Finished

How many times has this been finished before? I can't recollect the number of goodbyes folded neatly into tin trunks of quickly forgotten nondescript train rides, those furtive night rides of urgent telegrams of lost grandfathers and imminent weddings. But today I sensed his silence meant what his eyes had once said. We are sad, but this is truly finished. Finito. Khatam. Spring, rain, winter's whims; hell even summer changes its unrelenting stance and then, everything changes and maybe falls apart on the other side of the globe. I was nineteen. He was born on the same date a year before. We celebrated our birthdays together. I knew all of him: red knickers, stubby camel brand pink flowered white pencils, acoustic guitars and slow moving Adam's apple and a penchant for my spectacles.

Our moms were friends. I guess you could say we were too. Except we weren't really. His elder brother and I were. He was always a little different, happy on his own. Actually, never really happy. His smile shone like the half moon, vaguely poignant and something about his tall frame sang aloud songs of ancient retributions. Perhaps the gods fought their battles with the demons between his ears. He would always take his time to respond to his name. As if Chinna was someone else he had to summon up from elsewhere.

Then we moved out of the school and his neighbourhood. 

Moms continued to visit each other but we quickly got lost in our own lives. Maybe five, or was it seven years after I last celebrated my birthday with him, Chinna called me on his sixteenth birthday. We never thought of meeting, it was funny if you put some thought into it now. It was. But we spoke, each Friday afternoon at 3, two sharp rings meant he was home alone and I could call. We spoke of his dreams of being an Air Force pilot, I spoke of my imminent nobel prize for literature. He taught me all about cars and cameras which was all promptly erased by the click of the receiver. I read to him anything from Marquez to Dante. And Tagore, many times over, Tagore. Some days I would slip my furtive writings and could vaguely sense his thrill, pride or sheer amusement. He was always happy, a little too happy.

One day though his voice sounded like an old Hindi playback singer. I told him so. He said he saw that happen. He saw his Mother being smothered to death by a pillow by his Father. I thought he was telling one of his Roald dahlish stories. I let that be. Mom was surely meeting Durga Aunty for all these years. Wasn't it last Diwali that we exchanged sweets? Chinna was making it up until the story was much too gory in all its details flashing in my imagination, as real as real gets. It was around 11 in the night. His brother was in bed and he was playing with his cars which went under the door and he followed them to a ghoulish scene. A white pillow, his mom's purple saree splashed all over the bed and her eyes, red and teary and struggling to live. The keeper of the pillow it seems was supremely composed. Smiling even. And when the act was over, he went back to sleep next to his brother 

The next days he said were all in a blur but his Mother was draped in a red saree not purple and that was the last he saw of her. His Father gave him her ring to wear but it was way too big so he let that be in his school bag until one day, he realised it was gone too, like her. Inexplicably gone. Not even a goodbye. I told him good bye then. And placing the receiver down, ran straight to my mother's arms and smelled only her perfumed hands for the longest time. I said goodbye to his horrible tale. The next Friday afternoon, I was in the bath. A week later, with a book and a few weeks later the telephone stopped ringing.

Did chinni direct a movie yet? I asked and the brothers' Russian wife looked shocked. It seemed he died a few days after his twentieth birthday. By asking for too much sleep from his Pharmacist Friend. And I was left craving to say good bye to those memories that are so fresh and so long begone.The brother held me for a long time and all that could have ever been stood between us finished. Finito. Khatam.

But there was so many jumps and starts! There were so many  fights and make ups. Months of ignored calls and weeks of make-up calls lasting all evening. A whole year filled with growing up together virtually. Was there anything he would not say to me or I to him? 

But, goodbye, How could we say goodbye now?