I must have been dreaming a thousand dreams as I laid in a void. Surrounded by the infinite sea of red dirt, it did not matter what direction I followed; I would still be in a void. No matter how far I tread, I would still be in the middle of this vast plane. So, I stayed where I was–alone but comfortable. It felt like home.

A distant nightmare had awakened within me, and I wanted to escape from it. It did not take long for me to learn that to flee from this nightmare, I had to succumb to the lure of sleep and surrender to a thousand dreams.

Why only now though? I had crossed my world and the land of the living without having to be awakened from the ghastly reality that I had been running away from for centuries upon centuries. While being serenaded by the comforts of a thousand dreams, I thought that maybe...just maybe...it was time to see this life through, and finally end it. The memory of how everything came to be was returning to me ever so slowly that it became enervating. I did not care if I remembered every lifetime. All I wanted was to remember the reason why I was alive in a human body.

I steadied my gaze towards the different shades of red that painted the sky. I did not know for how long I had sought refuge here, but I wanted to stay far longer to be at peace with the consciousness of my true form. For now, I wanted to hide from being vulnerable to all the emotions of humanity. I could burst out in a deranged fit of laughter at the irony of how a simple caress from my fingertips could send a vigorous wave of emotions into a person. One touch from me could send them into a euphoric frenzy of pleasure and pain, while I...already incapacitated by anger and fear alone! Oh! What irony indeed! I was vulnerable.

So, in the meantime, I hid from the part of me that was vulnerable.

I am Death. I am powerful.

I surrendered to a thousand dreams that flooded my thoughts all at the same time. A thousand dreams that took me everywhere. And all those dreams were real and they were all happening simultaneously.

2:07PM, CHOR BAZAAR, MUMBAI, MAHARASHTRA, INDIA

The streets were drenched from the heavy rains that poured nonstop since early morning. The bottom of her once bright yellow sari dragged across the ground, mopping off the muck left behind by the footsteps that treaded on the surface. She battled her way through the crowd, partially folding her umbrella back just to get past the crowd ahead of her. She stopped in front of an antique shop, feeling relieved that after the long walk, she finally reached her destination. She reached for the hem of her sari and lifted it off the ground. She wrinkled her aquiline nose at the sight of the gunk and mud that stained the yellow material. There was even a partial footprint left by a dabbawala who rushed in front of her with his cartful of dabbas earlier that afternoon. She remembered yelling back at him, but he did not even give her a second glance. She sighed. She was not looking forward to the tiring chore of washing the cloth to its former glory.

She returned her attention to the antique shop. It was crowded, and she was certain that most of them were just there for the shelter. She took another step closer, craning her neck from side, in her attempt to see past the pack that blocked her view of the shelves. She closed her eyes, praying that the item she was after was still there.

The sudden bellow from the shopkeeper made her emaciated body jolt. She thought of turning around and coming back another day, but she had already walked this far. She did not know if she would ever have the strength to travel all the way from Dharavi to Byculla on foot. With her frail health, it had taken her almost four hours to get to where she was. She flinched at the thought of having to walk back home. She was exhausted, hungry, and weak. She would be lucky if she got home before eight that evening. The cold sidewalks were actually an inviting option for her to rest.

The shopkeeper took notice of the woman who was drenched in the rain. Sashi Powar had returned. He greeted her with a scowl as he looked her over, hoping that she would not set those muddy feet in his shop. It was bad enough that these people were taking shelter from the rain; he did not need this woman to add to the crowd.

Sashi took a deep breath as she walked closer to him, holding on to whatever pride her scrawny body has left. She met his condescending stare and smiled. In spite of her hollow cheeks and the tired brown eyes, her smile lit up her face as if everything was a reason to smile about. She dropped the hem of her dress back onto the ground, allowing it to absorb the puddles that heaven had created. She raised her right hand, proudly showing a pouch that dangled around her wrist. A year of begging in the streets of Mumbai, ignoring the calls of hunger and pain, she finally got the money he was asking for. Everything in the humble little bag had what he wanted in exchange for a sitar that she sold to try to save her son's life.

