Sep 19

It's coming to four weeks since I became a father. Since I had a son. Since I felt deeply, calmly happy. 

I'm still waiting to gush forth on this blog. 

A Nameless Friend

We noticed you. And were peeved. Day after day, in the same spot, in the same way, with the same companions- none. Weeks passed and we began to rationalise- maybe you were not left there out of indifference, but from some unavoidable need we could not fathom. We stopped and said hello anyway.

It has been two years, and many hellos since. Through the bars of the gate, we see your eyes. Not hollow as your age and prone position might suggest; mildly curious, sometimes we detect a sliver of...amusement? Maybe even bewilderment, at the strange couple who say hello and ba-bye to you from outside your walls. Bewildered, but accepting- their greetings, if nothing, don’t hurt.

You feel the heat, and pant. Sleep a lot- sometimes, it seems, with one eye half open. You stare, almost unblinkingly. Sometime you hold your neck up so straight and proud, that despite the lack of animation and despite you lying down, we believe we can glimpse more statuesque days. Yes, with little movement we still think you handsome and proud.

Sometimes, though not often, you bark. It always makes us smile, because it is a sign of life, of awareness. Sometimes we have fancied the bark to be a “‘Hello!”. Then one day you are standing, and then you come up to the gate and bark, again and again. Bark, doubtless, at the two strangers who stop by so often. You look us in the eye, with no malice- just a solid, regular (dare I say happy?) bark, and that is more than good enough for us. We looked then in your eyes as you did in ours. There was little understanding, but somehow enough for this barred greeting.

Sometimes, we don’t see you for a day, or three. Before we can acknowledge what we must consider, you reappear. Rain kept you in, perhaps, or maybe you lounged in the front garden instead, which we can’t see.  

You seemed animated for a time. Once, I saw you play with a ball. My heart gladdened unexpectedly and wholesomely. Another time, you rose from your prone pose and trotted to the gate as I appeared. I probably smiled all the way to work those days, at your animation and (perceived) recognition. Recognition that is, at best, based on appearance and smell and shouted Good Mornings. We don’t know your name, because we never understand your helper. Taashin? Tayshun? Dayshin? Dashing? We can’t tell, and none seem appropriate.

Today, after not seeing you for days, and not talking about it much (for that would ask more of us), I pass by again. You are not there, the porch is still empty. But then I spy your helper, she is drying clothes. I say hello, and take a step toward the gate.

“Hello”, she says, “he no more already.”

I strip my headphones off, not sure if I have heard right. But of course, I have. I ask for her to repeat, but I know it already. It was old age, and I knew it would come, though I never acknowledged it even to myself. She says you were so handsome. I meekly agree. I ask your name again, and again fail to understand it. I nod, unsure, then step away with a platitude (as much to myself as to her). The tears come before I have fully turned away.

I miss your other stranger, whose greetings were often the more cheery. I would have liked for us to find out together. I make a call but I can’t say anything for a few moments. Then I do. It seems a bit hollow. I turn and walk to my bus stop, trying to form your image clearly in my mind. The music plays. I wait to write.

Hello once more, and goodbye one last time. 

Warmth

Seeing the love around you for that which you love is wonderful.

two days

One day he woke up, and the soft sunlight caressed his mind and body, coaxing a smile and guiding him to a happy day. A picnic in a park, dogs and frisbees and dahi vadas. Family. He noticed the country’s day after their own. Gifts that never could be. He looked on it all gently, wistfully, not sadly, but with a touch of the blues.

Then, in the blink of an eye he woke up again. The sunlight and the gentleness remained, but it was a day for possibilities that never came to be, for knowing him who he never did, for loving him who he could have done, so much more. It was a day of endings, beginning and questions on futility and acceptance. He held close the belief of celebrating the day, but struggled with the reality of melancholy.

He sighed, letting the two days blend into one. He looked up, reached out.

written on/for Jan 26

Dec7

Is this normalcy these few days normal, I wonder? Is it odd that this is almost just another weekend for me? I remember him, fondly. But I don't quite pause my life to feel sad, or find melancholy, or contemplate his going. I let love, friends, reading, drinking, food, carry my life on like it does most of the time. This doesn't belittle them...but him?

Am I so callous as to carry on, merely doffing my hat to this day? Or is it as I often think- normalcy is my best tribute, cheer the most apt, living life well the most real? Is that the truth, is that what I really feel? Or is it- cynically- just convenient to believe that?

And then there is the flip side to the day. Celebration, wishes, happiness. I feel that very clearly, my wishes the occasion happy and true.

But here, in the lines I have written, I see me pausing. The melancholy and the missing, gently taps at my heart. I shed tears sometimes. Today, though they are nearby, I don't want them. In particular, I feel like I don't want them to be the symbol of today. There is no way I will feel I am marking his going 'aptly', so maybe keeping the tears away is just as well.

But then, they have a mind of their own.

The fear of sending something that has been unsent.
The helplessness. The pangs. The sinking feeling. The churning. The inexplicability. The sadness.
Oh, the sheer helplessness.

wearing the past

I don’t really know how old the shirt is. But I know it is old. Old enough for me to not clearly remember when it was bought, nor when I started wearing it. Its still crisp, though, and its not starched. The stripes still stand out, it soft blue lines like equally gentle reminders of a past- one of bigger clothes, aspiring to formal attires; blazers, ties and tweed.
All his.

Then, slowly, some started tightening. Loosing their grip on me by tightening it- shortening the sleeves, choking the arms, outgrowing my wardrobe. His wardrobe. Yet some remained, courtesy different styling or bad fits, or just a touch of luck. Years passed, then they became relics. Mere symbols, mere value (if there is any such thing).
Remembrances in storage.

Yet this one lasts. Defying sense, and age, it lasts. Defying fabric tendencies, it remains, obdurately affectionate in its supposedly impersonal touch. Clinging on to my body like love tries to cling on to memories, for they are all it has. Clinging, yet not desperately.
But is it the shirt that clings…or is it I?

Does it matter? For it remains, seemingly plucked from the past only just now, with the sole purpose of holding me, gladdening me, touching me, reminding me. Of letting me enjoy that I own it.

Or rather, that I don’t own it. But it is somehow mine, in my wardrobe- and I wouldn't have it any other way.