Chhordababa: 4th January, 2005

It felt strange to talk to Chhordababa silent and framed in form of a picture. I was not sure of the thoughts waiting in my mind.

Placed the white gladioli and astor garland near, touching the photograph.

I found myself stirred again. What was in that picture that was bringing tears to my eyes...was anyone in there at all? I couldn't know. But somehow I felt in that room, somewhere intangibly, he was present; hearing me and telling me things I could not possibly hear as we were on skew planes. Perhaps.

That felt a little better.

Gathering myself together, I looked at him and told him what I had been thinking over the last 13 days since he left, words that remained unsaid all these years:

I told him that he had played a very special role in my life, a part of me loved and respected him very much. However, life does bring difficult times and no existence is perfect really - like us. And that his life was not a failing.

Our encounter and intersection of lives were beautiful though brief, and filled with reminiscences of my bright yellow childhood days. I said that I will always remember him over the Nat King Cole numbers, the daily english newspaper reading, the impeccable pronunciation of "the" that we would practise together and look so funny, and the first London address I learnt by heart : Post Code SW1. Will remember him over so many of those words that later became my own and stories from another time that I wanted to hear again and again, and war poems of Rupert Brooke & Wilfred Owen & Tennyson's Home they brought her warrior dead.

"She must weep or she will die."

I told him I hoped he was fine and finally content, wherever he was; and that I hoped we will meet at some other life again.

A thing I forgot to tell him was "Thank you". Saying it now, here.


~~~