It was a rainy day, quite normal in this part of the world. The petrichor smell of dirt crawled into my nose. Weird? (I was on the 17th floor.) I leaned on the fence of my balcony and pulled out a Sobranie Black. It pressed against my lips as if it had a soul, and I lit it with my old lighter. I tried to take in a full breath. Mistake. My chest hurt horribly, as if my lungs were grappling the heart. I pathetically coughed out the smoke, pretty sure I had veins up my forehead.

As the smoke cleared, I saw a web of uneven dirt roads, local vendors trying to make their final sales under their tiny polythene-roofed stores, and cheap motorcycles speeding toward their final destination like fireflies. Home? This place had changed for the worse since the last time I was here.

Found crushed on the road, teeth splattered everywhere, black blood squirting from the ass.

I pushed out a chuckle and lit my second cigarette. I only took a quarter of a breath this time.

“Boss?” It was one of my boys, Alexei Mikhailov. His kind was rarely seen here, and they stood out like Brazilian coral snakes. It could only mean one thing since he was here.

“Here to offer me a Sazerac?”

“Da.” He looked like a cold mountain.

I crashed on my armchair and looked up. To my disappointment, I couldn't see the moon nor the stars; it was too cloudy. Bad luck indeed. He sat on the chair across from mine, only the teapoy was in between us.

“You look old.”

“Men wither when they have nothing left to do.” I replied.

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A spasm of silence.

“Why Kerala?” He asked me out of curiosity, like he always did.

“Home?”

“Home!? I thought you was Mexican.”

“Did you now?” I was almost smiling. His imagination was never the best. “Alright boy, it's about time?”

He pulled out a well-hidden pistol. B&T VP9 maybe. He aimed it right toward my forehead, and I could feel it. I clenched my teeth and leaned toward the gun. The wipe looked brand new; he could get 8 shots out of it. As the world caved in, the last thing I saw was a clean-shaven, alabaster-skinned, Russian-made hunk of a man. He had sharp pewter eyes, and before I could make out anything more, I was shot dead.

…………………..

I felt wet sand under my feet, and the clouds told me they were about to start yappin’. Mother would always scold me whenever I showed up drenched like a donkey, so I strode toward my house. I let myself in without a sound. Everything was exactly as I remembered it: water dripping from the roof into a rubber bucket carefully placed under it, walls made of clay-baked bricks, and a red mud floor. We had a single bedroom where all of us slept together and a tiny kitchen. The toilet was outside. I spotted my father's bamboo chair and sat on it dumbfounded.

The bucket was completely filled and was now overflowing. If this was reality, it should have been my little sister's job to pour out the water, but I couldn't feel anyone's presence. I tried to get up to do it myself, but I was plastered to the chair. Drop by drop, the water level kept rising and soon I was engulfed. My flow of time was replaced with the flow of aqua.

…………..

I’ve... I've been thinking. Thinking in a circle. A bastard of a circle. About what? About many things actually, yet about nothing at all. I assumed Hell was forged in fire and that during my time there I’d be forced to drink boiling water, bathe in lava, or eat with all my teeth half-broken. Compared to my expectations, I found it awfully pleasant. I’ve been granted more than sufficient time to sort my story. I felt... purified, and being drowned in water for long enough to make me understand eternity helped. Now what? I do not know. Maybe this old body will wither away with time, or I may remain stuck here forever, but at the moment I remain at peace. If there is a god, he must be kind.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………

"For the soul, there is neither birth nor death at any time. He has not come into being, does not come into being, and will not come into being. He is unborn, eternal, ever-existing, and primaeval. He is not slain when the body is slain." - Bhagavad Gita 2.20