I remembered the day I took her son from her. He was barely three, and he was so sickly. He did not have a chance the moment he was conceived. His mother was already poor in health to begin with. I could have taken the boy, but he was a fighter. It was unfortunate that his circumstances did not allow him that arena to fight.

She approached the man, and offered him the money. He was aware how the instrument meant to her. Music passed on for five generations in the Powar household. It was the only treasure her father could leave her. The same treasure she had hoped to pass on to her son. She reminisced the nights she strummed a lullaby for him, hoping that it soothed his hunger and troubles like it did for her when she was a child. Her eyes lit up just thinking of her fingers strumming across the strings. Very soon she would have the sitar back. She would return home with the family's prized possession back in her arms. If she could no longer play for her son, at least she ccould still play for her brothers and sisters, and their children. Soon, she would pass it on to her younger brother–then it would be his turn to play for his family like their father and those before him did.

Though he was not fond of Sashi Powar, but seeing her soaked in the sky's tears and wallowing in the earth's filth, he felt sorry for taking her money. She could have bought herself some food, or medicine. He comforted himself with the thought that everything was purely business. His hands wrapped around the pouch. Pleased with the weight of the small bag, he smiled before retreating towards the back of his shop.

The rain poured harder, and the wind threatened to blow her umbrella away. The showers soaked her to the bone. Her lips trembled, and her shoulders shook at the cold air that had been following her since she left her shanty. She wished she could blame the cruel weather for her frozen state, but it was not the rain nor the wind's fault. In the midst of the aroma of strong spices permeating from the rows of food stalls, Sashi's senses were filled with my overpowering fragrance. She knew I was around, but not once did she look back. She refused to look at me–not until she had retrieved her beloved sitar.

The gleam in her eyes brightened when the shopkeeper finally emerged from the crowd that filled his shop. Like the arms of a welcoming mother, she scooped the instrument back in her embrace. Her hands ran up and down the black case that kept he sitar warm. A rush of relief filled her now that the precious sitar was back.

Now, she was ready to face her fear.

The smile faded. "Tu mala ghyayla aatach aalis?" she asked me as sadness filled her face.

I shook my head. "Aaj nahi."

She closed her eyes, and whispered a prayer of gratitude; she was not dying today. "Mag kadhi?"

I could not tell her when I shall return. "Yogya veli mi tujhyasathi parat yeil."

"Mag aata kay?"

"Aata mi nirop ghete," I told her.

She took a step towards me. A glimmer of hope sparkled in those eyes. "Mi tyala parat baghu shakel ka?"

Her yearning to hold her son again had always gripped this grieving mother's heart. Unfortunately, I could not answer her.

She took a step back with confusion as she stared back at me. My gaze filled her with so much fright, but she continued to look into my purple eyes and try to fathom the blankness of their expression. It did not take long before she understood that she was not going to get her answers from me. She bowed her head.

I turned away. Before I took my leave, I commanded. "Majhya baddal konashi bolu nakos."

4:37AM, TRINITY CHURCH, MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

Between the cemetery and the church, one would be surprised at the serenity found at the cemetery. The silence brought peace. The steady breeze was soothing. The emptiness was almost romantic. Earth-bound souls hardly lurked around their final resting place. Why would they stay? The very few who roamed around their burial ground were too self-absorbed with their own angsts; not the ideal company for another troubled soul. It was not appealing either to be in the company of earthly critters who were more engrossed in feasting on decaying bodies. Besides, what sentiments would they have over the little speck of space, six feet underneath the surface?

If one had the desire to find earth-bound souls, the church would be the the first places I would recommend. Most earth-bound souls flock their temples of praise. They prayed to the god who would save them from their sufferings.

Church and cemetery–my feet sauntered through both when I came to this structure of praise. The church stood near the graveyard where the remains of those I claimed many, many, many years ago were laid to rest. I smirked. Not all of them rested. Some continued to dwell in the places that held their sentiments. Some shared this place of worship with the living.

