I was reminded today, of that feeling associated with young/new romance; that thing we somewhat inaccurately refer to as butterflies in the stomach. I remember that feeling. It's nothing like butterflies in the stomach. It's more like a large chrysanthemum has planted itself on your liver, and now intends to breed a little colony there, till there is a fair-sized bouquet on the aforementioned gland. Probably explains why some people are so bilious when in love.
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Sharmaji was found dead this morning, in the office. It was horribly unpleasant. Between the cops and the press and the actual task of identifying "the body", I think all of us were drained of mental and physical strength of any sort. Somewhere in all this, I couldn't help but think about how there was no one there to sit by him in his last hours. No one, yet, many hours later, when he was being probed and looked at and identified and photographed. Family was informed, and they showed up by noon.
Meanwhile, people milled around cleaning up, calling other people, cancelling meetings, answering the sneering cops, trying not to admit to themselves who it was that they were actually looking at. The man who, a little over 12 hours ago, stood at the door and waved to them as they left the office for home. No one could or would cry.
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The point of all this seemingly unconnected rambling, is that it got me thinking about death and loved ones. Just one very simple thought, actually: When I die, I'd like to be in the company of loved ones. And ideally, among these loved ones will be someone who served as a catalyst to that super-multiplying chrysanthemum.
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Sharmaji, I hope you will ignore the ostensibly heartless boss who wanted us to take meetings and who cracked really really weird jokes about death, ten minutes after. He means well. It's probably one of those bizarre defence mechanism things.
But I hope you know that a lot of people really care. Not so surprising and a little bit sad that we only discovered this while we were slowly piecing together our knowledge of you and yours.
Rest in peace.
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Anoopa Anand
Anoopa Anand lives in Bangalore, India, with her parents and four dogs. She received her Bachelor’s degree from Mount Carmel College, Bangalore. When she isn’t writing, Anoopa likes to read fiction, do crosswords in auto rickshaws, sing jazz standards in embarrassed whispers and obsess about cricket. When she grows up, Anoopa will write for a living, sing for love and find a less commercially successful sport to follow.
2 comments:
i think death is the singular cause of religion's evolution.
i'd like to believe that there is consciousness after death...there is no proof that it exists, but it is an interesting fantasy..
well. can't comment on the latter 'bits'.
but the chrysanthemum from your first paragraph sounds lovely. hope you don't tend to self destruct like me in such situations. besta, boomsa!
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