I am sorry. I have been gone too long. My last post was in 2016 and that was for a class. I haven’t written for pleasure in ages and I’ll tell you why.
Writing is not fun any more. When you do it to get paid, day in and day out, any task stops being fun.
But I won’t digress too far from what I wanted to write about. Grief.
All of us have been through grief. Usually at the passing of someone close to you. Death is a sort of finality that you cannot reconcile with.
This past year has been difficult in that sense. I rushed to Pondicherry exactly a year back (October 2019) after my oldest uncle was declared brain dead through a bizarre incident and he passed soon after. I think my uncle’s passing was the closest I have come to grieving.
I have had all my grandparents pass; my paternal grandfather passed before I was even born. But I was too young and because my grandparents were so much older than me, I wasn’t especially close to any of them. My uncle, however, was a different story. He was an energetic, jovial, charismatic, loving, and kind person. Just an all-round wonderful human being.
When I sat outside the ICU in Pondicherry, I couldn’t remember the last time I met him but I remembered some of my happiest memories with him. After my illness, as a break from my house which had become my prison, I remember going to Bhatkal to spend time with Neelam Mhau (my aunt). Vishu Maam and Vidya Mami were at Bhatkal at the same time. I spent a few weeks with them, relaxing and enjoying a place that I visited every summer holidays. I remember Vishu Maam playfully teasing me about my air guitar (and virtually every air instrument) and I will always cherish him that way.
Another reason I write about grief is something that happened much more recently. So my parents, being the good Samaritans they are, have taken to feeding some of the stray cats around where we live in Mumbai. One female stray decided we were upstanding grandparents for her kittens and delivered a litter of 4 kittens near the electric meter box of our building. And these births happened right before our eyes, literally.
We grew to love these kittens like our own.
We named the kittens by color because we weren’t feeling too creative. White kitten is Gori, the black-and-white one is Blackie, the tabby with the darker back fur is Bolt (named after the great Usain Bolt because he used to speed up the staircase), and the last one is Billoo Jr.
They’ve all grown into strong 3 month old kittens who love us. All but Gori. She went missing about a week before they had completed 3 months. And I miss her so dang much. She was such a loving kitten, always wanted to play, and always loved us like she loved her siblings. I once watched her play with a bird feather for 30 minutes straight.
I suspect she fell into an open manhole when someone stole the covers one night. That evening was the last time I saw her. My parents feel someone took her because she was such a wonderful kitten. I hope she is happy wherever she is.
Grief is hard. Losing someone you love is hard. I cannot imagine the grief I will go through when I lose my parents. Because that’s a “when”, not an “if”. Death is the only certainty.
The Song Remains The Same 