Losing another friend

Am I of that age or is this a phase?

People are leaving faster than ever before.

My community lost a precious soul today.

She went much before her time. But then who knows what’s the right time.

She did her best while she lived. She was the local contact who collected everything-discarded clothes, toys, books, furniture and made sure it reached a person who needed it. Anyone with surplus to discard contacted her. Anyone in need, reached out to her.

She touched the lives of so many of children of our complex with her music. She lightened up all of us with her smile and know she too is just a memory.

Cherishing this opportunity to have known you my friend,

Echoing these beautiful words by for you by Mary Elizabeth Frye,

Just felt like posting them here, to read again and to share, the soft comfort of her words,
to know that you are know a part of eternity.

Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there. I did not die.

For I have lived today

Mad poetry alert!
Continuing on my morbid train of thought, my friend and I were having a 
late-night talk after a death in the family.

Our rituals are so brutal
Burning the body is so final,
And then even the ashes are scattered away;
Letting nothing remain on the way.
Except few memories of the closest in line,
And they too fade away with time,

So one day, there will be nothing left of me,
Nothing to hear, nothing to see;
Nothing to say, that I existed;
Please bury me, I requested.
On a lonely place somewhere,
To tell the world that I am there,

But that wouldn’t be you,
She looked askew.
After all we do, all our gains;
It’s just a body that remains
If they don’t burn it, it’ll just decay.
And no, there is no other way,
To make the world remember,
I too seen a summer and a december,

That I too had laughed and lived,
Loved with all my heart and grieved,
Had seen dreams and some crashes
That I was more than that heap of ashes,
But then, so many have lived and gone,
Leaving nothing but memories,
We too will pass on,
Leaving nothing, but our stories.

We are blessed to have this day,
All we can do, is live for today.

Searching for Ghosts

A conversation among friends about ghosts and haunted places stirred an old fascination. They laughed at my eagerness to see a ghost for once and my deep regret that I had never seen one anywhere.

How do I explain that I have been searching for ghosts since I was five years old. 

My masi had died and there was no explanation that made sense for where she had gone after she was dead. She was a person. How could she just be nothing because she was dead?

She is a star now, someone said. 

I told all my friends that now there was a new star in the sky. Oh! then my dadi would be a star too because she too is dead, chimed another. Oh, then there should be so many new stars we realized. No, it didn’t make sense. Maybe only some became stars.

What of the others?

They became ghosts.

Wow. Then we would feel them around, wouldn’t we? They were there in stories, but then not all stories were real. So if ghosts too were not real, where did she go?

Maybe she was born again as a baby somewhere. We may never meet her or know her if we do. But she’ll be there living a new life again; and that was the balm to my grieving heart.

Over the years even this logic seemed to grow feeble and week. But I still don’t want to accept that she had one life and now she was just ‘gone’. Only a memory and nothing else.

Logically I had to accept, there is nothing more to life than a short time on the planet as this identity. Then we also become memories. And there is nothing we can do about it but ensure that we just become longer, stronger, and better memories for those who remain.

And yet, I can’t help searching for those who are gone-in the sky, in the shadows, or in the eyes of strangers. 

And hoping that maybe, just maybe there is more to life.

The Lost Kite

I had written about my Sankrant memories in the previous post.

All along I was thinking of the bitter-sweet memories of my kite-flying partner who is no more. Even today, I was tempted to write about any other stuff except this, but that somehow feels wrong. He was a part of the best of my Sankrant memories.

Our kite-flying madness had got toned down once we reached high school. Both of us went to different cities for college. Then work and weddings happened. I moved out of Jaipur on a more permanent basis and never went back for Sankrant again.

I don’t remember which was the last year when we celebrated the festival together. Didn’t matter at that time when we always planned to go back for Sankrant ‘someday’. The ‘someday’ never came for logistical reasons and now we will never have the memory of flying kids with all the children together.

At that time, we didn’t realize that one day there would come a time when we would be so busy and so far away, that we would never scream and jump again over the joy of cutting the annoying neighbour’s kites. And that one day one of us will go before the others and never come back again.

I am glad for all the memories I have.

The days of complete childhood fun. Of getting sunburnt with chapped cheeks and blackened noses. Of the time when all three boys sulked because I lost a precious kite by insisting on ‘pech ladana’ instead of handing over my kite-I had to steal back that kite from the professional street-looteras to earn back my place on the roof. Memories of falling sick because of drinking chilled water every time we came down after being in the scorching sun, making complicated strategies to cut kites and then leaping over terrace walls to grab falling kites.

It would have been wonderful to have a handful of more memories. To remember more details of those far away days. To have had more time.

Since we’ll never get that again, all we can do now is be thankful for the moments we had, cherish the ones we have.

The Countdown

One week to go for this year.

What did I do in the last 51 weeks?

The year began with series of shocks. My father had a heart attack. Yes, lots of people have them, but it still felt so unbelievable. It was a blessing that everything worked out and after a bypass surgery and some months of recovery he his back to his normal self now. Those days were unreal. It was strange taking an Uber in Jaipur and going to the hospital from the airport. I was never allowed to take a taxi in Jaipur. Papa would always insist on picking me up. (That when he empowered me to drive at fourteen and travel everywhere on my own).

It was strange going home and unlocking the door. That door would always open before we reached it. My parents would always be waiting for us at least half-an-hour before we were supposed to reach.

Watching Papa completely unconscious wired to a dozen beeping machines, breathing through a mask, with pipes stuck into his body was so unnerving that, being in Jaipur, I went and stayed with a friend instead of going home. And felt that warm reassurance of knowing we always have more than one home when we have friends.

Then I lost a close friend unexpectedly. It was something which was not supposed to happen. But it did. And there was nothing anyone could do about it.

The fragility of life and the finality of death-that was what this year hit me with. And the realization that how important each moment of life is.

It is not as if we don’t know about life and death, but when it is close, it changes some things forever. It changes how you look at the time you took for granted, the words you wish you had never said or the words you never said.

The Story I Never Wrote

For years it was in my plan.

I had a vague sort of plot,

and an idea of the ending,

But wasn’t sure how it began.

I knew what it would be about,

Once I sat down to write,

It’s just that I wrote more in my head,

Than on paper or computer.

So, the story which never got told;

blew around in bits and pieces.

Then came the storm and the rain;

the wind howling through cracks and crevices.

I saw how fragile is this life;

And how tough is this strife,

I felt more than ever before,

That I may not get the chance any more.

I need to write right now,

But the story which was waiting to be read,

Lies in tatters, bereft and shred;

and now it feels like even the words are dead.

Because it's too late

Today, I lost an old friend with whom I wasn’t even in regular touch. I came to know about it through Facebook. All day long there were posts tagging her photo with shocked ‘What Happened?’s and sad ‘RIPs’.

So many of her friends posted about fond memories and what a wonderful person she had been. I kept wishing that she could read those messages.

With all the technology we have, could some geek make it possible? Just to tell someone how loved they were, after they are gone?

Because we hardly get to tell them while they are around,

Because we have so many other responsibilities to fulfill, 

much more important than keeping in touch.

Because we have so many other things to consider like ego and pride to take the first step,

Because we keep putting off the things we need to say for yet another day,

Because when we finally want to say it, they are just too far away.

The Empty Chair