Tales of the Year Past.

31st Dec 2015. The last day of the year.

Like all the lasts, I think there's something really romantic about the last day of the year. It gives you a sense of closure. It encourages you to put behind what happened in the preceding 364 days. It gives you hope for a better tomorrow. And more than anything else, it reminds you just how fast time flies.

I mean, it was only yesterday that I first entered college. And here I'm, closing in on what will be the last winter break of my college life, doing what I love best on the last day of the year; reminiscing about the year gone and the chances lost.

In a lot of ways, 2015 has been a watershed year. At least for me on a personal level. It is an year where I learnt something new every day. I learnt not everything lasts forever; that fairy tales, more often than not, are a stuff of dreams. I learnt publishing a book is not everything and doesn't really get you anywhere. I learnt what disappointment actually feels like, and what is it like to nurse a broken heart. Not the kind that kids get from a failed relationship. But the kind you get from failing to fulfil your own expectations. I experienced loss, and the astonishing power of time to heal just about anything. I also realized how time doesn't stop for anyone, and that one day the absence of someone wouldn't really trouble you anymore.

But most important of all, I discovered faith. The kind of faith that does not ask for anything apart from belief. The kind of faith that tells you this too shall pass. The kind of faith where you know you're not alone. I discovered faith doesn't mean believing in a higher power. It doesn't mean believing in someone else's hallucination. It does not mean believing in something that cannot be explained. It simply involves having the belief that everything happens for a reason, and everything happens for good. That the one person you choose to put your faith in wouldn't leave your side even when everyone else does. And for discovering that kind of faith, I shall forever be grateful to 2015.

But there's something really romantic about every Last. We waste an entire year doing nothing, and then suddenly we find it's December already, and then before we know, the year changes. And we suddenly realize how much time has passed by.

And then we tell ourselves how the coming year would be different. And then the coming year becomes this year. And then the year past. And this is life.

So with a profound sense of humility, I bid adieu to 2015, knowing that at the end of the day, tomorrow is just another day, and the only thing that'll really change is the date.

 Like it changes every day.

 Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year.

In Loving Memory of the One That Was So True.

They say it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. For twenty one years I had no idea what it meant. For twenty one years.

Until today.

The time is 8:45 PM. I’ve just settled down to watch the latest episode of Game of Thrones. My sister walks in the room. She says, ‘Paras, we have to go.’

It’s about Nani- we call her Chachi. No one in living memory has ever called her anything but chachi, except Nanajee, of course. The story goes when my mother and her siblings were younger, their cousins would call nani ‘chachi’ because obviously she was their ‘chachi,’ Mothership and the siblings picked it up, the neighbours picked it up, the maids picked it up, the grandchildren picked it up, the great-grandchildren picked it up… even their friends picked it up. 

Nanajee lovingly calls her Paaro. And perhaps it’s his final ‘Paaro’ that will haunt me for the rest of my life.

I shut down the laptop and jump out of the bed. She’s been unwell and in hospital for almost a week. We all have been dreading this ‘last ride’ to the hospital every waking moment ever since. On a certain level, we’ve been prepared for the eventuality. But no matter how prepared you are, there’s nothing more difficult in life than accepting the fact that a person you’ve loved all your life will one day simply stop being there. In every way possible.

Chachi hasn’t been well for the last so many years. I can’t remember the last time I saw her walking… or even sitting up straight without support. I can’t remember the last time I saw her without a tube up her noise to help her breathe. I can’t remember the last time she didn’t need machines to help her survive. She had a hard life. She had trouble breathing, trouble sitting, couldn’t walk. She had weak bones. She sometimes had a memory lapse. She had trouble hearing. She had trouble chewing. For the last three months, she was totally bedridden, steadfastly refusing to sit for even a few minutes because the pain in her bones would be simply unbearable. Because even with a nebulizer it would be impossible to breathe… and yet she is the most remarkable person I’ve ever met. Or I’ll ever meet.

