A requiem for a friend

I read the bhog card again and again. Somehow I have never understood how our functional, mechanised society can callously reduce a warm individual into some alien bold letters.

We are matter of fact about everything — our bank balance, our career, our plot, our house, our tax. How come we are so matter of fact about death? Shouldn’t just one death completely unsettle us? Shouldn’t we question God? Demand an answer? Why should a person just cease to exist for others? Does he cease to exist for himself as well? How does he feel, to be left alone — to be separated from everyone, even his body? He must be longing to reassure his mother, his brother, his bhabi. He must be longing to live.

I cannot imagine I am writing about S.S. who loved life intensely, who derived so much joy, living every moment of his life. "I like a girl in my school. This time it is serious," he had told me thoughtfully. "So what should I get her? Perfume?" "No," I had said, "that looks contrived, buy a cassette." "Yeah, Valentine cassette," said his younger brother. "You know they have an English version of Kabhi Kabhi—- always always I think of you," he yelled and we laughed.

Ironical. So many people must be remembering him now. He was different. He was not a conventional Delhi brat. He was never frivolous and could be very sensitive. He was the kind who would throw his arms around his mausi and say "Mausi, don’t look so sad." He never talked about himself. I knew he had a heart disease but we were all pretty casual about it. He was active and playful. The world always goes by external experiences, it never delves deeper. So all we did was to see him zooming on an Enfield or talking nineteen to the dozen about Manisha Koirala, his longing for a bhabi, his career. Yet there was something rather patient and sensitive about him. I remember when I went to Delhi for my admissions. I remember ringing up home and my mother saying he had sat with her and had talked for hours. Memories are like a kaleidoscope. They somehow tiptoe from behind and create a sense of wistfulness and nostalgia which is surprisingly serene. Yet I just cannot imagine that he had thought this would be his end. So quick, so merciless, so abrupt and so final.

When I had to leave for Delhi I went and said goodbye to him and his aunt. I just had a few moments before the train left. I am glad I decided to. Sometimes you never know when it would be the last time. All I remember is two teenagers talking about their little lives. One dragging a suitcase, the other warning her to be careful and promising to bring his aunt. "I promise I will come", he said.

Just a moment in space and time. Yet we both never visualised fate would be so stern. It would change everything. Life is mysterious, and sometimes it is unfair too.

When would we meet? Would we meet as souls? Can individuality exist without a body? If we leave the body behind, do we leave the mind as well as the tiny joys, hopes and dreams? If we believe in reincarnation then there must be so many lives superimposed on our consciousness. A lot of questions do not have an answer. When I think of him lying amidst tubes and needles — his life ebbing away—- I feel he must have felt so cheated. What was the point of investing in people?

Yet I corrected myself. He was not like that. He never believed in reciprocal love. He did not tell many people he was dying unless they asked. We did not.

He has taught us so much. He has taught me never to wait for the other person to go away to miss him. To appreciate the little things he does while he is there. He taught us that it should never be too late. No philosophy seems reassuring. I am sure he would have preferred life to peace. He was a fighter and a very brave, sensitive one. He will continue to live in our hearts and memories. That is much more important than living in literary books or having memorials built.

Yet he, with his wit, humour and love of life, could never have imagined himself on a black and white photograph with an obituary. Or could he have? Perhaps he knew and we were all wrong.

(Writer‘s name withheld on request)