The church was full of spirits when I arrived. The moment they sensed my presence, they dispersed in the wind's shadows. Even in death, they remained fearful of me...Many years had past, yet they were still not prepared to follow me.

I sat behind Emma Fuller, and fixed my blank stare at her shiny brown hair, nicely twisted in a bun. Her floral dress wrapped around her waif figure. She was glowing with the help of the layer of make-up that hid her pale face. Her clasped hands sparkled with the luster of diamonds. The woman looked vibrant, but her eyes said otherwise. Her illness was eating her away. Against the will of her doctor, she demanded to leave her mansion to come to here, and pray. She was in dire need for her almighty to hear her prayers. She wanted answers. She wanted signs of assurance that she had a place in heaven when her disease finally defeats her. She reminded God of all the good she had done for her fellowmen. She calculated the total amount she had donated to charity, which was a very significant amount to give out to the needy. She had never missed a day of worship, or celebrate a religious even; she made sure that she highlighted that in her prayer.

I listened to her prayer. I heard how she constantly reminded God of her devotion. She told him how she was more deserving to enter the kingdom of heaven...For that, I wanted to spit on her face. I moved closer to where she sat–the front pews where everyone could notice the theatrics of her ardent devotion. I perched myself on the backrest of the pew she was sitting on, and watched her.

Ah! Dear Emma! I had watched your past and your present without me being by your side. I know how passionate you are with your faith. You have demonstrated this by keeping the Sabbath Day holy just as the bible had preached.

I tilted my head as I studied her face. Her lips moved while she whispered the verses of her prayers. Her clasped hands were pressed closely to her heart as if she was begging for mercy. She was not begging for mercy; there was no need for her. Her devotion should save her a place near her god.

My eyes narrowed on her and smiled. When you die, I would love your tombstone to read: Here lies a woman who believed that God owed her something. Then I would spit and walk over her grave again and again. I would scorn at her soul and let her know that not even the world owed her anything. No devotion, prayer, nor procession would make up for her own hypocrisy.

The woman was a laugh, really! The kind smile. The compassionate heart. The generous benefactor. It made one wonder if behind closed doors, she was rehearsing how her eyes would fall with empathy when she talked about the starving children in Africa...Had she calculated how a hand that was dripping in jewelry would land on her chest whenever she expressed her sorrows over unfortunate events that had befallen the less fortunate? I found myself smiling at the knowledge that while she acted like a saint, in her mind, she was complaining how awfully dressed these pathetic people were. Their stench was so awful! Even if they bathed in a tub of perfume, they would still reek of their odour. Emma had preached endlessly about looking after people's welfare because that was what good Christians must do.

Such a wonderful performance, Emma. Remind me to applaud you when the curtains fall!

Behind closed doors, this woman was a monster. No praise to her lord would erase the pain she had inflicted on those who had served her. She was a tyrant. When her father died, not only did the employees mourn for his passing, but they wept for their future under this woman's leadership. Emma enjoyed the power she held. With that power, the lure of greed beckoned her. She schemed to get what she wanted, even if it meant threatening those who opposed her. For a petit and sophisticated woman, she was feral. A hypocrite! It was preposterous for her to expect that she would be shown the path that would lead to the realm of her perceived heaven.

My stare drilled longer into her. She looked solemn with her eyes closed. I could hear her prayers loud and clear. Nothing to express gratitude. Nothing to express remorse for her trespasses. I shook my head with my jaws clenched. I took a deep breath and exhaled, deliberately blowing on her face.

She lifted her shoulders at the sharp iciness that touched her. Goosebumps formed on her skin. She did not remember the church's air-conditioning to be so strong. She found it odd that the breeze was cold around her when the weatherman forecasted a warm day. A tear rolled down her cheek the very moment she she knew I was there. She was not a believer of ghosts, but the drastic change in temperature made her think again. She cringed when she sensed the perfume that lingered in the piercing air that embraced her. I saw her body tremble. As a child, she was told many stories about ghosts. She did not deny their possible existence, but she knew that I was no ghost. I was something much, much more than a ghost. Her lips quivered at her attempt to suppress her sobs. Just like every man or woman, she shook in my presence. She bowed her head and closed her eyes ever so tightly. "Oh my God!" she whispered. "You have come to let me die here...In the house of God." She forced a smile through her pursed lips. "He has sent a sign! This is a sign! The answer to my question!" Joy interlaced with her sobs. "He has saved me a place in heaven! I am going to heaven!"

