Confessions...

A man's worth must be measured by the number of people who come for his funeral. Not the ones who come out of courtesy. Or those who are fulfilling a formal obligation by coming. But the ones who have the urge to look at him one last time. The obscure ones whose presence is largely ignored. The tailor from the street corner. The cycle shop owner two streets away. The mechanic who always mended his struggling scooter. They did not enter his home and offer condolensces. But they were all there during the cremation. Scores of them. Standing in random nooks. Unnoticed. Paying their respects. And leaving as silently as they arrived. He had never realized that his Father had touched so many lives. The gravity of what he had lost would come to the surface much later. He was far removed from the catastrophy he was in the middle of. Insensitive, if you may. But life would change irreversibly. The bridge across to his sister would be broken. His fault. He was an escapist coward. Hiding away in the safety of his hostel. While his sister picked up the pieces, confronted the demons, and held things together. The bridge has been mended since. Bonds re-established. But some mistakes don't deserve a second chance. He was fortunate to have one.

It would be quite a while before he realized the enormity of the loss. He would do it alone, in his hostel room. He would find unlikely allies in P and N. The guys who included him in their fold when he was at the point of losing it. It is strange how the toughest of times forge these strong bonds. Or break seemingly strong ones.

It has been over ten years now. Some snapshots keep coming back. Bicycle lessons on a rented bicycle, 50 paise per hour, two siblings quarreling over whether a 10-minute slot was over, and a fair dad playing judge. An unexpected Hero-Unibike gift to two very delighted kids. Cricket on the terrace. Cricket in the Hall. Dips in Cauvery marked by failed swimming lessons. Early morning scooter lessons, and how his dad wouldn't panic or let him panic when the gravest of mistakes were made on the road. Shuttle in the garden with Mom's saree for a net. Home grown chillies and tomatoes, and at one particular time, even maize. There were no fancy shoes or expensive clothes. No birthday parties and other such frills. But he and his sis would go to the best of schools. Live in nice homes. However bad business was, however tight finances were. His dad always knew what was more important and what wasn't. Always neatly dressed, hair neatly combed, a battered sandal colore suitcase in hand, an asthmatic sneeze as accompaniment, his dad was so full of energy and life, a compulsive optimist, a dreamer who shielded his kids from reality. He would think back of his dad with fondness and a sense of pride. And guilt. And bestow upon him the kindof respect he deserved. A little too late.

About the dog and the deaths of random people...

The dog is no longer there. The white one that used to remain curled up on the landing of the staircase. That takes me up to my work place every day. The dog was a daily sight. A comforting one. What reason, i do not know. I hope it has found a new home. I am not a big fan of dogs. I am not the animal lover kind either. Except that i don't eat them. But this dog had endeared itself to me somehow. Every day i would think of feeding it the Good Day biscuits from the cafeteria i so hate. Never did it. There are so many things i think earnestly but never do. Next time i see that dog, i'll feed it Good day biscuits first thing. It is funny how random beings affect your life. Like the time when 'Monal' died. I was oddly sad. She was Simran's cousin and had come down to try her luck in Tamil films. She had commited suicide. I was coming back from Munnar. With a bunch of friends. And saw posters splashing news of her death at the Dindugal bus stand. And i was hit by this weird sense of grief. As if someone dear was gone. Or the time when Hrishikesh Mukherji died. Atleast i loved his movies. How the mind's strings get pulled to make you feel a certain unexplainable way, i haven't a clue. But i hope the white dog has found a peaceful nook to curl up and sleep...

Rechristened

I never really liked the earlier name ('To be continued'). For one, it wud've become factually wrong at a later point...and like a friend who commented somewhere on this blog, 'what am i, a soap opera?!!'...Anyways, 'Enroute cemetery' is pretty much an absolute (well, almost, i mean unless i perish in an avalanche or a landslide, i'd most probably head to a crematorium, not a cemetery). But I kindof relate more to the concept of burying the dead. At times you'd want to run away and seek refuge in a place, a physical entity, which is strongly symbolic and representative of a dear one who has gone away...at times you'd want something more than just memory to hold on to...
Now, why am i talking about death, its imminence and (the aftermath?). I dont know. I never discuss such things when i am sober, but then, exceptions are common. 'Tuesdays with Morrie' says 'Be open to discuss death, reconcile with the concept of death and be prepared' or sthing to the effect. (am not particularly fond of that book, it was too didactic and sappy for my taste, but then parts of it were hard-hitting and thought-provoking). Anyways, thought i'd have a title that is definetive about where i am headed. Like someone said, 'In the long run we are all dead'.