I didn’t write anything on 11th August or in the days after that. But I missed him terribly, more than I have done in the last few months.I could never have imagined life without him somewhere in the picture, yet here I am, a year later and life; is going on.
On 11th I went for a scan, it got me out of the house and then I just drove around crying uncontrollably. I didn’t have a clue where to go, and I just headed over to his parents’ place. I suddenly wanted a cup of tea made by his mom. I remembered how he’d tell her as soon as he walked in “Amma, thod cha kar go” (mom, make me some tea please) and I wanted to tell her the same thing. She was playing with her grandson when I drove in around 4:00pm – she made me tea then, and lunch, and calmed me down. I went to sleep in her room, and felt a lot better. It was very comforting to be with her.. maybe I should have gone there sooner.
I saw him in a dream as well, and it was very real. He opened the door and came home; in a striped white shirt and black trousers, his hair short and colored like in the days of his corporate avatar. He looked as if he was on his way to office, but forgot something and just came back in to get it. He looked fresh and full of life. And no, I did not dream this yesterday, but a while ago – sometime after the 11th; the image is fresh in my mind though.
I’ve been following other posts of losses, of people dealing with and feeling the same things that I do. Other women as lost as I sometimes feel, and yet determined to see this through. I read stories of bewilderment, of fear when we have to strain our memory to remember people who were the most intimate part of our lives. How can we lose their memories so soon? Why are they fading away? How can we keep them closer? We look for them now in things – I panicked recently when my new maid threw Gaurav’s socks in the wash – I rescued them just in time.
It’s insane sometimes. What do those socks have? Nothing of him remains in them anymore. Why am I so reluctant to change them? Why have I kept every little thing – even matchsticks that I found in his things? What would I get by erecting this shrine that was his cupboard? But I hang on, for no rhyme or reason. For these things were his, and now that’s all I have to hang on to.
It was yesterday last year that I came back to Bangalore after all the rituals were done. Came back to a home that was ours and now just an empty shell for me to live in. He won’t ever sit on that sofa again tilting his head to the side, chewing his cheek while watching Arnab Goswami debate it out on TV. There will be none of his insane laughter at comedy shows making me jump out of my skin. I won’t be wrinkling my nose anymore when he overdoes it with the perfume. My bed will no longer have the dampness of his towel left there after a bath. My house is now a well run machine, what it’s not is a home. But it’s a place I cannot leave, I am tied here by things and by those last days that we spent together.
I’ve had such intense urge to meet him and tell him to take me with him. It’s no fun being alone. It’s no fun at all!