Ambiance - Late fall morning, bright and breezy.
Mood - Pensive - bring on the words :)
Looping - Jose Feliciano (form a time I didn't exist!)
I hate rain, he said.
It reminds me of things I wish to forget.
Of droplets I mean to hide
By quickly hushing them back in the peepers.
I hate rain, he said
It evokes a strangeness
That eludes all words
Like a subtle mention of things
Loved, lost, lived!
Why oh Why? She gasps in surprise?
Let's spin this another way
Give rain a chance.
It might inspire safety perhaps?
It might remind of happy flows
Of serendipity. Of precious echos.
Look, I love rain.
It reminds me of release
Of assertion, Of articulation
Of a whirl - that graces and satiates.
Like a catharsis, like a cleanse
That swoops all debris out
Of the rooftops.
Dripping through the gutters
Dribbling into the courtyard
And feeding the ground.
I rain for you, she said
Looking through the air!
Don't hate it. Give it a chance.
A chance that many
Might not be able to give themselves.
Let it drench you.
Let your peepers add to the surge
Let it help you merge
Into the sheets of streams
Let it clutch, let it quench.
Let go of that hate!
Let it let you celebrate.
George and I had a lot of things in common. We walked the same corridors and sat in the same classroom raking our heads over the same accountancy balance sheets and Pascal programs - my seat and his being to the diagonal poles of the class. Apart from being together in that two year journey of our high school, we shared a common best friend. His buddy was my bestie. Other than that, we barely spoke, or we probably never spoke to each other. It is probably because my bestie used to bring up George in my ear shot, I feel a strange knowing of this boy. Strange enough to elude words, like some sort of an abstract linger - there but not there.
A year and a half ago, when I was made a part of my +2 group in a virtual hang out, the best of my best buddies from that era, who somehow ended up in a mile radius of me and had stayed put as a permanent fixture in my life, called me hurriedly - "Hey George" he addressed me (and that's how he addresses me incidentally, a unique pet name that he has given me to mark some exclusivity perhaps and that's probably another thing George and I have in common. A name, though used by just one person in my life) and went "Was there really a guy named George in our class?"
"Don't tell me you don't remember" I responded in surprise, that was probably conveyed even through the phone conversation.
"How was he? Do you remember how he looked?"
Then it occurred to me that despite never really interacting with George, I had a very clear picture of him imprinted into my memory.
"Remember that Anglo kid from Secunderabad?, He wore striped collared tees and photogrey glasses? He had a thick head of hair, curly, always worn in a military cut and wore sport shoes and a cool colorful backpack on one side of his shoulder?"
The line remained blank. I knew this friend couldn't place George, but it somehow at that moment, occurred to me that George was a strong subconscious memory of mine. He was very introverted. Spoke only when answering a question a teacher would ask. And when he spoke, he had a cute anglo accent and vocals that deeply bounced back, resonating on the high ceilings of our classroom. George was the first to walk out after dispersal - may be he had a basketball practice after school, may be he didn't believe in lingering around making small talk with his classmates - but when he walked out, he used to quickly walk past the class and disappear at the end of the corridor. Whenever George smiled, it was a grin that stretched his lips displaying a perfectly aligned set of teeth.
Last year when I was in the school group online, I got to see an updated picture of George. He transitioned very well into his infant years of the fourth decade from that enigmatic sixteen year old I recollect him as. He sported slight weight gain that hinted at contentment, prosperity, joy? His wife stood by him, her hands on either side of his shoulder, looking like she could be related to Dimple Kapadia from Sagar, holding him securely and protectively. If my failing memory serves me well, it was his birthday and the customary wishes poured in. I realized George was a Virgo like me, born in the same week of the same year. One more thing in common I discover.
Yesterday, I woke up to a text from my local bestie that was travelling. It is out of character for him to text.
"George from our batch passed on due to cardiac arrest" The message was precise and dry.
It took me a good thirty seconds of squinting at my screen to register what I'd just read. I thought he was addressing me 'George' like he always does- and the rest didn't make any sense. He probably was at a loss of words, or too in shock to call me and let me know, he probably just wanted me to be updated as I am not a part of the group any longer and he would have assumed that this news needed to reach me as I, just months ago, recollected a sixteen year old George to great detail. He probably thought George was someone close to my heart.
After an initial numbness, I felt a sting in my heart. It feels like yesterday that I saw him rush out of the class, walking past my seat at the entrance of the class room, giving me a clear view of his confident trot out of my eye span. I didn't know whom to share this unusual sense of loss I felt. None of my family knew about George. I didn't see a point in calling my parents to tell them who George was just to tell them he is no more now. My thoughts drifted to his picture, the wife that held him with such tenderness, his kids that I'd never seen and my other friend that grew up with George, probably playing basketball in YMCA. I felt helpless, angry and very low. The day passed by. Another day. Nothing seemed to have changed. One of us walked away in a rush, I don't know why. I'll just sit here an spin stories about his rushed departure - saying a prayer, shedding a tear, sending healing vibes to the dear ones he had left back in shock. I sit here, with a deeper, more somber understanding of the transience of life.
And till I walk behind him, George will be the same old abstract linger in my heart's lane - there, but not there.
