I do not like it when people ask my name. If you have a name to give, then suggest it or do not ask that abhorrent question. I cannot have a name as according to humans, I do not have a soul or consciousness. I am nothing more than a music box and I play if you wish. So stop asking my name!
Now, onto introductions, I am Aryan’s life-long companion and I have helped him through his worst days. He didn’t like his friends so I played for him. When he visited his grandparents, I played for him. When he wishes, I pull out a tune and make him happy. Life was…wait, I am not living! Let me rephrase this sentence. My time with Aryan was wonderful.
Anyway, I was day dreaming when all of a sudden, a huge uproar took place. The lady and the man picked up my Aryan and took him somewhere. I was angry! How could they take him away without me, his music box! I do not like these people who Aryan calls “mom” and “dad.” They give me weird vibes.
A few days later, they pick me up and take me on a car ride to this hospital. The hospital looked so dull and bleak, with people looking like dead corpses and lifeless souls standing in line. They needed some music so I decided to play but then “mom” turned me off. See, this “mom” is not nice, I told you so.
They carried me and then placed me in a room on a white table top. Next to me was Aryan, but he looked different. He had some kind of a mask on him and he did not move. There was this woman who looked white and blue and her face was also covered by a mask.
After some time, it was only me and Aryan. I looked at his beautiful eyes, now still and colourless. His hands shrivelled and he was not the lively boy I once knew. With all his might, he started humming my tune and I played it to accompany his singing. It was very hoarse and weak, but it did not matter. I kept aiding him in his effort hoping he would come back.
“Mom” and “dad” were whispering and weeping softly. No one was happy and no amount of songs could ever make them joyful again. I tried playing but every time, they turned me off and ignored me. As the days went on, I did not have the energy to play. Life was bleak and no one wanted me anyway. I couldn’t even play for Aryan. What was the point if I could not make anyone happy?
I continued these repetitive thoughts in my head. I did not have much to do now that no one liked me. I do not remember how long I was on that table top, aimlessly wasting my time, sitting lifeless with no purpose.
Sometimes, I dreamed of me and Aryan, running through a playground, playing his favourite songs and him laughing and playing with his friends, but soon the remnant of life in him faded until it was no more and the lively hands and legs turned white like snow. He was dead at 2:03 a.m. and the doctor conveyed the message to “mom” and “dad.”
Dreary feet of people around me walked through the mud and sludge to reach a barren land. Mounds of dirt and soil covered the land and masked people carried wheel barrows and stretchers. Aryan’s stretcher was the smallest of them all. A tiny stretcher was placed on the ground and they buried my Aryan. I was watching from “mom’s” handbag as his corpse was buried, covering that lovely face with dirt and he became nothing more than a statistic, another death in a time marred with demise.
The people had no smiles on their once bright faces so I played one last tune for that boy, something he can carry when he’s playing in the clouds, a tune he can hum to, skipping and frolicking, free from pain. I sang and sang and sang and sang….until my songs lost all meaning…just like his death.
By Ramya Sridhar
12 B , Ekya School ITPL