My ability to be in a state of equanimity had veered me away from the urge to slash her face with my nails. While I allowed her to bask in her own delusions, I brushed my fingers lightly across her cheek.

A deep gasp escaped her at the excruciating feel of my touch. How was it possible to experience every emotion that she knew of all at once? She wanted to run far away from me as much as possible but she craved for more. As expected from a greedy woman, Emma reached out for my hand and held it tight. "Is this what dying is? "

I pulled my had from her. Before she had a chance to reach for me again, I shifted myself away from her. "You are not dying today."

Her eyes opened, and more tears were set free to run down her painted cheeks. She lifted them up and bravely met my gaze. "I don't understand."

"What is it about 'not dying today' that you do not understand?" I asked her with a hint of irritation.

She flinched. "I-I'm s-sorry," she stuttered. "I just thought–" She shook her head, surrendering to silence. She had always believed that angels were beautiful creatures. She knew I was not an angel. Emma studied me intently, and wondered how someone who looked so delicate and beautiful could invoke so much perturbation within her. Mesmerized by my gaze, frozen by my chill, and spellbound by my fragrance, Emma could not move. The answer was simple. I was the one who would be taking her life away. "W-When am I dying?" Hearing herself ask the question brought more tears in her eyes. Everyone died, but she never expected that her death would come sooner. There were so many things she wanted to do.

I could not tell her of my return. "When the time comes, I will come back for you."

Disappointed at my vagueness, she shook her head. "That's it? That's all you have to say to me? For sure there is more to it than just telling me that you'll be back!"

I jumped off from the backrest of the pew, landing my feet lightly on the floor. I was facing the altar. I had been in so many churches, some of grand design, with windows that break the rays of sunshine into beams of colours; some were as humble as a simple table with a crucifix made out of two twigs tied together, yet still able to conjure the most solemn of prayers. I had been in mosques with mihrabs decorated gloriously with marble, intricately painted with rich hues of gold... And I had seen a mere white wall, framed by wood to indicate the quibla; no matter how ordinary, I have witnessed the good intentions of those who respectfully faced the direction of the Kaabah. I had entered synagogues with elaborately designed interiors. The Torah was tucked safely in the ornately carved Aron HaKodesh with exquisitely embroidered curtains across the holy cupboard. But, I had also seen unembellished arks, and listened to the the wholehearted orison of those who faced it. I had been inside many temples, and I had seen many altars. I had watched the theatrical displays of their rituals, and I had listened to the many versions of humanity's faith. I had claimed many souls that religion had killed. I admired the conviction of believers, and the logic of those who did not recognize a higher power. No matter where they prayed–inside lavish structures, or underneath the sky; no matter what their faith had taught them to believe or not to believe–their fate only led to one end. Death. Before any of them could be in the presence of a higher power, they would first meet me.

I stood up and gave her one last look. "Use your remaining time wisely," I told her. "Make your amends. Bid you farewells." I ambled away from her.

I heard her scuffle on her feet. "Wait! When are you coming back? I need to know," she begged.

I stopped and looked over my shoulder. "As I said, when your time comes." My stern and constricted stare made her drop to her knees and quiver to the deeper chill. Just as every person I had visited, I commanded, "Do not speak of me to anyone."

The air around her warmed up once again as soon as I was gone. Emma held herself and sobbed uncontrollably at the realisation that the length of her life was unpredictable, and that it had become short.

I was in the comfort of a thousand dreams. I witnessed my reflection on a million teardrops. I listened to the voices of the men and women I would be claiming when their time came. This was where I belonged.

"Asha?"

That voice. That name...

~*~*~*~

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