Khyaal rakh

Today, I got to know that a school friend of mine had lost her husband. To death. Do people lose to death? Or do they win it as a bonus for having lived a life? 

A friend's message that was seen two hours later paused the world for me in between the race against time to attend meetings, complete a set of tasks and take time out to breathe in the cold November air. 

Where was she? What must she be doing right now? What about her young son? Does he know his father had left? These and a number of other questions kept reverberating in the back of my mind even as I adjusted the switch below the mouse to get on with the day's tasks even as my friend's world had probably paused, kilometres away.

Funny, isn't it--I didn't have even her number on my phone till evening-- and we have been friends for more than a decade. The heart feels the way it does. The first memory that flashed in front of my eyes was the day when both of us were walking home post school hours and he had arrived in a car to meet her. 

Yes, we were in school-- still uncertain about our futures, much less about our stories! But here they were--both so much in love that they had forgotten everything around them after a brief 'hi' from him to me.

While I left them both to the moment I will probably remember for a long time, the walk with her had also given me a rough idea about how difficult it would be for them to get 'married'--one of those affairs that Indian families are famous for (of course excluding the wedding event). That hers was a family that would not allow them to get married was established. But I had homework to think about and marriage was still a distant event. 

A few years later, I got to know that she was getting married. We both stayed in the same colony but had grown distant with time. But the name of the groom instantly made me happier-- Amar. So the day had finally come when they both had convinced their families that the decision they made years ago was indeed legit. 

I visited her just around the date of her wedding. She was gleaming post a turmeric-bath ritual. I couldn't be more happy for her. So this is what fairytales are made of--I smiled to myself as I walked back home. Unfortunately, I couldn't be a part of their big day.

Flashback over. My laptop screen told me that it was time for lunch. Hunger seemed to have left me. Colleagues have a way of engaging you with banter that is often a boon in disguise. 

The moment I reached home, I got her number from a friend. I considered calling. Should I? Should I not? 

I rang. The line was busy. It was probably one among the stream of well-wishers whom she probably wished wouldn't have called now. And yet, I called. She picked the phone. I had to introduce myself. My first name was of course not enough. Too many by that name. 

And mechanically, the first question was,

"Kaisi hai?" (How are you?)

"Bata na kaisi rahungi." (Tell me how I would be.)

I fell silent for a moment. So did she.

And then it was like the school days again. She spoke without a pause. I heard without missing a point. 

"Ye koi umar thi kya jaane ki?" (Was this even an age to leave?)

"Strong rehne kehte hai log--bete ke liye. Mera kya? Kya bolungi usko papa ke baare mein?" (People tell me to be strong--for my son. What about me? What will I tell him when he asks me about his dad?)

While I didn't have any answers, I listened. Is there ever a 'right' age to go? 'Be strong for your...' is probably a wrong thing to say to someone who has lost a loved one. But is there ever a 'right' word?

Is there something someone said to you that had an impact on you, especially when you were grieving the loss of a loved one? 

For me, it was how memories--good, sweet, sour-- all were to be allowed to flow in and out of our mind. To let them all be. Because they once were. 

She said she will speak later.

"Khyaal rakh," I said. Take care.