Dear Hachi,
I come to give a spotted yellow mango and some hand picked wildflowers inside the small circle where the guava sapling was planted,on your grave.
It's your season again,my little man.Peak summertime when you spent entire afternoons devouring whole mangoes down to the seed,held carefully between your fore paws,you'd lick it clean.
The first time I think I tried to understand death,was at age three, I picked up a dead moth off the floor and asked my caretaker why it was lying on the floor,and not sitting on a window,why it wasn't escaping my palm like it should.She told me to throw it because it had died,somehow,I didn't have heart to do it.She insisted that it was old and dead,and I needed to let it go,but it did not make complete sense.I did not understand death,I was only fascinated by it.I don't think much has changed since then.I guess I understood that old age meant imminent death,and I noticed old age on our cook,Abbas bhaiyya,who would make us some of the best sweet,caramelised bread when we were little.I noticed the age in his crow's feet outlined by surma,that deepened as he smiled ,in his fine silver hair,age looked so gentle on him,it did not scare me.I wondered how such harmless looking signs could mean death,intriguing.It was not until I was 11 that I understood young people could die too,though,Until I had read the cancer stories out of chicken soup books,cover to cover and cried for hours.Until I had surfed all the childhood cancer survival pages,shocked by the homages that faded with time.And it was only at fifteen,that I realised losing someone,and losing someone young were both things that were possibly going to happen to be.But I still don't understand,nineteen now,I don't think I ever will.How a heartbeat stops forever in a blink of an eyelid.How it is even possible for you turn your back one minute,and lose something so easily before you can turn around and help.When someone you loved remains physically only in memories and photographs.How can someone stop existing,there is no getting over loss,no end to mourning.Those are lied perpetuated by those in denial,there is only making peace with what happened-and that is so fucking hard.
The first time I laid eyes on you,I almost mistook you to be a rabbit,and when I held you in my arms,you were a quiet,cottony ball.You were least interested even in licking me,unlike other puppies,and that's how I knew I'd be taking you home.We brought you home on Ashtami,the eighth day of the dusshera festival and although I've never been religious,the name Hachi,which is Japanese for the number eight,somehow seemed symbolic and a good fit.
It's strange,but I don't remember the last time I saw you,I don't remember the last few moments with you-unless the ones where I held your limp,lifeless paw,praying in vain and put my palm on your tiny heart,still,count.But you were already dead by then
I do remember the little things from your short and beautiful life,though.The way your eyes sparkled when you were excited,the plump,curled up tail which was a phenomenon in itself.The way you were always a shallow breather and had asthma attacks sometimes,and needed help finding your breath.The way you'd gallop over our legs,excited when we lay in bed-I swear I will never see another creature jump like that again.How you were not a light sleeper,but always woke up and followed our trails even in the middle of the night.Those multiple mornings when you would lick water off of my ankles,wet from a shower as I hurried to get dressed for school.That one time you were so sick,and barely two months old,that you couldn't even walk-we googled solutions and decided to make your drink water and sugar and watching you get up on your feet after two entire days was when we stopped worrying too much.The way the small white portion on your head,stuck like snow white duck fluff,smelled like hung curd.The way you smelled like cake batter until you were half a year old.The manner in which you would squat on the floor,mid walk,back paws spread out-too tired from walking three steps.The time we took you to a dog carnival and you refused to walk and had to be carried around,even on stage.That one haircut you got after which you were a sudden burst of teenage energy.Your slow,but eventually,successful attempts at climbing up the stairs,first your front paws,then the back.The day you finally learnt to jump onto the bed,after we had long given up on the idea.Those nights at the dinner table,when you would get tired of maintaining your usual,gentle-manly and aloof distance and ask for offerings by scratching our laps and whining loud.All those early mornings when I drank my cup of milk and you ate your share of biscuits,carefully held between your forepaws on a doormat.That was a favourite habit of yours,wasn't it? When ever you were offered food,you would carry it off to a door mat and carefully eat in a safe distance away from the other dogs,guarding,protecting,slowly savouring.The sound of your paws on the floor,softly scratchy and your penchant for nurturing stuffed toys-carefully making them sit between your front paws.Your tendency to hide everyday objects in secret hideouts-under rugs,beds,book shelves,even under your bed.When something was amiss from the household,we knew you had claimed your possession on it-torch lights,plastic containers,dolls,chewy sticks and even eaten mango seeds.You were one possessive little fellow.The way your heart beat louder than television at full volume,during Diwali or every time someone burst crackers or when Misty scared you or the mosquito killing electric bat was in your sight.You'd hide under the old iron almirah,in the small gap under the bed,sticking out only your head or in the crook of my father's arm.
The gravel in your bark when you saw a stranger in the house,the peace on your face when you fell asleep in nooks and corners.Your tooth that never grew sharp,forever blunt and babied.The languid body language of your stubby feet and your furry face,almost a flower in full bloom.All these things you did and were,funny,adorable,pure,endearing,mischievous-were so phenomenal,we started to call them Hachile.
It's your season,my little man.The mangoes are back again,but you will never be.I leave them here for you,in hope that you might taste them,somewhere.I try to look for you in doorways and nooks of empty terrace,the stretch of lawn and all these little moments of the year you were alive,because maybe this was your happy place.
The look in your eyes before anybody got to say goodbye,wide open with surprise,sure did not look like the end of any suffering.Maybe your heart just stopped.
Misty missed you a lot,you know,she'd grown used to your company.She left us two weeks after you did.
We have two of your children now,and the most of you that I can keep alive is in their presence.They are not you,never will be but they are so much like you in the little things that it's almost as if you never entirely left.
Lots of love and mangoes,
yours truly.
