Another Death.

For many years, I was unsure what was more painful to the animate. Death or separation. But perhaps death ought to win this game. Separation is a meaningless exile we impose on ourselves, a product of fragile egos and screwed up morality. But death is real and final.

My childhood hero was my uncle, his name started with H. I think he was a genius in his own right. He died too in front of me. 

Abdominal Aneurism. He was a brilliant engineer, but a benevolent businessman. In 80's before the economic liberalization, he left a high paying job after post-graduation from IIT, and went on to set up his own business in electronics. 

He heralded the technology of Pay phones in India. One of the most distinct images stuck in my mind is one day when he was fine tuning his pay phone to not be affected by traffic interference. He was sitting on the road, while his assistant was accelerating a Yezdi motorcycle on stand making progressively more and more noise. My uncle had the receiver to his ear, trying to figure out what kind of interference patterns are to be dealt with.

It didnt occur to him that he owned a company that was making substantial money in those days. It didnt occur to him that he was sitting in the mud, all he was possessed with was the beast in his hand that he wanted to perfect. 

He died, for months he had pain in abdomen, he continued to work late nights, drink to friends, visiting our newly constructed house to fit the lightings, perpetually joyful or angry. Nothing ticked him off more than incompetence and lies. 

Another image was on return trip from China, with pain in abdomen, to expand his business, in the airport he was returning with his suitcase, he was bent to one side to reduce the pain but recounts of memory had his face was beaming and happy. He won the presidential gold medal for being a brilliant small entrepreneur. Yet it was the same government that brought him down eventually, under meaningless pretexts. Jealous people who had wanted to bring him down, did their bit to bring him down. 

He shunned religion, but was kind enough to go through the motions when he should without making fuss. On his death bed, in the hospital, after 5 days of wait for him to come back out, he briefly regained consciousness. 

Some of his last words recounted by family were like out of a novel, "All my life i trusted the strength of me being a human, now I am felled by the strength of fate".

He died in front of me. There was a wave in my body, not his. All I remember of that moment was a numbness, a disbelief. I could never go close to him when he was alive for the respect I had for him, in death, it was the same, for I kept telling me, this radiant face, will wake up and smile any moment and I will feel embarrassed at my disrespect of going too close to hug him. I was 14 then.

His funeral was attended, by over 100 people, everyone who had benefitted from his generosity. For years after he left he was present in his absence in our lives.  

Upon his death we discovered his diary, it had only 2 pages filled. It was titled, "Successful cheaters of Hanumantha Rao"; It had a list of people and money he was defrauded for. 

That is how we bring down our heros; with governmental aid, and individual greed. 

Last week, my aunt, his wife suffered burns on her body. 40% of her. She accidentally put her saree on fire while finishing her Sankranti puja. Gruesome. Meaningless. Unnecessary. 

The doctors talked of recovery, like they had about my uncle when he was to go. And then she died yesterday. Suffering hell like my hero did. 

It had to end this way, this era, in pain. It had to be them, the two most rational, guileless and loving entities in our families. 

I am perplexed that I am here typing this on my blog even as my aunt, my motherlike, makes her way to the graveyard. To be burnt. Charred. All traces removed except a bunch of photographs and hearsay. 


She must have finished the first lap by now.


Yet this is the filth I live in. Born in a country I cannot own. Living in a country I don't own, forced into cultures that I cannot live by. As my people pay their homages, waiting outside morturies to recover dead bodies. 


Day after day, not sure of what it means to be living as we do. Millions of tales, stories, human signatures vanish the world around. It is right too. On the large scale, nothing matters and all stories are make believe. 


But in my memory, I will carry the tale, of two lovers in history, who met in youth; shared a dream; struggled through life. Achieved all they desired. And let pain trail by in their deaths. 


And left behind a photograph of youth and its smiling face. On a final note, that is all that mattered - not even their manifested desires.


This is not meant to be a tribute. Tributes are just as meaningless and half stories that undermine the human in his true potential. Attayya, this is just to say, I love you. 


You will me missed through this separation by death. 


Love you.