Kin of the Heart

Dalih Sembiring | Sun, 06/15/2008 10:17 AM | Bookmark

Images of the Afterlife Desert vividly flashed before his eyes, and never before had they appeared so clear that he suffered from the inability to control his own mind.

He questioned himself: Why are my circumstances getting worse? Am I guilty of unfathomable sins? Or are they but a product of my untamed imagination? Maybe my time has nearly come after all.

But still he trembled from anxiety and dread.

"What on earth are you talking about!" Mom gave stress to each word. He'd just told her: "Mom, I'm going to die".

"It's true, Ma. I've seen the signs," again he said. "Why should you deny it? We're all going to face death sooner or later. I'm simply ahead of others in the queue."

"Will you come to your senses! What signs? You're not feverish are you? Listen now, boy. You will live a long and happy life. I will see you graduate, work for a big corporation and marry the right girl. I'm looking forward to holding my first grandchild, you know," she smiled, "If one of us should die first, I surely hope that it's me."

Mom did not understand. He did not suppose Dad would either, not with his logic-based perspective and nature, or his sister who was only a junior high student. He could imagine what his friends would say. He'd have "nutcase" stamped right there on his forehead.

What signs?

***

Certain signs had haunted him for four months now, since he'd heard about the incident. The soul of his beloved cousin relinquished to the strike of a sand-carrier truck. That afternoon, on a serene road that sheared countryside terrain, he was dragged with his old motorcycle along a strip of dusty rugged asphalt that tore the flesh of his youthful cheek. He felt every single cell composing the epidermal tissue and cranial part behind his left ear splintered by the smash of blunt steel, in the dark space beneath the truck that reeked of gasoline.

Everything was in slow motion. Long, eerie sounds reverberated as a backdrop: a drop of water that dripped from the tip of a leaf, rubbed against the air and fell upon the earth; the chatter of insects resembling the sound of a pen point scratching against a solid wall; the sigh of lost wind. His dim eyes stared dubiously at another realm, a teardrop lingering in each corner. His lips were to utter the tragedy: Dear...

His father made the call:

Your cousin, your closest pal, half your heart was summoned by God this afternoon. Your aunt keeps crying. Sometimes she faints, gets hysterical. How can she not be? He was our only son, the eldest, the first object of our affection. Now that he's gone, please deliver a prayer as we are about to bury him in his homeland. Take care of yourself in the land across the ocean, child. God bless you.

That explained why his eye kept twitching in the last few days. Which part exactly, Mom asked him. The lid of my left eye. Uh, it means you are going to cry. Maybe you're about to lose something.

Yes, Mom. The pain is unbearable when half your heart is sliced up and flung down into the burial ground. I can still feel it, together with nightmares that trouble my slumber. Voices calling my name. Images of doomsday. Hell. Judgment scale...

***

"You're still upset about your cousin. You should try and get over it." Mom strokes his hair. "You shouldn't let sorrow carry you away, you might get ill. The Lord has fulfilled his fate. No man can deny his destiny."

For heaven's sake, now, all he needs is some support. He lets go of Mom's hands, enters his room and refuses to come out. He doesn't want to come out. In the room, which gets damper every day (the windows aren't open), he incarcerates himself. Tears drift down his cheeks. He is ready to meet his cousin on the other side. His childhood memory slips into the repertory nerves that carry painful pulses to and fro. It hurts when you can only bring to mind the lifespan of a dearly loved one.

They used to be inseparable. Born 219 days apart, they were peer-kin with sisterly mothers. They had to meet each other every week to play in the field, carrying knives, acting like heroes who explored the jungle in search of a villain until dusk appeared on the western sky and caused them to bear punishment from their worried parents. Petty problems might accelerate into a fight between the two, though they would both cry in the end, accusing each other with he-started-it blame, and forget everything after making up. They fell in love with many different girls and promised that one day they would get married on the same day. Then they cracked a dirty joke about sharing the same bedroom on the first night.

No secrets concealed. Kept in their hearts was every story they shared from ordinary stuff through to obsessions. One of them had to go away, one day, to the land across the ocean after his father received an official assignment. He wouldn't let go of the ship railing so as to keep an eye on his cousin, who stood amongst the crowd at the port; gazing at him as the liner slowly sailed away.

They cried in profound silence yet tried still to smile. The question in the first sob: When will I see you again?

***

Hunger doesn't seem to knot his stomach. He has not eaten for three days. Everyone in the house has tried to coax him out, only to be disappointed since he stays motionlessly numb upon his bed. Mom must have told Dad the reason he locked himself in, and is now struggling to appease him as he becomes boisterously angry, pounding on the thick door and rumbles, telling him to open it.

