room smells of incense and sweat.
People whisper in corners,
their grief stitched with small talk.
Even the ones who barely spoke to him
let their tears fall publicly,
as though the weight of the room
demands a performance.
I watch as my aunt measures sugar
into teacups,
the same deliberate motion as yesterday,
as if life hasn’t unraveled
and left its ends scattered on the floor.
"One scoop or two?"
Someone answers, and I wonder
if they can taste anything at all.
My eyes linger on his hands-
still, for the first time I can remember.
They were always moving:
clasping a hammer,
gesturing through stories,
fidgeting when restless.
Now, they rest neatly,
as if to signal they’ve finished their work.
I thought I would feel something monumental,
a quake in my chest,
but all I feel is the weight
of how ordinary it all seems.
I wonder if he hears them,
if he minds the way people cry
between sips of chai.