Bubble Wrap: A Short Story on Grief | Thursday Tale No. 16
Bubble Wrap
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| Photograph by Beyzanur K. on Pexels. |
Her package arrived. It was a block-like form, sealed in a gray tamper-proof polythene. Unable to contain her excitement at its arrival, she scuttled to the kitchen to draw out a pair of scissors.
The scissors slid smoothly across the adhesive, revealing a smudge of beige, purple, turquoise, lilac, and blue wrapped in more transparent plastic. Deepti unwrapped each layer, cleaning each layer with wipes, and found, at the last layer, what she knew was Radhika’s favourite—a bubble wrap.
“Radha!!! Come here. It’s come with that.”
She quickly unwound the bubble wrap and cleaned it when Radha appeared behind her and tugged, “Woah! Give me that.”
Pop!
Pop!
Pop!
Radha became engrossed in popping one plastic bubble after the other.
“Won’t you ask what I got this time?” asked Deepti.
“It’s the usual, isn’t it?”
“Yeah!” Deepti sheepishly admitted.
“Anyone who has known you for a second would know that it’s a book. And I have known you for years. So…”
“Would you like to take a look?” teased Deepti.
“No way! You are kidding me! Don’t even show it to me. Take it far away from my sight,” protested Radha as she walked away to the bedroom.
Deepti sat on the kitchen floor with the books and looked at them the way a parent looks at their newborn.
It was the Neapolitan Novel series.
Deepti had first read Ferrante during her junior college days. She had picked My Brilliant Friend, her first Neapolitan Novel, by its blurb. It read: “My friendship with Lila began the day we decided to go up that dark stairs that lead, step after step, flight after flight, to the door of Don Achille’s apartment. I remember the violet light of the courtyard, the smell of a warm spring evening.” It was these lines that had captivated her.
But Deepti could read only the first part of the series because of the non-availability of the books in public access libraries and the lavish price of the books. So Deepti deferred her desire to read the whole series for a little too long, until she was twenty-two years old—with a job, adult money, and above all, the liberty to buy whatever she wanted. So one day, when she was in the depths of the world’s new-found silence, and she suddenly remembered the book, she quickly typed the title and clicked ‘Buy Now’.
Thus, the books were there.
Deepti, sitting on the kitchen floor, picked up the books. She flipped them sideways and absorbed every detail of the books: paperback, crisp edges, the placement of the author’s name, the endorsements by Alice Sebold and John Freeman, three flower-girls in pink satin frocks walking behind a bride and groom, the calm Tyrrhenian, and how Mt. Vesuvius sat peacefully against the azure horizon. Deepti smelt the sweet, pungent fragrance of the pages; she teased her ears with the “plick! plick!” sound of the riffling pages. She ran her fingers through the matt front cover etched with the glossy font of the title. Her fingers felt entertained with the shift in texture, from glossy to matt and matt to glossy—both smooth in their own ways.
The books were finally in her possession.
Smiling at the pleasure all her choices had led to, she picked up Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay, opened its fresh pages, and drifted into the town of Naples.
On the other side of the kitchen wall, Radhika was lying on the bed, swaying her lower legs, with AirPods plugged into her ears. She had popped half the surface of the wrap. She continued popping it, despite the sting in her index finger and thumb; she found a sense of pleasure in that absurd pursuit. She relished each pop and felt them awaken every cell of her body which had been dulled by the nationwide shutdown.
Radhika had always loved popping bubble wrap. “It reminds me of my childhood,” she would say. She precisely associated her fondness for bubble wrap with the time when her family had bought a washing machine for the first time.
“Four metres of bubble wrap. Four metres of fun!” she would exclaim.
“More than the pop, it was me finding a common interest with my brother. We popped it for several weeks, hour after hour—after lunch, before dinner, during playtime, and sometimes even during studies. Good old days!”
“My brother would share a lot of stories, ideas, and fun facts he had learnt in school. While we popped it, we would talk about what we’d become when we grew up, where we’ll live, what we’ll buy, and a whole lot of crazy things. You know, popping bubble wrap became our thing… until you know, right?” she would sigh.
So every time Deepti ordered something, Radhika would cross her fingers, wishing it came in a bubble wrap. And every time it did come wrapped in a bubble wrap, Deepti would give it to her. It was not that Deepti did not like bubble wrap. She liked popping it too, but in comparison to Radhika’s profoundness of desire, hers felt small. Above all, she had her books. She could read all day, every day, anywhere, and everywhere.
On the contrary, Radhika despised reading. It made no sense to sit with words that ran five pages like the wagons of a train before it reached its destination (the point). She liked things to be crisp and concise. And she had two major issues with reading: feeling sleepy at the slightest sight of dense written words, and forgetting what she read a few pages before.
When Deepti learnt about it, she stopped pestering Radhika to read, let her take only the bubble wrap, and kept the books for herself.
This was the fourth set of books this month. Deepti had slowly begun losing track of whether she bought the books for herself or for the bubble wrap they came in. But whatever it was, they were both content.
Several months had passed with them behind their doors. Strict precautions were taken every second, with masks being put on every time they opened the door for a delivery, to dispose of the trash, or to withdraw money in long queues outside the ATM. Their hands were rinsed and sanitised after every touch. Everything that came from the outside was washed and wiped clean with dozens of disinfectant wipes. Even the books were sanitised, because the times were testing and unpredictable. One day they were out there, returning from work as usual; the next day they were asking if they were audible.
