Tomorrow, (or rather today) is holi. I’ve always disliked the festival, don’t quite know why. I only ever once truly enjoyed the festivities but not enough to want to give it another shot. I think I was just born a boring geriatric. I hope to sit this holi out as well.

But this year I have a valid explanation. My family is not celebrating festivals this year. I hate to have to call it an ‘excuse’ but if I were honest I’d have to admit that that’s exactly what it is. I haven’t denied myself any other opportunity for revelry. I haven’t activated the ‘excuse’ enough to warrant it being called a ‘reason’ rather than an ‘excuse’.

I’ve used it selfishly to avoid situations that I think are bound to be unpleasant.

*

I don’t know what I hate most about the fact that C died. Whether it was the place, the time, the circumstances or simply the fact that she died. I suppose it’s a bit of everything.

I hate that she had to die. Because I saw no reason why it absolutely had to happen. Very few deaths make sense, but this one was damn near incomprehensible. Could anyone find a reasonable reason as to why a 23 year old should die?

I hated it because I actually liked C. Not in the way one is obligated to like relatives but because I thought she was genuinely likeable. I mean if I had met her one fine day through a common friend or if we happened to be assigned adjacent seats in school without any prior knowledge of each other or some such random thing… I know we’d have gotten along. But then most people got along with her and liked her too. I’d be hard pressed to find someone who didn’t.

She used to laugh at almost all of my jokes. In fact she laughed at most everything I ever said. I could say, “the sun rises in the east” and I know she’d at least crack a smile. And the others laughed when she did, even the ones who didn’t really see the humour in the situation. I suppose it made them comfortable to join in once they were assured that underneath all the words I usually over-embellish conversation with, there was in fact the kernel of something funny.

I hate that I wasn’t there when it happened. That I was so far away. In a sense insulated from all the heartbreaking goings on. But this was the most stifling form of seclusion ever… I couldn’t feel a thing. Only guilt, that too for being unable to feel anything else. Guilty for not crying enough, for actually packing in a few hours of sleep, for eating good food, wearing nice clothes, taking a long walk, watching tv, breathing. Guilty for not having been a part of the indescribable pain that death can cause. Other people were there and they weren’t even family. People who were confused and upset and hurt and angry. While I sat miles away… feeling guilty.

And I live in a constant state of guilt. For not having been there, for not having called, for not visiting. For eating good food and wearing nice clothes and taking long walks and watching tv…and breathing.

And the thought that with every passing day, my memory of C resembles the real her less and less.


*

I can’t help but think of that day without thinking of R. He is the nicest person in the world and I am utterly undeserving of him or his niceness. I think a part of me loves R just for those 45 minutes. For humouring my tears.

And thenceforth, for humouring just about everything I have dished out. The long winded theories, the moronic philosophising. The forgotten birthday and several unmade phone calls.

I wonder what purpose certain people serve in my life. Have you ever known anyone you’ve wanted to remain acquainted with simply because they were there? Not because of their intelligence, conversational ability, endearing traits, good looks. But because they happened to, at a crucial point in time, make you feel a shade less sad and lonely.

*

The summer just got crueller as it went along. But I remember this one day, after a sequence of several bad days, I managed to cheer myself up for a split second. I was in a cab on my way to a wholesale market called (if my memory serves me right) Masjid Bunder. MK was pleased as punch to host someone from the GO on his daily route. He spoke like an excited little child on the phone, giving me directions.

It all suddenly made sense: It is so incredibly easy to make people happy. And the world really is better off with more happy people than sad people. I know… I’m a lot happier being happy than I am being sad. Everyone is striving hard to move toward a state of happy. Not the ecstatic jumping around kind, just quiet contentment. And I can help.

I had the strongest urge to be a source of joy to the world. To swallow cynicism up whole and let my idealistic self spread happiness, even if it came at the risk of embarrassing myself, at the risk of working too hard or the risk of wasting too much time.

Some things are worth it.

(I really believe all this stuff so if you think I’m insane, go ahead)

*

I don’t know how long that urge persisted. Moreover, I wonder if the way I am allows me admit that it did, guiding everything I have done since then. I doubt I’ll ever really make peace with my good intentions for the world. That I’ll ever be entirely comfortable with them (enough to say it out loud). Even as I speak, I feel like such a self indulgent fool.

*

I remember having this conversation with E six million times over, till we knew it backwards and forwards.

How dare we let ourselves complain? Do we really deserve the right to complain about anything? We have homes and families. We have clothes to wear and food to eat. We may not have too much money, but it is more than enough to keep body and soul together. We have the use of all our limbs and assorted appendages. A fully functional brain. We have the lives that many people aspire to live.

Life is in fact perfect, barring minor inconveniences.

And the bouts of sadness? For them we must budget time. Time for being human. For hurting. And time for healing.

*

I’m really wondering whether or not to post this. Being honest is difficult. And being honest can be terribly disconcerting too. Especially when you realise that you had the capacity to do it with such ease… to be so recklessly forthright. That it caused you so little discomfort.

*

Dear C,
I miss you.

Love,
Me