In Memorium

Of all the things in life, ways death is the fastest. And someone you have known for years, someone who has been part of the trials, tribulations and (minor) triumphs of a substantial and important part of your life, can go in a "poof", literally in the blink of an eye. And yeah, however much you remember the good times spent together, however much you cry (or however much you pray) there are no lifelines or second innings after death has come calling.

Yes, he is gone and this has been so bloody fast, a realisation that still hasn't sunk in, even as countless old memories cascade through me and grief assails me, at odd times for odd reasons.

The most painful memory is his constant ill-health (he was prone to asthma attacks) and thinness. Something that used to bother me a lot, something that I used to blame his lack of appetite for, something that he used to overcome again and again through a sheer bloodyminded stubbornness and the intent to live up his life.

Another enduring memory is his fastidiousness in trying to understand whatever interested him. He was a great note-taker and would fill diaries and notebooks (and bar napkins) with beautifully scripted notes, capturing the essence of our conversations on all and sundry -- advertising and corporate communications, the location of various eminent Shiva temples, what he should eat to put on weight, various quotes dealing with corporate life, sensational one-liners for Tee-shirts and (intermittently for as long as I have nursed entrepreneurial ambitions and with increasing frequency for the last year or so) answers to "how to start something of our own"...

In his opinion, I was a great talker, passionately genuine and capable of convincing people. Maybe it was just because he was one of the most considerate listeners I have ever met -- full of empathy and understanding and someone who saw potential and uniqueness in everybody. Either way -- a lot of our time used to be devoted to planning road trips and incidentally it was he who introduced me to Srisailam. I have vivid memories of each of three trips we made to Srisailam together -- the first time by bus, the second by my Bullet (with him as a very alive and "in my ear" pillion rider) and the third in blazing Mid-May heat in his car. Srisailam and our many experiences (viewpoints on the stretch to Eaglepenta, my Obelix like ascent of the Paatalganga Ghat, coracle rides on the reservoir, Shikaram, Sankaracharya Ghat, etc.) apart, he also introduced me to Uma Maheshwaram -- one of the famed entrances to Srisailam and a place where a Jatara happens every year. A Jatara we both had planned to -- and failed to -- attend numerous times.

Then there are other memories too, of hiking and monkeying around in Narsapur forest and near Shamirpet Lake and (a lot earlier, going back to my MBA days) in the glorious boulder strewn grassy open expanses beyond Hayathnagar.

Looking back, I am not surprised to recollect that he was among the first to read my diaries (and the ravings in them) and my poems. And that he was again among the first to read the manuscript of Moving On -- speaking of which, he somehow made it to the book release event though he was in the midst of Ayyappa Deeksha.

I could go on and on, the memories seem endless and enough to fill a book. I could go on and on, but the fact remains that I couldn't spend much time with him or be of any help to him in his last days, when he was ailing.

I could go on and on, but its pretty evident that however deep my grief be, its not even a drop in the ocean of grief that his family finds itself in.

I do know that I will miss him for the rest of my life. And I know that I spent some of my best years adventuring, raconteuring and experiencing life with him.

I also know that in my own way I will never get over this loss; mostly because of the kind of person I am and also because of who he was -- a treasured batchmate, a long-time room-mate and a very, very close friend, one of the most private and yet liveliest people I have been fortunate enough to know.

And I know that when my turn comes and I land up in heaven (hopefully) Chandra Mouli will in his part school-monitorish, part hrvisionary mentorish way give me a guided tour of the place and introduce me to its highpoints, the way he did it for me when I arrived in Hyderabad.

I am not Jewish, and there is no Kaddish (or its Hindu equivalent) known to me. But I have been praying since 20th April, 2011 that my late departed friend's soul merge with Shiva. And find solace in Kailash.

Om Namah Shivaya.