I miss you brother.
I have never been one to cry at funerals. I guess I understood the concept of death, that all people die at some point and I was weirdly okay with that. I just had a problem with young people dying.
Both my grandfathers passed around the age of 70; one pretty much had a decade of near misses, while the other died unexpectedly. My paternal grandfather had all the old age problems known to man. He was a wrinkled little thing, curled up wherever he was put. As a child, I was afraid that if I touch him, he would break. My maternal grandfather couldn’t have been more different with his 6 feet handsomeness. He had an aura of strength all about him. Which was probably why his death came as a shock to us.
In all of my 23 years, those two were the deaths that were close to me and I hadn’t cried for either of them. Velluppa suffered a lot and every time he heaved a breath too heavy for him, I hoped things would get better for him. Uppa was the ultimate man, he enjoyed his life and even though he deserved to live longer, I don’t think he has missed much.
But I have cried at a funeral. I have cried the days before, the days after and one year later, the mere thought brims my eyes. He was my cousin, my favorite among all, my brother, my friend.. We lost him this day a year ago, and the loss is still a huge gaping hole in my heart. Every time I think of it, the sheer unfairness pisses me off just as much as it wrenches my heart apart. He was so young, so bright; I would have traded my life for his in a heart beat.
He had gone to the beach in Pondicherry with his friends for the weekend. He must have been happy, he must have laughed a lot before the sea took him. He must have panicked, screamed for help, fought against the rush of water into his lungs, he must have felt the life draining him.. He must have been so scared and helpless against a much bigger force, he must have wished for a thousand things that he could have done, that he shouldn’t have done.. I can’t believe how much pain he must have been through this time, 365 days ago.
He went missing at around 5 PM on Sunday, March 17 and my father called me up the next morning to break it to me. They still hadn’t found him by then and I still remember sitting lifeless, holding a phone in a public bus not sure what to do. I reached my office before I could process the whole news. First thing I did was call my friend Joseph who was also his senior, for more news. I’ve never felt more happy about the friendships that I have made, when despite being obviously shaken up by my news, he told me there was a chance my brother could be alive.
Later, when part of the grief had passed, I could appreciate what he did for me at that moment. I wanted a shred of hope, something to hold on so that I don’t break, till we knew for sure. And he gave it to me. Everyone else could see how impossible it was that he could have survived, but I didn’t care at the time. I’ll never forget Joseph’s words.
I wished with every cell in my body, that he’d have survived. I knew it deep in my heart that I was praying for someone who had already gone so far away that no prayer could bring him back. But all practicality had left me at that moment. I was desperate for a miracle. Us humans have this weird conception about miracles; no matter what kind you are, you always believe in them. And you always hope they happen to you, more than the other person. Because apparently, you always deserve better.
He didn’t come back. His disappearance tormented us for the next day as well. All through Monday, we were desperate for news. His parents, brother, my father, his aunts and uncles had gone down to Pondicherry for the search. They got police, fire force, even local fishermen to search for a day and a half with no luck. We knew he was gone for sure by then; we just hoped we’d get to bury him at least.
My aunt and uncle were so dejected looking for a trace of their beloved child that the minute they were about to leave, his body washed ashore; right onto his father’s feet. I can’t even begin to fathom what must have gone through his parents’ minds when they saw his mangled body; the same child they had loved for 19 years, in a state far worse than any of their nightmares. It breaks my heart knowing that there are parents all around the world who has faced the same situation or even worse.
I never ever want to outlive my children, ever!
After that, everything else was a blur. They brought the body after the postmortem via ambulance, taking up the whole of Tuesday and he was buried early next morning. None of us could even see his face for the last time. I’m glad we couldn’t. I don’t think I could have survived seeing him like that.
He was a beautiful child, from the day he was born. He was the first baby I had known and I loved him since I was a chubby 3 year old. We grew up together – him, me and his brother. Even though there was a huge break between us(family problems and all), the bond I have with those 2 would always remain special to me. Before we lost him, I was able to reconcile with him. We talked over the phone, we texted, we met a couple of times, he even took me to Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows – Part 2.. The last time everyone in the family saw him, a fortnight before the accident, I saw him too. I’m glad I didn’t let the family ego come between us. I would never have forgiven myself I had never known him.
Even though his death has defeated me in all purposes known, the fact that no amount of money or power could stop the Almighty from taking something that belongs to him hit me with a new sense of faith. HE wanted an angel and took my brother.
Wherever my he is now, I’m sure he’s happy. And smiling at me. So I’ll wipe the tears off my face and smile back at my lil Jachimooo!
I love you sweetheart. I miss you.