Imagine having to stay confined to your bed every single day. Hardly able to sit straight. Unable to eat yourself. Unable to turn your head and watch TV. Unable to breathe without a machine. Not knowing what’s happening outside… Imagine doing this day in and day out for years on end. Imagine living in pain. It will drive even the hardest of us insane.

And she took all in her stride. She was never bitter… Never angry. She would say, ‘kya kar sakte hain.’  She would regale us with stories from her childhood, our parent’s childhood, and stories from another age… every time we met her. Every time we’d call her, she’d only ask, ‘Kidadi aaogay?’ when will you come. She loved when all her children and grandchildren were in her room. Oh the happiness on her face. The joy it would giver. She’d never fail to ask us to stay the night over. Spend some more time with her.

She would Pull our face close to hers and kiss us softly and sloppily, stroke the head, and ask us what we’re doing in life. And when it was time to come back home, she would ask us to stay… stay for a while. Her world was in her room. Nanajee by her side, the family all around her. The stories she would tell. The memories she would stir. The laughter. The jokes. Everything.

And it’s all gone in a flash. Twenty one years of knowing her. Twenty one years of seeing her every weekend. Twenty one years of her unconditional love. And it’s all over in a matter of minutes. She’s there, in her hospital bed. You could swear she’s sleeping.  Peacefully.  You would never be able to tell she’s been in so much pain. And now she’s in a better place. Away from the all the pain. The sufferings. The hardship. It’s how funny how sometimes you have all the money in this world, and yet, you don’t have anything. For as they say, there are somethings money can’t buy.

Nanajee is frail, and he comes to the hospital every day to meet chachi. He is there today as well. But he’s come late. Chachi has already passed on. He sits near her, looks at her once, and breaks down. Nanajee, before whom a thousand people bowed their heads when he was in his prime, is clutching chachi, and crying like a baby. He whimpers, ‘Paaro, tu chali gayi, ab mera kya hoga paaro.’ 

Oh, the astonishing pain of watching him in this state. I could never been more heartbroken.  They were together for almost seventy odd years. For so many years, nanajee’s entire day revolved around worrying for chachi..  And now he has nothing to do, and he has to live all alone in a room he has shared with chachi for the last thirty years.

It’s third June today. It’s been three days now, and all he does is cry.

So there would be no more of ‘Chachi-chachi’, no more of sloppy kisses, no more of the tender hugs. No more of her concern. No more of her stories… nothing. She is just not there anymore. Gone...Forever.  Never to come back.

But why am I writing this? The loss of someone so close has to be a closed affair. A family affair. A private affair. But death is a humbling experience. It tells you how you cannot take anything for granted. It tells you how uncertain life is. But more than anything, it’s about the terrifying realization that life doesn’t stop for anyone. It goes on. That one day Chachi would be just another memory. A person who loved us unconditionally for so many years would cease to be anything but a memory. We’ll walk into her room, and won’t find her absence awkward. We won’t call her every week. We won’t meet her every week. We won’t ever hear her voice again. And it would all be normal. Maybe it doesn’t really make sense. Maybe nothing makes sense.

But consider this. How often do we meet our grandparents? Just how busy are we with our lives. My Dada-Dadi live in Noida, and we, the grandchildren, hardly go to meet them. Hell, hardly ever remember to call.

Grandparents- they ask us to visit them, stay with them. Spend time with them. But aren’t we all too busy with our own plans? Hell, don’t we tell ourselves we’ll go next week, and then that next week becomes next month, and this is life?

For twenty one years I’ve had the privilege to have received the love of both Dada-Dadi and Chachi-Nanajee.

Until today.

And I suddenly realize that life is too uncertain.

So cancel that plan, put down that call. Go sit down with your grandparents. Jeeyo, khush raho, muskurao. Kya pata, kal ho na ho.

RIP Chachi, Godspeed.
I miss you. We all miss you. 

In Loving Memory of

the One that was so True.