In the previous weeks, hundreds of employees were laid off from work across the nation. The news was filled with statistics of the growing death toll, and headlines on the great migrant exodus, the oxygen crisis, COVID orphans, and vaccination testing by various pharmaceutical organisations. Stories of the boy who watched over his quarantined mother through the hospital window, the migrant girl who cycled 1,200 kilometres with her ill father, the husband who carried his wife’s body on a handcart, and the boy who performed the last ritual were continuously aired.
On personal grounds, Mithi, Deepti and Radhika’s friend, had lost her parents to the virus. Their well-built secretary and his family were also quarantined and put under severe treatment. And all they could do was watch as the world crumbled. They couldn’t attend the funeral; they couldn’t visit the ill. All they could do was watch the world collapse and offer prayers to whichever God was watching. The only thing that diverted them, although ambiguously, was their stability amid the global chaos. Their jobs were secure, their pay credited on the 1st of every month without the slightest waiver. Their families were sound and tight, their kitchens overflowing with monthly ration, and a lot of leisure to breathe and reflect on life and existence. Often, these diversions would be disturbed by every surge in cases and the departure of valiant souls.
A few months later, things began easing out in mild doses. Two vaccines were approved for the vaccine drive, and the hope of a new normal was taking form. Transportation was gradually being resumed, and people were allowed to move around if they were vaccinated. Deepti’s workplace was planning to resume offline again. So Deepti decided to get the vaccine shots.
“Can’t you wait to see how the drive turns out? I already read that the vaccines have only a 71% success rate.”
“I am aware, but see, there are so many people who have already gotten the shots, and they are fine. See, I understand your fear, but I have to take it. In fact, you should take it too.”
“I’m not scared. I just don’t trust these people, you know.”
“One, I will have to take it anyway; might as well take it when there is no scarcity. Two, I don’t want to lose my job; although there are fewer chances, that doesn’t mean it is zero. And three, if I had to die, I would die anyway; might as well take a shot.”
“Look, I am not afraid of death. I am just telling you not to hasten. Anyway, it’s your wish. Hava te kar.”
And in this way, Deepti got her first shot. She was scared of the needle, as well as the effect of whatever was being shot in. Thoughts like, “What if I died? What if I voluntarily invited the virus into her body? Radhika was not wrong, but what else could be done…” ran through her head as she waited in the queue, as the nurse pierced the needle into her arm, and as she came down with fever for two days after the shot.
But she was soon nursed back to health with khadas.
The only effects that persisted were random spurts of shivers and her nail beds turning pale blue every time she took a shower. She thought it would go away with the fever, but it stayed for a fortnight—the standby duration between each shot.
Soon, the date for the next shot arrived. Deepti was ready this time, less anxious than the previous time. Radhika too had conceded to the idea of getting the vaccine, as her work was resuming offline soon. So both went to get their vaccine shots—Radhika, her first shot; Deepti, her second shot.
For two days, both of them were down with fever, and soon they both got back in good shape. In fact, Radhika did not experience any shivers or other physiological changes.
A fortnight later, it was Radhika’s turn to get her last shot.
“We’ll celebrate tonight!” said Radhika as she left to get the shot.
Deepti baked mug cakes and pizzas for them. They feasted all night. Surprisingly, this time, Radhika did not catch the statutory fever and did not experience any physiological changes.
But two days later, while they were sleeping, Radhika suddenly woke up with shortness of breath.
Deepti roasted some ajwain and told Radhika to sniff it while they waited for medical help.
The ambulance arrived, and took away Radhika.
Deepti was left with two government health workers, who sanitised the whole house and quarantined her. They swabbed her nose and monitored her temperature every hour. From then on, everything began feeling surreal. The only thing she did throughout the night was mumble the prayer, “Bring back Radha safely… bring back Radha safely… bring her back safely…”
As if her prayers were heard, the first thing she heard in the morning was Radhika’s voice: “I am alright. They might discharge me in three days.”
Relieved, Deepti ran through the last few pages of The Story of the Lost Child, which she had put down the previous night.
Later that afternoon, she got another call from Radhika. She picked up the call to get more updates.
“Ms Radhika is no more.”
Plop!!!!!!!!!!! The phone dropped to the floor, with Deepti and her world collapsing alongside.
Everything that happened after that was registered only as short episodes in her memory: The heart-wrenching wails of Radhika’s parents; the curt response of the medical worker who said that they could not have her body (body? It is Radhika, my Radhika!); and the last photo of Radhika sent to her by a morgue worker, whom she had to bribe. In the picture, it looked like Radha was only sleeping, and that if she were allowed to be near her and scream louder, Radhika would wake up and walk out of the black cadaver pouch. But nothing could be done.
Everything was over.
Not a trace of the Radha she knew was left anywhere on the earth—not a headstone, not the last remains, not the last hug, nor the final goodbye.
A fortnight later, her doorbell rang. It was the only sound in her house in all those days that had passed. Deepti rose with difficulty, against the forces of all her cells. She had nothing and no one to look forward to, but she did it to silence the noise rather than to satiate any curiosity.
“This is for you,” said the deliveryman, handing over a brick-like form.
Deepti walked in. She sat on the edge of her bed, which was empty. She put it down, the thought of opening it itself was too draining. After looking into the void for a few minutes, she picked it up. It was from Meera, one of her close friends. Deepti tore open the layers of plastic with her fingers. It was a book—The Sky Is Everywhere—a black cover with dribbles of red, blue, green, and yellow spreading across the front. It had come in a bubble wrap.
Deepti put the book on the bedstand.
She picked up the bubble wrap and felt its silky, bumpy texture.
With the pinch of her thumb and index finger, it went:
Pop!
Pop!
Pop!
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