I come to give a spotted yellow mango and some hand picked wildflowers inside the small circle where the guava sapling was planted,on your grave.
It's your season again,my little man.Peak summertime when you spent entire afternoons devouring whole mangoes down to the seed,held carefully between your fore paws,you'd lick it clean.
The first time I think I tried to understand death,was at age three, I picked up a dead moth off the floor and asked my caretaker why it was lying on the floor,and not sitting on a window,why it wasn't escaping my palm like it should.She told me to throw it because it had died,somehow,I didn't have heart to do it.She insisted that it was old and dead,and I needed to let it go,but it did not make complete sense.I did not understand death,I was only fascinated by it.I don't think much has changed since then.I guess I understood that old age meant imminent death,and I noticed old age on our cook,Abbas bhaiyya,who would make us some of the best sweet,caramelised bread when we were little.I noticed the age in his crow's feet outlined by surma,that deepened as he smiled ,in his fine silver hair,age looked so gentle on him,it did not scare me.I wondered how such harmless looking signs could mean death,intriguing.It was not until I was 11 that I understood young people could die too,though,Until I had read the cancer stories out of chicken soup books,cover to cover and cried for hours.Until I had surfed all the childhood cancer survival pages,shocked by the homages that faded with time.And it was only at fifteen,that I realised losing someone,and losing someone young were both things that were possibly going to happen to be.But I still don't understand,nineteen now,I don't think I ever will.How a heartbeat stops forever in a blink of an eyelid.How it is even possible for you turn your back one minute,and lose something so easily before you can turn around and help.When someone you loved remains physically only in memories and photographs.How can someone stop existing,there is no getting over loss,no end to mourning.Those are lied perpetuated by those in denial,there is only making peace with what happened-and that is so fucking hard.
The first time I laid eyes on you,I almost mistook you to be a rabbit,and when I held you in my arms,you were a quiet,cottony ball.You were least interested even in licking me,unlike other puppies,and that's how I knew I'd be taking you home.We brought you home on Ashtami,the eighth day of the dusshera festival and although I've never been religious,the name Hachi,which is Japanese for the number eight,somehow seemed symbolic and a good fit.
It's strange,but I don't remember the last time I saw you,I don't remember the last few moments with you-unless the ones where I held your limp,lifeless paw,praying in vain and put my palm on your tiny heart,still,count.But you were already dead by then
I do remember the little things from your short and beautiful life,though.The way your eyes sparkled when you were excited,the plump,curled up tail which was a phenomenon in itself.The way you were always a shallow breather and had asthma attacks sometimes,and needed help finding your breath.The way you'd gallop over our legs,excited when we lay in bed-I swear I will never see another creature jump like that again.How you were not a light sleeper,but always woke up and followed our trails even in the middle of the night.Those multiple mornings when you would lick water off of my ankles,wet from a shower as I hurried to get dressed for school.That one time you were so sick,and barely two months old,that you couldn't even walk-we googled solutions and decided to make your drink water and sugar and watching you get up on your feet after two entire days was when we stopped worrying too much.The way the small white portion on your head,stuck like snow white duck fluff,smelled like hung curd.The way you smelled like cake batter until you were half a year old.The manner in which you would squat on the floor,mid walk,back paws spread out-too tired from walking three steps.The time we took you to a dog carnival and you refused to walk and had to be carried around,even on stage.That one haircut you got after which you were a sudden burst of teenage energy.Your slow,but eventually,successful attempts at climbing up the stairs,first your front paws,then the back.The day you finally learnt to jump onto the bed,after we had long given up on the idea.Those nights at the dinner table,when you would get tired of maintaining your usual,gentle-manly and aloof distance and ask for offerings by scratching our laps and whining loud.All those early mornings when I drank my cup of milk and you ate your share of biscuits,carefully held between your forepaws on a doormat.That was a favourite habit of yours,wasn't it? When ever you were offered food,you would carry it off to a door mat and carefully eat in a safe distance away from the other dogs,guarding,protecting,slowly savouring.The sound of your paws on the floor,softly scratchy and your penchant for nurturing stuffed toys-carefully making them sit between your front paws.Your tendency to hide everyday objects in secret hideouts-under rugs,beds,book shelves,even under your bed.When something was amiss from the household,we knew you had claimed your possession on it-torch lights,plastic containers,dolls,chewy sticks and even eaten mango seeds.You were one possessive little fellow.The way your heart beat louder than television at full volume,during Diwali or every time someone burst crackers or when Misty scared you or the mosquito killing electric bat was in your sight.You'd hide under the old iron almirah,in the small gap under the bed,sticking out only your head or in the crook of my father's arm.
The gravel in your bark when you saw a stranger in the house,the peace on your face when you fell asleep in nooks and corners.Your tooth that never grew sharp,forever blunt and babied.The languid body language of your stubby feet and your furry face,almost a flower in full bloom.All these things you did and were,funny,adorable,pure,endearing,mischievous-were so phenomenal,we started to call them Hachile.
It's your season,my little man.The mangoes are back again,but you will never be.I leave them here for you,in hope that you might taste them,somewhere.I try to look for you in doorways and nooks of empty terrace,the stretch of lawn and all these little moments of the year you were alive,because maybe this was your happy place.
The look in your eyes before anybody got to say goodbye,wide open with surprise,sure did not look like the end of any suffering.Maybe your heart just stopped.
Misty missed you a lot,you know,she'd grown used to your company.She left us two weeks after you did.
We have two of your children now,and the most of you that I can keep alive is in their presence.They are not you,never will be but they are so much like you in the little things that it's almost as if you never entirely left.
Lots of love and mangoes,
yours truly.
This post is beautiful. Period.
ReplyDeleteHachile :)
ReplyDeleteThis is so beautiful!