After The Rain Has Fallen...

When I was thirteen, early one Tuesday morning, I learnt that people could dance out of my life from hospital beds and leave behind a gaping hole.

I remember the last time I saw Thatha, alive, in the hospital for his regular annual check up. I remember the wrinkles when he smiled, the white stubble that was rough to touch, the Khadi kurta and dhothi and sparse silver strands still short from the last haircut. I had gone straight from school to see him. I sat by the side of his bed and he took my hands. He looked at the doctor hovering by his side and said to her, "She is my grand daughter and one day she'll be a doctor like you."

"No Thatha, I want to become a computer engineer."

He smiled at my protest. I wanted to leave. I did not like the hospital. Unfinished homework and a history test loomed in my future. Most of all I was disquietened by the look of peace on his face. He seemed to see through me, my impatience, seemed to understand and accept it.

A phone call in the middle of the night and fifteen minutes later, I stood by the corner watching people weep. It was morning before I drew the courage to touch his hands. I withdrew quickly. The cold of death chilled my bones. I saw the pundits perform the obsequies clinically, chanting sotto voce. My cousin and I spent the time in a corner room playing endless games of chess. I knew nothing beyond the basic moves and he was an accomplished player. I lost game after game, drawing strange comfort from being vanquished relentlessly on the board. I had a concrete reason for feeling despondent - as though I was lying motionless after a hard fall. My first lessons on death.

The sprawling Mylapore house was filled with aunts, uncles, cousins, old and young. They talked of how good, and kind and noble and selfless and honest he was, a ritual of delayed adjectives. Someone talked of having Thatha's name printed in the obituary. The long swing in the hall was removed and placed in the corner, the TV was unplugged. There was no refuge except words.

Thirteen days passed in a blur. Tears and adjectives dried up suddenly. The house was finally empty of loud relatives. That afternoon I sat on the steps leading to the side garden. My cousin, squinting in the afternoon sun, was bowling to an invisible batsman. The sun suddenly hid behind dark grey clouds. I felt something catch in my throat. The rain started slowly and then poured in torrents. Flashes of memory mingled with the rain of tears, private, uncensored and wordless, sorrow that did not need rituals. The void left by him is still there - now filled with the memory of the day when the October rain fell along with my tears.