Eulogy

The neon streetlamp casts a lazy light over the street corner. There is a strange bite in the chilly wind blowing eastwards. Thatha's tea-shop has reached End of Business and is quietly folding up. A few motorists whiz past, eager to reach home. Perhaps they've someone to go home to. Perhaps they don’t. In the distance, a couple walk at leisure,hand in hand, comfortable in the silence enveloping them. Sporadically but irresistibly, lights go off in apartments all around, if they haven‘t already. It is 12 at night after all.

It certainly helps that the two are perched on the parapet of the terrace. One, short, messy-haired,inebriated,22, is listening intently to the melancholic notes of "Torrent",trying very very hard to internalize it, stream into his consciousness as it were. The other, fat, tall,inebriated,22,lights up a cigarette and takes a thoughtful drag. Both gaze at the city stretched out beneath them. Looking but not seeing.

Memories of 18 years flit by. Some fresh, some forgotten. But all of moments irretrievable.

"Maga remember that story we made up about Chintan?
Chintan:Waiter, bisi yenide?
Waiter:Idli, vada, Masale, BisiBele Bath
Chintan:Ice-cream ilva?"

How frivolous. How despicably "low-level".How ineffably familiar.
Raucous laughter ensues. For the zillionth time.

The red pinpoint in the vast gloom soon goes out. Another smoke is indicated.

“Diamond District?”

“Sure. I can use some tea.”

The two hit the road. A stray dog follows them listlessly. The three now slowly make their way along the narrow path trying to side-step the accumulated waste of a city that makes wallowing in its own filth into an art-form of not insignificant pride.

“Do you think we’ll ever find people who’ll be on the exact same wavelength as us?”
“Yeah sure. Why not? All you need is a good enough receiver and a reading of our wavelength and a sample size large enough”
An exasperated glance.
“Typical nerd” mutters messy-haired.
“You must come down at least once a year. We still have to cross so many places off “putting trips” list”.
“Definitely. And we need to drink together. I doubt if the firangs look kindly upon Golconda and RS. God knows what I‘m getting into.”
“Nimmajji. I don’t think spirits will be one of the many things you’ll need to worry about.”

Silence.

More of it.

And some more.

And just like that, without preamble, the two start singing lustily. Woefully out of tune and disturbingly loud. The dog takes this in its stride admirably and proceeds to add its own two-bit of woofing and howling. A curious trio. If only they had Barbershop-trios. Nah, Barbershop-quartets sound better, don’t they?

The flyover appears in front of them, drab and foreboding. And the thing that they came for. Ganesh-anna is in his familiar corner beneath the flyover. And so are his delicacies. Oily things that shall remain unnamed.

“Yerdu half-tea, ondu Kings, ondu bajji”

They groggily rest their behinds on the “sidewalk”. The dog gets the bajji. The others split the rest. Bliss.

Happiness, sometimes, is half-tea and a shared cigarette at 1 in the morning.

We are gathered here today to mourn the death of a friendship. It touched so many lives while it lasted, spread so much joy around, made so many moments fucking unforgettable. May its soul rest in peace.

When a friend leaves, its always, ALWAYS like a death. Only difference is the wake stretches over several years, not merely a week.

*Grenade sized lump in throat.*