Insomnia

04: Sanoja

Suez, August 2124

We could only give him a simple funeral.

The Arabian Peninsula was barren. I'd been taught that the oil had dried up, long ago, but nobody had explained just how much it had taken with it. Whole cities lay desiccated and bare, drifting flotsam on an arid sea, and everything living had shrivelled up and collapsed. Yesterday, it had been my grandfather's turn.

It might have been the thirst, or sheer exhaustion from the journey. I suspected the heat may have caused his death, with the unrelenting sun roasting us in our clothes, and he certainly burnt well in the cremation. My father carried out the service, quietly following the traditional observations, and gave a simple speech without shedding a tear. I wondered if I could do the same, if it was me saying goodbye to him, but then he had always been stoic. My grandmother told me he had been sensitive, once, but that the passing of his wife had changed him.

Even she was strangely calm. The widow was draped in white sheets for mourning, and had sat by her husband's side through his farewell. After she had closed his eyelids and mouth, and carefully pointed him south, she stood back and let his son take control. My grandmother had shown passion only once today, when uncle Asim had mentioned her husband's hopeful reincarnation.

"Don't be a fool," she had snapped. "Why would any soul return to this?"

It was the children who were worst hit. They had all seen death, but this was the first time they'd said goodbye to a loved one. With the desert stretching endlessly before us, I knew that it would not be the last.

We watched as my father scattered the ashes across the sands. Uncle Asim had fretted that this should be done over water, suggesting that we wait for some upcoming canal, but in the end we had no choice. We had failed to bring my grandfather to water, which may have led to his death. His remains were not going to fare any better.

"This is a nightmare," Mira told me, her voice unsteady. She didn't cry, but I blamed dehydration, not lack of will.

"Yes," I told her. "But we will soon wake up. Trust me".

In the wider scheme of things, however, I doubted these words. Our world was not truly a nightmare, but the exact opposite. A nightmare is when we dream and cannot wake, but the drug has given us a life where we cannot sleep. Human civilisation, used to the day-and-night cycle of rotating generations, is now trapped in one weary, never-ending day. This isn't a nightmare. This is insomnia.

The boys were faring little better. Akash was supporting Sachin, his younger cousin, and explained what had happened. It was not so long ago, I reflected, that I'd had to explain it to him. They are growing up, before their time. Now that there was no real limit to our lives, and even children had to fight to survive, age was losing its meaning.

We pressed onwards, now only eight. It was good that we were such a small family, or this wouldn't have worked at all. Some of our neighbours lived with four generations, and maybe the beginnings of a fifth, stretching out in a wide extended family. With just a handful of us, we could travel light, with few resources. If anything, there was room for more. Room for Priya, I caught myself thinking. I should have told her.

A few days later, the desert ended. Six months into our journey, we had finally reached Africa, where Asim had promised we would find our peace. I believed him now even less than I did in the start. His father had trusted him, but the peace he'd found was not the one we sought. I wonder how many more would die, looking for something that might never be found. It was too late to turn back.

This lush patch was centred on the Suez Canal, my aunt Kanti explained to me. With my father at work, she had helped to raise us, teaching us static facts about a world now in flux. The green water was a welcome sight, despite being far too salty to drink. The urge to quench our thirst was strong, and we had to hold the children back. That would be suicide.

We would soon reach the Nile, Asim had promised, and would have enough water to last us a lifetime. Kanti distracted Akash and Sachin as we crossed, telling tales of ancient Egypt and all its glory. You could speak similarly of India, I thought, and look at us now. In truth, I had no idea what we would find. That night, my brother slept with a smile on his face, dreaming of pharaoh and pyramids. I kept quiet, and wished for his innocence. The next day, the plants were gone, and we re-entered the desert.

One week later, I'd forgotten that we'd left.