Long ago, there was this one boy, who didn’t mind bending down to pick up dew drops on the leaves, sitting besides me on wet grass…And agreeing with my solemn views that them dew drops were actually sparkling diamonds…left behind by imps, minxes, vixens…Fairies just for me. Even when he knew better. That time I was 5 and he was 8.

I remember him.

One day a little kitten that I used to feed on the sly, The milk I didn’t want to drink, at first and then as I grew to love the little tyke more milk stolen from my sisters glass while she wasn’t looking, some bread, happy to finally have a pet…small tiny little mite, but so spirited, hissing and mewing if you got nearer than it wanted…Cuddly n cute. I loved the kitten that I called pirate. Because my dad had just told me a pirate story and I was enamored by them. I remember coming home from school one day, and finding Pirate dead… run over by a car, its body squashed and its eyes bulging out…the image imprinted for life on my mind. Heart broken I tried to gather the sticky mess of pirate In my arms my little body shaking with sobs, tears that I couldn’t control, I felt a arm around me suddenly, supportive. A gentle voice saying lets put pirate in a box kid and bury it. In my back yard. Come. And we searched for a box and buried pirate. Then he cleaned me up I guess, he must have because I don’t remember, I reached home and cried in my mothers arms and told her about pirate, but there wasn’t blood on me. She held me. Close. I slept like that.

In the evening when I came to know it was bobby’s father who had driven over pirate, I went over and Waited for uncle to come home. Then I asked him why he had killed pirate? He said,’’ its just a kitten.’’ I remember kicking out then and maybe biting, and punching…till I was pulled away by my mom who had heard the screams of rage I was issuing. Of course I had to be punished; I refused to apologize, so again grounded in my room without food. I didn’t care, that was my first lesson at human insensitivity and quite frankly I was devastated as only a kid can be. Totally. I must have cried I don’t know how long, suddenly I heard a scratching sound soft like on my door, I opened, he was there with biscuits and a rolled up parantha. He knew I’d not be able to sleep on an hungry stomach. I looked at him and Started crying again, with the pain, the rage of injustice of it all, and he just held me. My best friend, my buddy. After a while he made me eat some and then tucked me in and left via the terrace…our houses were joined and he was my neighbor. I was 7 then and he was10.

 There was a time when I jumped straight into a fight with them boys who thought it was amusing to watch a puppy squirm, while they kicked it, for fun. Out numbered, both the little puppy and I. But I guess neither cared. Fear and anger ruled. I could feel my little body vibrating with anger…I could have taken on the world…or so I thought. The first blow on my stomach knocked me down. I was up faster than you could say ouch!… More stubborn cussedness than brains… Swinging my little small kid arms…connecting with a face… someone’s fist connecting with mine…Someone’s hair in my fists…and I wouldn’t let go! I remember seeing him run from a distance, through tears and sweat and mud…. Jump in, and join the fight…The puppy was out of sight, smarter than me I guess. We won that one…barely. But we won. I was hurting…bad, but who cared, I was scared, of going home and facing mom…she’d be so disappointed, her little girl in another fist fight! I felt him hold my hand, and wipe my face with his tee-shirt which wasn’t any cleaner than my face only slightly…, And we walked home, both of us together, I was sacred and happy…happy I wasn’t alone. And he without asking took the blame…so we both got grounded for two whole weeks… Well we didn’t much mind, cause we’d meet on the terrace of our homes…and he taught me how to fight like a boy… saying, well if you are going to fight you might as well learn how.

That time I was 8 and he was 11.

There were many more incidents, where quietly, solidly he helped me. There were fewer, but still there were times when not so quietly but just as solidly I helped him. We were buddies. We grew up together and as happens when we grow up our lives diverged. His parents moved away, taking him along. We both cried that day promising to keep in touch. I was 10 that day and he was 13. I remember him.

We didn’t keep in touch. Slowly the pain settled to a safe corner of my heart which exists just for these kinds of pain. A dull ache mostly swept aside, by the sheer joy of living, growing up. Years passed.

It was 1990 when I came back home from college and saw that we had guests at home. I came in and saw uncle and aunty, suddenly that ache that I had ticked away somewhere jumped out, but it had morphed into joy, he was here my buddy , I looked around I couldn’t see him anywhere, of course terrace! I ran up quick as my legs could carry…but no empty terrace…

I came down, questions in my eyes, greeted uncle and aunty, and read some answers in their eyes… He’d died a year ago, they said. Drug overdose.

Dead! It has such finality this word. I was numb. I went to my room, locked myself in, and cried. My body racking in grief, with sobs, I couldn’t control…only this time…there was no one to hold me and console. I was 18 then and he…he wasn’t. I remember him. I’ll always remember him.

Today, was his birthday...and I realise that death does not end love.

bmw.