Goodbyes

 “Bury all your secrets in my skin

Come away with innocence

And leave me with my sins

The air around me still feels like a cage

Love is just a camoflague

For what resembles rage, again…”

~Snuff by Slipknot

 Sometimes you don’t get to say goodbye. Sometimes, she’s just gone and you’re suddenly at the cremation. The relatives come over, the ever oversmart friends say they’re sorry, as if an apology will bring her back. You try to cry, but nothing comes. Are you even human anymore, you ask yourself as you pull on that shirt and spray on the cologne for the Zoom call interview.

Your not so oversmart friends come over. Some of them hold you and watch as you tremble with the heaviness of the hammer blow that’s shattered you. You childhood memories with her play a dance of death in your dreams. What is a dream? Is it supposed to make you happy, or sad, or just fuck you up?

You feel yourself reaching for another bottle while you see your surviving parent cry. So, you put aside your pain, like you always have. After all, you’re the child who grew up too fast, ate too much and was an academic disgrace.

Yet somehow, somewhere in the cosmos, you realize that there are still bits of her in you. The heaviness settles in your heart again as you pack a duffel bag full of books to sell. Her books. You seek solace from the knowledge that you never made her proud of you. You seek to run away from the memories of her beatings and how fast your heart used to beat when you thought that maybe, just maybe 73 in English would be the currency that saved you from a thrashing (It did not).

This is an oft repeated story.

But yesterday, something changed. After 8 years, you sat down to watch cricket. You commented in your WhatsApp group that since the pitch was favoring spin, it would be an even match. You shouted when Rohit Sharma hit a four and a 20m, 96m in the crowd six. You felt your heart break when Kohli left for a duck owing to one of the most amazing leg before wicket decisions.

And India won.

India won. Out of nowhere, a memory started to play in your head. It was the summer hols of 2003. You had woken up and the telly was on. She was standing ramrod straight as a flurry of unknown faces flashed on screen to the accompaniment of the national anthem.

India vs Pakistan. The Master Blaster vs The Rawalpindi Express. It was a strange kind of feeling, as you sat next to her and you experienced something new.

It was the summer of 2025 and you were on holiday for your health.

Rohit Sharma vs Rachin Ravindra. That same strange feeling.

India won.

But that was not all. After such a long time, you remembered something about her that did not make you sad, or angry, or upset, or send you reaching for pills.

Sometimes you don’t get to say goodbye, because the person never leaves.

 
The Bilge Master