Perhaps his little sister is standing behind Dad now, quivering at the thought her brother has really gone mad and is about to be taken to the mental house.

So be it, he murmurs. In any asylum, I'll die more peacefully. I will seek the most beautiful place to slip away, maybe a backyard full of dense trees.

Beneath one I shall shelter, while the other patients in blue uniforms run about without knowing or realizing that I am willingly handing over my soul to Death.

More patients are on the way to gather vociferously. They laugh, frantically dance, cry, and laugh again. I feel anguish as I look around and find myself in the procession of soul deliverance like the one performed by an African tribe I happened to see on TV. Entertainingly horrifying, but I suddenly realize that it's actually funny!

Hey, he's not taken anywhere. The door refused to collapse when Dad forcefully ran at it, an obscure power seemed to shield it. They give up, they let him die. No more thumps on the door. Life restrains all sounds, except that of the stubborn crickets that start to chatter outside. Day has once again become night.

The sky is dark, as dark as his bedroom (and the light is not on), and as dark as the subconscious space that he starts to enter in a pace. Then another pace. The thuds bounce to diverse directions, beating the invisible walls. His eyes catch a soft vertical ray encircled by glittering dust that assists him in revealing lines. He touches them. The lines are actually cupboards that tower up into the majestic darkness. He assumes those cupboards are as tall as skyscrapers since the books are as big as doors.

Now he is suddenly taken aback by the sound of footsteps that approach him. They're coming closer. Closer. So close. Someone is standing before him.

"Who are you?" he asks.

"I am your cousin."

His blood rushes. He is acquainted with the voice and starts to observe the lines of the figure's face. This is his cousin! He grows weak as he weeps and holds close to the figure he desperately misses.

"You died too young, and I love you too much."

"Life is short, my dearest cousin. It doesn't matter at what age you depart. Someone who died at a wornout age once whined: Leaving the world so early, it struck me that I hadn't done anything. So now wipe your tears. Follow me. There's something I need to show you."

There is a gust of wind as they exit through a slit in the colossal doors. It is bright outside despite the low hovering gray clouds. Robust pillars grandiosely support the building structure. This gigantic embossed art deco library has many stairs. They descend without talking, though he sometimes stares at his cousin who replies with a half-smile.

He has no idea of their whereabouts, but spread around the building is a carpet of pasture and some alder trees bearing leaves of green and yellow. Railway tracks criss-cross the lawn. Hundreds of train cars emerge over the hills, slithering toward the building and stop, waiting. His cousin grasps his arm. They jump into the train and move toward the rear of these rusty railway cars. The train sets off.

They have walked past thousands of stiff, pasty passengers all of whom resemble statues: Hands on thighs, unblinking eyes, bodies that bob up and down due to the weak suspension of the train.

Finally the cousins find two empty seats in the last carriage.

"Have you any idea what kind of train this is?"

He shakes his head.

"It's the train of sinners. It carries them to never ending punishment. Each coach is for a particular sin: corruption, abuse, theft, drug addiction, murder, all sorts of sins. And this one is the coach for those who surrender."

"Surrender?"

"Like you do. Someone who thinks he has seen the signs of death and does nothing about them, while there are lots of things that he should be able to do for the sake of virtue. The signs are truly God's gift so that one can mend his soul before he leaves the world. There are obviously heaps and heaps of good deeds that he can manage. If the signs of death appear a month before, he can count all his debts and try to pay them off before it's too late. Within a day, he'll be able to help the needy, orphans or tramps.

"In a minute, coins can be tossed into a beggar's bowl. A second, he still has the chance to comfort his family by smiling to show that he dies in peace. For those who don't bother, hence into this carriage they are hauled, and there'll be no more gate open for them to welcome in a second chance. Look around; there are plenty of people with such sins. You can never be so sure when you will die though it's inevitable. The gates of chance are still wide open for you. Therefore you must arise, greet your family and do good deeds, showing your compassion for the human race."

"Is that all you need to tell me?"

"That's all I have to tell you."

***

The train glides into a tunnel at the hip of a hill. All at once impenetrable darkness seizes every ray of light. He tries to hold on to something, but he only touches emptiness. He is whirling into another subconscious space. Images of the afterlife vividly flash before his eyes. Yet, there is no more dread. He is bewitched by a garden of colorful flowers and butterflies of a hundred brilliant wings, a lake of milk and a honey-red river. His cousin appears in the distance, waving to him.

"Oh cousin ... wait for my time to come."

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