My father's closest friend passed away this evening. I found out when it was raining outside, and I was listening to Sympathy For the Devil. God has a macabre sense of humour.
When the weight of the world becomes too heavy to bear, we make light of things that concern us most deeply.
My father has spent the last three hours since he got home making phone calls to anybody he can think of and talking about the weather. In our family we don't express grief.
The loss of a best friend. It begins with a cold numbness while you stare wide-eyed and disbelieving at the world, suddenly bereft of the company you didn't think you would ever be without. Months, sometimes years go by, until you stop questioning the existence of that heaviness caged inside your ribs that travels up to your throat sometimes but no amount of gagging will release it.
The pain, sticky, slightly sweet, never leaves.
My mother is counting the money she stands to lose, now that Arun Uncle is no more. They were business partners.
My father is suffering a financial and emotional loss far beyond anything I can comprehend.
I am tearing down the plastic moneyplant that winds itself around a lamp that hangs down three floors from a long brass chain attached to the ceiling on the top floor of our house. Superstition is a weakness born out of weakness.