Day 902

Mr Drums

An excerpt from a speech made by one of Saagar’s friends at his memorial at Durham:

“Whilst complaints about the noise level were regular, complaints about the type of music that was being played were few and far between as Saagar regarded his taste of music as above reproach. And to be fair – it was not far off. It was the epitome of eclectic – spanning Heavy Metal, Hip Hop and Punjabi M.C. Or as Saagar would put it – White man music, Black man music and Brown man music. Fortunately, for all of us today, Saagar would not rest on his laurels when it came to music, and instead was a gifted drummer. I never saw Saagar more excited than when he was talking about his latest venture with Lenny and the Mandem. Being part of that band meant the world to him. For that – I feel we owe Lenny and the Mandem a debt of gratitude: not only for providing Saagar with a musical outlet that fast became the highlight of his university life, but also for providing a platform upon which Saagar could showcase his amazing talents behind a drum set. I know that he felt incredibly honored to play alongside you all, and I for one, felt incredibly honored to be listening.

Indeed, one of the major highlights of my time at Durham so far, was having Lenny and the Mandem play at my 21st birthday party at Fabio’s last year. At the time, I did not know the rest of the band too well – but knowing how much of a fan I was – Saagar made the necessary arrangements for them to perform during our celebrations. Whilst this was enough to already make my evening, Saagar went one step further, and arranged for the band to cover a song from my all-time favourite band: Dire Straits. What followed was a moment that I will never forget. I looked up to the stage when I recognized the introductory guitar riff to Sultans of Swing and saw Saagar’s head poking out from behind his drum set – mouthing the words ‘Happy birthday brother!’. What seemed to be a mere song to so many at the party, was in fact the most touching gesture from a very dear friend. A gesture made all the more poignant by his passing.

This was not the only music-based memory of Saagar that will live long in the memory. Perhaps the most amusing moment I shared with him happened in the Aidan’s cafeteria. The summer ball act was about to be announced, and our lunch time conversation had turned to the one act or group (Dead or alive) we would most like to see perform live. We went around the table, and each person took a few minutes to consider their answer before saying somewhat predictable musical heavyweights from the last 50 years or so (from the Beatles’ to Tupac Shakur). The conversation then turned to Saagar, and he replied completely deadpan and without a moment’s hesitation with: Dido. The table erupted with laughter as nobody could believe that someone felt so passionately about what can only be described as elevator music but Saagar defended his decision with aplomb. From that point onwards – we decided to begin the rumor that Dido was going to be made the summer ball act, and much to our surprise –this went viral. So viral in fact, that Basshunter’s first few songs were drowned out with chanting from the crowd for Dido to come on. If the Aidan’s social chair is in the crowd – please take note. I can think of no better tribute than Life for Rent ringing around the halls of Aidan’s and it would be a massive improvement on that bloke we had last year. Whoever he was – he sounded like a cross between a digitally modified car crash and a Harrison Sand’s D.J. Set. Saagar did not approve.

One thing Saagar would have approved of however, would be the number of people who have taken the time to attend this memorial today – and indeed, the number of people who turned up to his funeral and the memorial service hosted by his alma mater: Dulwich College. At both of these previous events, the audience was completely full with people who had come to pay their respect.

As I stand here, still struggling to talk about such a presence in the past tense, I am comforted by the fact that the lessons we learnt from Saagar will never leave us. The most important one he taught me was pride. No matter what, Saagar remained unapologetically proud about so much in his life, and this pride was truly contagious. He took pride in his upbringing, and the sheer courage it took for him to move from India, to a period of racial bullying in Belfast to the drastically different setting of one of the country’s leading public schools (although speaking from experience – public schools are perhaps not the best place to seek refuge from racism!). This did not affect him in the slightest however. In fact – he remained so proud of being brown that he resorted to smoking out of liquorice rolling papers that were as brown as he was. Another thing I know he was very proud of was his time here at Durham, proud of his achievements: both academic and extra- curricular. Proud of the friends he made, and proud of the experiences he shared with them. Whilst he may no longer be with us, this pride lives on in each of us – as we are all immeasurably proud to have known him, and prouder still of how he chose to spend his tragically short time on this earth, leaving little more than the wisdom he imparted, the compassion he shared and the untiring friendships he made.

Since his passing, and despite the atheist outlook I shared with him, I have often found myself wondering what Saagar would be doing right now in the unlikely even that we were both wrong, and that there is a God and a Heaven above. I wonder if his room up there still smells the same, I wonder if he has found a place to buy those dumplings he always used to eat, and I wonder if Jesus has told him to turn his music down. Is there a drum kit in heaven? And even if there is – has he found a band with a front man as good as Lenny Jesinghausen? Does heaven have a cricket club – and if so – does that still mean his bowling action is illegal? In the unlikely event that religion IS true, and that I have not spent the last 3 years and nearly 30 grand on a theology degree that equates to studying ancient fairytales, I guess we will all be able to answer these questions for ourselves one day. Personally, the first thing I intend to do is to  catch up with Saagar over a fag in Heaven’s smoking area. I hope you will join us.

