Memories

Day 683

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A few weeks ago we planned my birthday get-together for today as it was most convenient. The last day of a long weekend. My parents timed their visit to London from India so that they could be here on this occasion. Everything was organised even though I didn’t want to think about it. The guest list was final, I almost didn’t want this day to arrive. It is one thing keeping things ticking along, looking ‘normal’, it is quite another celebrating. It is hard to feign happiness. The contrast between the inner and the outer landscape is too stark. Tears came flooding in at the thought of getting ready for the ‘party’.

I remember 2 years ago Saagar wished me a Happy Birthday today, one day before my birthday believing it to be the day. His illness was just turning from hypomania into depression. His cognition was majorly affected. He was known not to be very good at remembering birthdays etc so I didn’t worry too much.

‘Brain fog’ is a common description of this aspect of depression – diminished ability to think or concentrate and indecisiveness.
“It’s brilliant. You get to take these tablets that keep you half asleep till lunchtime and make you fat. You can’t concentrate on anything and you don’t want to talk to anyone unless you get so angry you want to shout at them. I hide in my room so I don’t end up shouting at my mum. I don’t want to be with anyone but I hate being by myself. I hate staying at home but I can’t go outside. Seriously, it’s brilliant.” – Beth.

 “What would you like for your birthday?” I got asked.
‘No one can get me what I would like for my birthday.’

Despite that, it was a good day. The house felt like a happy place with all these loving and caring people in it – my parents, some of Saagar’s friends and some of ours and some both.

It feels unnatural to be celebrating but…

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Day 676

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One of Saagar’s close friends, a young lady reminisces:

You laugh till you cry, squinting your tiger eyes
But tell us to hush when your parents call.
In your Dulwich voice you say, ”Be quite guys!”
And in your Indian voice you pick up, making us fall about with laughter, like when you do your godly pose or carry Seb around your waist, provoking hustle and bustle to get a good shot of you as you put on a show wearing a quite tight t-shirt to show off your muscles.

As the parties continue, drinks are going both ways (Who owes who drinks? I’ve lost track of the debt) whilst you start charming the ladies with your le francais and protect them from drunks proceeding to get with them. Then when all is nigh you third-wheel on a couch, never in bed, you can be found asleep on the floor, snoring like a silver spoon is clanking in your mouth, a noise that not even sleeping logs could ignore!

And when we wake and board the train I stare at your long toe-nails, forever on my mind. I beg you to cut them as you offer to share your pungent fish curry, which I have to decline. I am just glad you didn’t wear flip-flops that time we ate dinner at mine with my religious uncle and aunt(who you mistook for my grandma) and they both said that you wanted to marry me, me thinking “you can’t be serious” as it would have been like incest.

Plus our music tastes conflict (metal’s not my thing) but back on track now to mention that you give the best hugs and your previous girl-friends continue to sing your praises, more or less along the same lines…

Day675

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It was on the 21st of August two years ago that Saagar was officially diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder by an Honorary Consultant Psychiatrist. He was the only one in the family who was informed of it. I wonder how it made him feel. I wonder if he felt weird, confused, traumatised or all of the above. I wonder if it made him question who he was and what this means in terms of his future. I wonder what it did to his self-esteem and confidence. I bet it was scary. I am sure he looked it up on the net. He handled it very well. He made no big deal of it. He took his medicines, did not drink or go out too much, he waited patiently for the medicines to work and they did. He got better for a bit but then…

In 8 weeks time he will be dead. I didn’t know it then. I know it now and it kills me.

I bring myself back to this moment over and over again. Right now, I am chopping tomatoes. Right now, I am walking up the stairs. At this moment I am writing this blog. Right now I am folding towels. Right this moment I am watching the flickering flame of the candle in front of his picture. At present I am sitting here loving him with all my heart. At this present moment I am feeling sad for all the suffering he endured and I am admiring his dignity, strength and courage.

Right now I can see that this present moment is inevitable. It is here in front of me and all I can do is honour it.

Day 670

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One blue ankle sock, two rolls of string- one open and the other sealed, one fine-tipped black sharpie pen, one portable cycle pump, one drum stick, three beer bottle caps – one Carlsberg and two Desperados, one black bow-tie, one black wallet with an ID and a few receipts from a college bar, a paperback in French by Jacques Godbout called ‘Salut Galarneau!’, an English translation of an Egyptian book called ‘Maze of Justice : Diary of a Country Prosecutor’ by Tawfik Al-Hakim and a hardback black journal partly covered in his hand-writing and a purple hair colour spray.

And the smell of old things.

These things were unearthed from the bottom of his cymbal bags today just before I was about to give them away to his friend and drum teacher who he had great admiration for. Each one of these things was a thread from different stories from various parts of his life. I couldn’t remember them all but these were familiar things – real but distant. Seeing all these random things on the table, I felt he was here, reaching out to me. They encapsulated him so utterly completely and beautifully. He felt heart-breakingly close.

I want to ask him to remind me the things I am forgetting. Please. Remind me. Please.

Day 668

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A dozen of them arrived hidden inside a suitcase. Smuggled across borders in the name of love. True love. Covered in yellow and green skins holding the sunshine of the tropics and the sweetness of the people within. Carrying the essence of lazy summer afternoons spent back home waiting for the power supply to come back, fanning ourselves with hand-woven rectangular fans, for many hours.

They sit invitingly in a clear glass bowl. My most cherished possessions! Sadly perishable! Can hardly stop myself from digging into them and yet want them to last for as long as possible. Can hardly bear the thought that one day they will all be gone. Finished. The aroma they ooze tingles the senses and unknowingly I hang around the fruit bowl just to be within the sphere of that aroma.

Each bite, a taste of heaven. Beyond all description. The juicy firmness, disappearing into sublime lusciousness leaving me in state of ecstatic bliss. I take small mouthfuls to make it last longer. The juice drips in thick yellow drops from my knuckles as I devour the pulp around the stone. The whole world disappears when I am one with the mango. Move over Sally. (Ref: ‘When Harry met Sally’).

Summer is synonymous with mangos. Saagar used to love them ever since he first tasted them when he was 8 months old. He called them ‘ambu’, baby lingo for ‘aam’ which means mango in Hindi. I call Si ‘Tarzan’ when it’s hot and he roams around t-shirtless. He calls me ‘Mango’.