And into the Light

Sometimes, I look into my mama’s (uncle) room, expecting to see him peer inquisitively into the rest of the house from his vantage point on his bed, and it breaks my heart a little to see him gone. Once I went in to ruffle his hair (which he used to love) and when I realized I’d never do it again it was like he had died all over again. My mama had been with us from as far back as I can remember; many of my earliest memories feature him.
Mom recently called Aaji (Grandmother), and in the natural flow of conversation asked, “Nagesh kasa aahe? (How is Nagesh?)”. Dad and I were scandalized but Aaji took it philosophically. He had been such a major part of our lives, influencing every decision, right from meal times to who took their vacations when, that it is sometimes difficult to remember that mama is no more. His handicap (he had Down’s syndrome) made him the centre of our familial universe very often, and none of us is certain that it was entirely unconscious.
The bedroom was his and Aaji’s, but he had strategically taken it over. He had won the conquest by switching off the fan in the scorching Ahmedabad summers and switching it on in the winters, pouring water on her bed, and doing everything short of pushing her bodily out of the room to claim it as his own. But claim it he did, and even now it remains Nagesh’s Room. The prize among his spoils was an old, worn out lipstick case.
From childhood onwards we were accustomed to him being around all the time. In fact, when mama and Aaji went to visit relatives the house would feel bereft. It was not an entirely unpleasant feeling, nor was it wholly pleasant. It was difficult to adjust to the freedom of his absence, even when it was temporary. Once, during a period of such absence, Mom, my brother and I were standing on the porch of our house, when a car, with a Nagesh look alike on the back seat, drew up to ask for directions and we very nearly called out to him, forgetting for the moment that he was in a city hundreds of kilometers away. Even now, when I see someone else unfortunate enough to be afflicted with Down’s syndrome, I have a nostalgic pang for my mama.
The passing of a loved one is never easy. In this case, since mama was always there, in the background but never quite content to stay there, it is a loss that we have to deal with constantly; even the simple freedom of being able to go out together without having to say “Nagesh, be a good boy”, is something that one has to get used to.

This obituary comes as a belated farewell and a posthumous ‘I love you’ to someone who would never have understood the words, but with whom every interaction was an embodiment of the sentiment.

My Days in the Purgatory

I am sure everyone has a peculiarity that they are certain is unique to them. To take a few random instances, I know of a man who can eat sixty cockroaches in as many minutes (I am rather glad that he alone is the proud possessor of this dubious talent, I wouldn’t want every other person I meet to have cockroach breath; just the occasional whiff will do), and another who can go without any nourishment for more than a month. What I think puts me in the company of these eminent personalities is that I can recognize all my immediate colleagues by their feet. No, I don’t deduce anything by their footsteps, or their tread, or anything even remotely in the league of the Sherlock Holmes line of deduction, but their feet. It may seem futile to some, but I know that I will be noticed and snapped up by any passing carnival, and given top billings, alongside the bearded lady. How many people can honestly say that they can distinguish between two people purely by the way the veins on their feet run?
The other lesson that I have learnt in the big bad corporate world is to pass seven to eight hours of my day doing absolutely nothing, and doing it productively. In fact, I fill out my work diary with details of my hours devoid of purpose. This will then be sent on to the mother ship, as it were, where these records will determine whether or not I can be deemed worthy to be inducted into the noble profession of Accountancy and Book-keeping. Of course, I am hardly being fair to my profession. It is, after all, the Financial Genius that either rides any nation on to economic glory or plunges it to the depths of depression. Only, I cannot see how we are to learn to chart the fortunes of nations while staring at dysfunctional computer screens in a labyrinth of urinals, lined with lecherous colleagues.
The prime of my life, the morning and the spring time of my life, I spend ensconced in a passage way meant for one not-too-particular-about-hygiene person with three other people. If it were a recognized prison, human rights activists would take up our cause. However, since this, though state sponsored, is not recognized, we have no rights.
So, hypnotised into believing that this is one instance where the purgatory comes before the sin, I square my shoulders, clench my fists and walk into my office, day after day, everyday, for three years. After all, after that, the years are mine to sin as I please.