This is likely to be the final opportunity we have to pay our respects as a group. In a brief hour or so this memorial will conclude, the crowd will disperse, and slowly but surely, we will draw a line under this chapter and resume our lives. Saagar cannot do this. He has no line to draw, no life left to resume.
As a result, I implore you to take some time out to honour him in your own way. He had a youtube video for all occasions, so perhaps rewatch some of them. Listen to Dido, smoke a liquorice cigarette or something stronger if that’s your thing. But above all – never forget. Never forget the memories you made, never forget the laughter you shared, and most of all never forget the lessons you learned from him.

He lived for a mere 20 years, may his legacy live on forever. ”

 

Day 900

Nine hundred days! 

I didn’t think I would make it this far. I vaguely remember Day 100 in Pondicherry. That seemed like ages already. This is unbelievable. I couldn’t fathom how I carried on at that time. I still can’t. So many days have passed without him. I still hold on. Not one moment has passed without him. I still mourn. 

Making each day count, working through the pain, celebrating the good times. Excavating words to express feelings that can’t be spoken out loud. Dissecting through ‘stuff’ with fine forceps, making sure nothing is damaged. Connecting. Realising that the colour of blood is the same for all humans everywhere. Hunger feels the same for all. Bones are a shade of white for everyone everywhere. Shame, courage and love are experienced in the same way in Lebanon and Syria as in London and New York. The pain of loosing a child is universal too. Indescribable, potentially unsurvivable. Yet, so many of us survive. 

I wonder if he’s counting days too. Does this mean anything to him? I wonder what he would be like at 23. His birthday is coming up soon. I wonder how we would have celebrated it. I wonder how time will mould itself and me as time goes by. I wonder if any of the lessons that need to be learnt from Saagar’s story will ever be properly learnt and implemented. I wonder when my silent inner screaming and constant frantic searching will stop. I wonder if he has an exact duplicate, who will bump into me one day and things will seemlessly go back to being how they were. I wonder how long his friends will want to stay in touch with me and talk about him. I wonder.

Nine hundred days. Unbelievable.

Day 898

A blank page and me. A bit scary. Not sure what happens next. No distractions of a laptop, a dictionary, a thesaurus, e-mails or facebook messages. Just me and the unruled paper. Both blank.

The click and clap of the cat-flap sounds like a bold red brushstroke on a bleak soundscape. The whirring of the fridge makes for a somber background of magnolia. The crunchy munching of cat food forms clusters of bright yellow daffodils scattered about. The distant low-pitched monotone of an aircraft marks the horizon, half land, half sky. Wonder what the pilot sees and hears at this moment. I look for the word count at the bottom of the page but all there is, is a corner. 

The sweet sound of a smile drips into my ears from the eyes of a black and white picture on the shelf. It’s twinkling and naughty. It’s the life of the canvas. Like a patch of elegant and shy blood red tulips, gently dancing in the wind. Thus I navigate the map of my silence.

“Out of such abysses, from such severe sickness one returns newborn, having shed one’s skin, more ticklish and malicious, with a more delicate taste for joy, with a more tender tongue for all good things, with merrier senses, with a second dangerous innocence in joy, more childhood and yet a hundred times subtler than one has ever seen before.” — Friedrich Nietzsche

Day 896

I thought I was going to be alone this week as Si was away. But someone made sure I didn’t feel alone. 

This creature showed up at my bedside every morning to say good-morning. He hardly left home while I was around, which is very out of character as he is a certified vagabond. As I chopped tomatoes at the kitchen table, he sat there watching me. When I came home from work, he greeted me at the door, brushing up against my legs with affection. When I woke up from a nap on the sofa, I found him snoozing on the arm chair next to me. As I sorted out the washing, he snooped around in the same space. As I changed the bed linen he jumped from one side of the room to the other. He scuttled around me, inviting me to play with him. When I spoke to him, he responded not just appropriately, but affectionately. At bed time he nearly came up to me with his Pyjamas tucked under his arm and had to be shooed off. 

We listened to music together. We watched the TV. We chilled out. We cuddled. We even had a few deep and meaningful conversations. 

It was fun hanging out with Milkshake. 

Day 894

photo (10)

The sun, the moon and all the colours gathered up in the sky. The slanting light made the evening luminous . Each element did its magic and together, created a harmony. Children played freely and the motors of peak hour traffic moved noisily in the background. It didn’t seem to matter at all. The world went on with its business as usual while we sat still with our worlds that had vanished.

We gathered in this open green space sure to be met with compassion and understanding. Alan’s sister read the same poem, by Mary Elizabeth Frye that she’d read at his funeral:

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

John’s brother, Fabio’s mum, Rene’s sister, Jake’s dad, Saleem’s mum, Ruth’s Mum, Clair’s mum, Saagar’s friends and so many more came along for a quite evening, being in nature, in the company of friends, with what is. The radiant faces in the pictures, the flowers, the candles held centerstage. Love flowed in abundance.

Each one of us, a rainbow in the other’s cloud.
Each one making loss a little more bearable.
Each one being with their own healing and offering hope.
One world. One people. One silence. One togetherness.

Be a rainbow in someone else’s cloud by Maya Angelou