It is almost three o' clock at night and there is definitely something creepy in the air. I am writing because I am very scared. I was doing my content writing work and talking to folks online. After a while, most of them went away. I finished my work about half an hour ago. After sending it over, I had to go the bathroom. My room opens into my grandmother's space. At one thirty in the morning, she looks hardly alive. Her frail body looks pale in the dim light. I have to walk a bit in order to reach the bathroom. the bathroom door stares straight at the gate. Well, it is not much of a gate. And the lock we put on it is a joke of a lock because I can snap it in two any moment. Its weak. And it serves no purpose. This gate is directly opposite the door to my neighbour's home. Its real close. The gate and the door must be at a distance of about one and a half metres. I do not know why I am describing all this but right now I just need to keep on writing. The door opens into a two room flat which houses a ninety something retired physics professor, his son in law, a sixty something man who is immensely curious about everything, his wife and their pet, a spitz, who, unlike those of the same breed, is quite well behaved.   

They are quite a strange family, as all families are. Man and wife have no child. As far as the story goes, each have accused the other of infertility. But I think that the spitz does a good job. She is quite a nice child.    

The woman, as far as I know, had a tough life. She studied for sometime, but something snapped somewhere after she married this man. She learnt music. Purabi Dutta. Good old days, I guess. It is slightly eerie how the stories of many women are the same. How many of them have sacrificed all that they love and all that they like. But then, I know not whether 'sacrifice' is a right word. Just because I have heard it so often does not mean I can use it often. I digress. 

I had no time to know them well. The woman, she behaved very badly with us, for no reason whatsoever. As I said earlier, something had snapped somewhere. An incident about a month or two ago proves just that. A student of mine was going back home after class. Since we live in the second floor, my students get out of my room, switch on the lights and go home. That day, instead of switching on our lights, he switched on the other lights, unfortunately their's. He didn't even understand that it was a problem, because he had done it many times. I couldn't believe it was a problem either, but she actually put out the lights midway. The boy fell down and hurt himself badly. The stairs are dangerous and rough and almost unnavigable. I was startled when I heard the scream and went out. I saw her standing by the door. She looked mortified. And yet she was smiling. My student had hurt himself badly. I couldn't say a word. I dropped him home. Often, we are unaware of the things we do. Often, we have no reason for violence. Often, we want to hurt others just because we are hurt deep inside. There is a part within us which relishes inflicting physical violence. We keep it tucked away but it exists within all of us, I guess. 

I do not know much about her. And after this incident, I felt nothing but a twisted sense of pity and fear. 

She died last week. She suffered a lot. Her husband refused to take her to a doctor. She cried at times. She also came to see my mother when she had fever. She became almost blind. She screamed and said that her insides hurt. And still no doctor. My mother intervened. So did other neighbours. The man just said that she pretended to be ill. And it was all nyakami.

When she was dying, the man went to fetch a doctor. Her old father did not even understand that she passed away. Lying there on the bed beside his. Groaning and crying and looking desperate. Even after an hour, when indifferent relatives started pouring in and smearing vermillion on her forehead, he kept asking us, "Aar nei na?"

With age, I believe, the ability to register emotions fades. The dimming eyesight, perhaps, has something to do with it. He did not cry. He was well acquainted with death. His wife, his son, his parents. And now, his daughter. He understood, perhaps, that death is just about not being. 

But I feel a strange kind of fear. I am not afraid of death. I am not afraid of the dead. Maybe I am afraid of life. I do not know what death will be like. I do not want it to be like this woman's. I will never miss her, because I did not know her. However, I feel happy for her because death is often better than a horrid life. 

It is late at night. I hear a voice. "Aar nei na?"  

PS: Forgive the writing. Fear does not bring out the best in me.