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We chat lightly over coffee, my friend and I. She updates me on common friends. I ask questions and share newsy tidbits. At times, the conversation slips into more serious spheres and she complains of the problems that she faces juggling work and home. Her words form pictures in my mind as I listen carefully. Comments and insights bubble up; I hold them back, not sure that they are welcome.
I was not always this careful while talking to her.
Our friendship spans three decades. We joined college together and were in the same 'gang'. Together, we goofed off to see a movie the evening before a physics examination, woke up a friend at midnight to give her birthday bumps. We moaned about difficult assignments and tough teachers.
Then came the growing up, and, with it, the responsibilities of jobs and families. Staying in touch degenerated into a 'nice-to-have' at the bottom of our to-do lists for most of us.
Not for my friend. She was our base; we relied on her for up-to-date contact information about all others. Her chatty, full-of-news letters came regularly. The scanty scribble that trickled in months later in response did not discourage her. I admired her zest to communicate.
Every year, when she came to town on her annual meet-the-parents visit, she would squeeze out time for me in spite of her shopping lists and the obligatory visits to relatives.
Six years ago, in town for Christmas, she called me up as usual.
It was a bad time for me. My father, who had been ailing for many years, was admitted in intensive care. He was visibly declining despite the best of care; it hurt us to accept that he was tired of life. The family rallied around to cheer him; he remained indifferent.
I wanted to get away from the overwhelming load of care-giving, even if it was just an hour. Her phone call was god-sent.
We found an intersection set one afternoon. When she came, unsorted mail was piled high on the table, burying my laptop. Half-opened grocery packets lay scattered on the floor. The kitchen sink overflowed with unwashed dishes. A musty air hung over the house because of the damp washing sprawled over the chairs, testimony to an out-of-order drier.
I picked up stuff from a couple of chairs and dumped it on another. We plunked down on them, sipped carefully from our mugs of steaming hot coffee, stuffed crunchy cookies in our mouths, chatted animatedly. It felt like hostel days.
On her way out, she inquired after my father and consoled me, "Don't worry — he'll be okay." She hadn't seen him for over a decade.
I told her that recovery was very unlikely. I described his state, explained that he was saying his good-byes, waiting for his end.
"How can you say that!" she said. The accusation in her voice felt like a slap. Her tone suggested that I was negative and somehow responsible for my father's state.
I felt my face redden. I wanted to shake her, argue with her. I wanted to make her understand that this too happens. And that it feels awful.
Then, looking at her standing unnaturally straight, avoiding eye contact, I decided to keep quiet. She leads an active life, I thought. She's coping with multiple expectations, wants joy and laughter. She does not want to know that people can be so dejected that they want to die.
We promised to stay in touch as usual, and she left.
My father died the next day, a few minutes after a visit by his favorite nephew. In death, his face seemed relaxed and happy.
After the cremation, I sat down with my address book. My friend was out when I called, visiting the parents of another friend. I talked to her mother. After having made over a dozen calls my script was small and matter-of-fact. The lady offered her condolences. I thanked her and requested her to pass on the message.
My friend did not call that evening, nor the next day, or the days that followed. Then it was the middle of January and I knew she would have flown back.
Six months later, in a mail full of assorted gossip, she wrote that she did not get the time to call.
I wondered about that call not made — she had to say that she was sorry and hoped he was at peace wherever he was. I would have thanked her. Two minutes at the outer.
Perhaps it was a difficult call to make. Her parents were getting old; my father's death meant acknowledging their mortality. Or maybe, being on holiday, she didn't want to spoil her mood. A condolence call, however short, is not quite like greeting people on birthdays and anniversaries.
When we met the next year, neither of us mentioned my father. I did not share the pain of seeing someone fade away because they want to. I did not describe how death takes a long time to sink even if it is expected. And how I found myself thinking at times — I must tell my father that — and then remembered that he was dead.
We continue to meet every year. Increasingly, I find myself playing safe on anything that could be outside her comfort zone. I am reluctant to share observations on life, opinions, insights, reasons for lifestyle choices, things that mean much to me, motivate me, hurt me.
She has not noticed anything wrong in our conversations. Or at least, she has not talked about it. But then, if she did, there would be no silence between us.
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