You are usually at the door opening it for me, or at the end of the stairs motioning me to come up in case your parents opened the door. But this time, you were on the floor. Lying wrapped in white head to toe with just your face visible.
Your face was just like the last time I saw it, in Brigade road Bangalore last December. A receding hairline, but everything else still the good looking kid you always were. Even that little beard didn't have a trace of white. So young.
You didn't move an inch lying there on the floor. I remember you being such a light sleeper. Every time I would walk into the hall and find you sleeping on that blue sofa that literally took your shape over the 2 years of NM we stayed together, you would always flinch as I moved past. I kept staring at you, waiting for that flinch. But you weren't asleep this time.
Your dad sat next to you, dripping wet from a shower he just took and was probably asked to start reciting Slokas without wiping himself. He played the part. Your dad's always been an amazing guy. First he sat next to you repeating the words the priest said, then he moved above your head and held a straw from your mouth to the sky continuing the recitation, and finally he walked a circle around you and poured some water into your mouth.
The rest of the elders followed suit; pouring water in your mouth. Hydrating you after a lifetime of drinking.
I stood by next to you the entire time. Looked at your mom during the hydration process and she said kids should not do it. So I just stared at the others going on about it. Started thinking about the time in Dasar-hawaii when you kept pouring me a drink and forcing it down my throat, just as I would throw up with the previous one. It was your turn now to be forced a drink, and I have a room full of people who you don't know doing it for me. Revenge couldn't be sweeter huh.
An elderly lady came up to pour water. She began to cry. Nobody else did that until then. Not even your parents. I was wondering which bottle you finished chatting her through the night that she's feeling so nostalgic about hydrating you now. Or maybe she just represented all those other people who may have had that night of drinking with you, and left both mesmerized at your wisdom, and sick to their stomach with all the alcohol.
The next ritual was pouring rice over your mouth. You were never into eating much while drinking. And you always found it strange how I would choose to fill that little leftover space in my stomach with food when there is so much more alcohol to finish. Fitting revenge again. Now it seemed like you're forced to eat as well.
I noticed your atthe at this point. Recognized her face from the time we spent at their house during our US visit. She was making conversation, and at one point asked how come I didn't know what was going on with you. This was the first time I broke down at your place. It's true. I didn't know. And the thought of not knowing in spite of exchanging messages almost on a weekly basis, a call nearly every month and even a meet for a drink at least every 6 months in the last 25 years of knowing you, not knowing you had cirrhosis just shattered me at that moment. Both your mom and atthe tried to comfort me. I stopped the moment they did that. I wasn't the one that needed comfort. You needed it. Many weeks or months before. I'm not going to take that away now. So I sucked it up and got back to observing the rituals that followed.
Next in line was to lift you out from the hall to the verandah outside. The priest asked the men to remove their shirts to do this. Munda walked in at this time and we were both about to take our shirts off, while the priest said we need to have our thread on. I told him I don't wear one and Munda said he forgot his. We were ruled out from lifting you and 4 elderly uncles came up to the task. They gave an honest attempt, but you were always built like a bull. And this time your legs were even swollen with the cirrhosis, no way the uncles we're gonna manage, so I helped them out. And from there on, to the ambulance, to the crematorium, to finally the place where you slid in to burn, I lifted you.
A few people came over to see you. Apart from Munda, Ash and Sush were there at your house. Then Varun, Bantu, Noel, Niki, Muni, Muni's dad, Sunanina, Amita, Sanjukta and Kapil turned up among friends. The rest were mostly neighbours coz only mom dad and atthe seemed related to you. A maximum of 20 people at your funeral. Probably still a little more than you may have wanted.
My very last moment with you was when the fire lit up around you. I saw your white Nike socks burn. Started to bawl before I could see anything else. The doors shut down as well on cue to not display the disturbing spectacle any further. And that was the end of that. There was the closure of your story.
You would have hated everything about your funeral dude. You hated Brahminism, you wanted an epitaph, worst of all, you loved yourself too much ("in my head I'm a superstar" is what you always said) to go so soon. But then you left us all. The void that I feel with your absence is unfathomable. And for that, you left this world just as you came in to it. For all the things you were when you were alive, you didn't have a choice when you.. fuck you Bala
No comments:
Post a Comment