Death

My first experience with death was when my grandfather left us, moved on to a better place, was relieved from his pain. All just a better way of saying he had died. I was 9 years old then. I didn’t attend the funeral. My father came picked me up and I flew back in a plane. The air hostess gave me lots of chocolates that I shared with my brothers when I went back home. I lived often with them (my cousins but don’t ever call them that or I will blow up) and I loved any excuse to stay there. I didn’t know what death was but I knew it was terrible because I saw my mother crying for the first time. She had never cried before. Not even when I behaved badly. But she cried that day. But when my dad came to take me back home, I forgot her tears amidst the chocolates and the sleepovers with my brothers.

I visited my grandmother the next year. I still didn’t know what death was. I just didn’t understand why I didn’t see my grandfather anymore. You see, we sat near the garden every evening and waited for the “channa” wala to come. He then bought me a big bag of channa and we flicked off the outer covering together and ate it. My mother would never let me eat too many. But nanaji would.  The garden is now brown and dead, the channa walla hasn’t passed by my house in years and my nanaji is no more.

Funny how you remember the irrelevant details when someone “moves on”. The small small details. I remember the channas all too clearly. I remember going to the nana-nani park and sitting in the plane. I remember him feeding me gems and getting yelled at by my mom and my nani. You see, I refused to drink my milk if he didn’t get me gems. It never worked with my mom. It always worked with him.

I miss him.

My second experience with death was losing my dog, Caesar and Marcus before him. I have written numerous blog posts and facebook statuses on that so let us not even go down that road. I wish I had shown him as much love then as I did on facebook or through my blog. I wish I had stayed with him when he was dying. I wish I got to say goodbye.

I miss him too.

I lost a close friend almost a year and a half ago. I kept putting off going to visit him although he was in a nearby city. Silly stupid me. That is what always bothered me when I heard the news. We had the silliest conversations when we met. Pulled each others leg and wondered how we even met each other. It was all in jest. He had the biggest heart I knew. Don’t get me wrong. He had his flaws. My last conversation with him was him pretending to be drunk on my birthday and me telling him that he did that because I was his own and hence he was pretending to celebrate his own birthday. He said I was a weird sort of smart. Last conversation. And I remember every word. Every. single. one. of. them. I wish I had told him how much he meant to me. But I didn’t. And it is too late now.

I miss him a lot.

I can’t bring myself to say the word died. Sounds morbid and it makes me cry. And one day, down in the dumps, I asked my friend where those who left us went. She said they probably didn’t go far because they couldn’t live without us either. I don’t know if that is true but I choose to believe it is. It makes it easier to live with them, while living without them.