The Return

Karma 

It always pays off. 

I could still remember the look on their faces as they saw their cruel prank go wrong, as they saw my mortal form burn to ashes, my eyes still wet from the tears they had forced me to shed, my hand still throbbing from the pain they had inflicted on me. 

All around us, the fire burned red—the color of blood—and it was promising its silent spectators that it will haunt them for years, that one day it will come to them too, and then they'll see how fair the game is. 

Death. Wasn't. Fair. 

Then it came to me and standing its tallest, it whispered in a soft voice. 

'Push him down the cliff quickly.

And there's no fun in the fall.

Torture him to slow suicide, and you'll know–

That revenge is the sweetest of all.'

He extended a hand, and in his palm rested a black dagger, and on it was written the word—karma. 

'You've been bullied and pushed around your whole life. Your parents never thought. Your friends never understood. You—yourself, never fought back. Do you want a chance now?' 

I stared up at him, shocked and speechless as I tried to figure out if this was my afterlife or just a phase of dying. Did death approach everyone like this when they were facing the end time? Or was it just me—alone? 

Death nodded encouragingly, so I stood up after a few grunts, and looked at the dagger. 

'Am I dead?' I asked. 

'Yes,' he hissed. 'That separates you from the living. But not from the land of them.' 

I looked down at the dagger, then reached out and curled my fingers around it. Death's skin was black but cold and icy—almost like a white glacier. 

Was this the relation between them? 

Blackness and whiteness at the same time—an infinity of it. 

I tried to pick up the dagger, but it didn't lift. I looked up at Death. 

'Use it well,' were the last words Death said before the dagger felt lighter and I lifted it up in my hands—admiring its sharpness. 

My one life had ended. 

The other was just starting. 

'Kunal.' 

There was silence in the classroom. It doesn't usually happens during attendance call but not everyday does the teacher by-mistakingly calls the name of the kid who has died three days ago. 

Me. 

I sat in the corner in a chair—invisible to other people because, of course, you can't see ghosts. 

Seeing Ms Jain our teacher, however, I felt a little touched. Someone remembered me, at least. She muttered a sorry and then quickly wiped off a few tears from her eyes. A few students sitting on the first benches consoled her and asked if she needed water—but mostly they stared at her awkwardly. 

You don't get to see your teacher cry every day. 

I stood up and walked past all of them and they didn't flinch, because of course, you can't see me either. Being a ghost has its advantages. 

Karan, the boy who had always made fun of me and insulted me—making me feel unsafe and uncertain, was sitting quietly in one seat, and staring down at his hands, probably pretending to feel sorry for me. 

As I reached him, I bent in closer and whispered in his ear. 

'Present.'