An ode to a fighter

Not good enough. I need more than philosophy to console me.

It has been eight months since Tarang was diagnosed to have cancer of the blood. “L3, the rarest kind,” as he would put it with a chuckle. My mind knew about it all the time but my heart stubbornly refused to believe.

When people would ask me about his health, I would tell them that he was fine, yes it was leukemia but he was fine. I would say all this without realising the situation’s gravity. I used to visit him almost everyday in the hospital. Even when he came home we used to chat for hours, play cards, solve crossword puzzles and lapse into long do-you-remembers. And each time, I cried myself to sleep at nights. But somehow I never quite understood why, until now.

And now that I know, I don’t know how to react. Tears serve no purpose other than giving me a running nose and blurring my vision. I wish my pain would flow out with them, but it doesn’t. So I do what is perhaps the only way I know how to make sense of anything at all. I write.

When I saw Tarang for the first time since he was admitted, I was not shocked. He had lost almost 15 kilos of weight, his hair were falling in clumps, his left hand was drilled with holes, one of his eyes wouldn’t close shut and his ear bled. Yet, he smiled at me. His once athletic, broad-shouldered, muscled body was reduced and shrivelled up. Somehow during this ordeal I managed to overlook his physical agony completely. That was the only way I could look him in the eye. I watched Tarang trying to steady his trembling hands, in an attempt to hold his cup of coffee. I didn’t try to help him, afraid that I would hurt his pride. He hated to be pitied. It feels so strange to talk about him the past tense. Tarang still hates to be pitied!

He was devoted to his parents and was their only child. In all our conversations his parents would always pop up. “My daddy is the best. I want to be like him when I grow up. Mummy is such a good cook. I love her so much. I am so worried about her back problem. She is just as short as you are”.

The last thing I said to Tarang was `Sweet dreams.’ I didn’t think you would take me seriously Tarang.

When I saw him lying on the floor, a garland around his neck, cotton in his nose, a tulsi on his lips, I fell apart. He looked so serene, so peaceful. I thought that he would get up any second. But he didn’t. I cried out his name so many times, but he didn’t wake up.

His hands were not in view, the hands which held mine so tenderly were motionless, the hands which drew beautiful Ganapatis with such reverence were cold and lifeless. Tarang, your Ganapati has let you down. He has let your best friend down, who loves you so much.

Tarang always told me, “For you, with you, in you, forever Mukti.” And I know he meant it.

“What the caterpillar calls the end, the Master calls a butterfly.” I know this is not the end. Someday we will meet again.

Yes, Tarang you won the battle of life by fighting death. So what if got the better of you. You won anyway!