Ours is a fairy tale friendship, the good times we had together as two little boys, I proudly accounce that no other pair would have had. To the extent that our names were said in one breath, always, everywhere...in school, at my house, at his.... much to the envy of all around.
Seldom were the evenings we didn't spend together... we were either at school till late, after which I used to cycle back with him sitting on the front bar of my Hero Ranger (He didn't know how to cycle back then...in fact not even know)...and then changed my clothes and used to go right back to his house. There were his sisters, his mom, dad, and his big dog, aptly named Tiger.
While all of us in the room were vocal and passed no chance passing snide comments at each other, his father used to sit silently. Many a time, I didn't even realise that he was in the house, at times sitting right in the same room. Evening time meant puja time and he would go and do an hour long puja to god with us watching and wondering how he gets the patience to sit those long minutes engrossed in deep meditation and thought.
'Don't underestimate him,' my friend used to say to me. 'My father was a gold medallist in college football. And a champion sportsman too' We found it difficult to believe, because of his dad's thin frame, but we did. Because we saw him walk! The man used to walk, he loved walking, if ever there was a Forrest Gump of walking, it would be him. Anytime and everytime, be it just around his apartment grounds, or to nearby shops for buying milk, grocery, whatever, be it rain or the searing Madras shine, he used to walk without uttering a word of protest.
But beneath the calm and seemingly uninteresting personality, he had his own brand of a subtle sense of humor. He opposed whatever thoughts one presented about the game of cricket. Our conversations used to go like this. My friend and I would sit watching a very boring day of Test cricket, when I would nudge him and ask him to get his dad involved somehow.
'Appa, do you think Azharuddin would score a century?'
'No, no... the Sri Lankan bowling attach might seem weak, but he cant play spin that well, so he will not score more than 30.'
We would giggle at each other silently, wait for as long as we thought would be required for him to forget what he stated, and then have another go at him. This time, it would be me.
'Uncle, the Sri Lankans are bowling very tightly, Azhar seems like getting out any moment.'
'No, no...wait and watch. Spin bowling is Azhar's favorite, and in this pitch, they cant even disturb him. He will go on to score a century.'
We would be rolling in laughter that evening sitting atop the wall bordering the railway station, and shouting to make ourselves audible over the thunder of the passing trains.
Now we have all grown up, grown apart in distance (physically that is). Me, another of the millions of software engineers, sitting in far away USA, and him, a proud soldier and an aviator in the Indian Air Force. I learnt two days back that his father had suffered a heart attack and is in the hospital. I learnt an hour back that his father had not made it.
My dear friend is on his way long, painful way back to Madras from Gujarat. I am not going to be with him. I can say anything I want... My thoughts, prayers, my everything is with him and family, but the truth is...that I am not going to be there with him. I hope God gives him all the strength and courage to tide this though.
Uncle, we will miss you a lot. I am sure God means the best for you.
July 26, 2009 - 23:59
