Beautiful, Mad Strumming

 <a story and a memory; an expression, and a way to sort it all out in my head : >

THE MEETING

 It was about three years ago: I had come to Kerala at an odd time (non-summer holiday period) for a cousin's big fat wedding (I happen to have an endless supply of cousins, at least one of whom gets married every other year). The downside of this out-of-the-ordinary visit was that I had to suffer for a week in Kerala's hyper-humid, uber-tropical heat. The perk? I would get to see an aunt of mine, stationed outside Kerala, whom I hardly knew because the vacations of my cousins and mine (and consequently, our hometown visits) didn't coincide. Yes, you may now sigh at the Great Sadness of Modern Times--estranged relatives living at opposite ends of the world. More importantly, I would get to see my cousin (a couple of years older than me) after after an even longer period of estrangement. Cool. The last time I had seen him...okay, I didn't remember. All I had was a vague memory of a chubby, huge guy who spoke in something that was supposed to be Malayalam, but sounded nothing like it. I was expecting to welcome a chubbier, huge-r guy with an "Oh... greetings, long-lost cousin" or whatever. That expectation went to pot when I heard rumours that he had changed--a lot. Well, well, well--this could get interesting.....

    The day when my aunt, cousin and uncle were supposed to arrive found me sneaking around the doorway, casting furtive glances at the main door of the house to catch a glimpse of the much-hyped-about cousin. And there he was--I was speechless. The tall, well-built and unbelievably good-looking guy who ambled in bore no resemblance to the aforementioned vague memory. He carried some kind of misshapen suitcase with him, and looked quite intimidating (being born a short person has induced in me a natural awe for tall people). This did not bode well for ice-breaking of any sort, what with my already being completely weirded out by the fact that a stranger was suddenly elevated to the intimate rank of 'cousin'. And so, my cousin sister--the only one with whom my age gap was less than astronomical-- and I remained aloof; wary of the mysterious suitcase that he lugged about. After the customary (and painfully awkward) introductions, the two of us went off to keep ourselves entertained until lunchtime. Wandering about the family house, chatting and sneaking tiny tastes from the huge sadhya that was being prepared in the kitchen, our attention was suddenly drawn towards the terrace--music! Muffled, wonderful tunes could be heard through the ceiling. Our aunt (the newly-arrived one) laughed and said: "Oh, that's just him showing off before the girls!" And thus the Mystery of the Misshapen Suitcase was solved--it was a guitar case. Another layer of intrigue added to this New Person--what next?? We crept upstairs and carefully peeped at him from behind the huge bedsheets hung out to dry: there he sat, on the old rickety chair that was always lying about, legs propped up on the short terrace wall, fingers magically dancing across a shiny guitar. And it was wondrous how the tunes were just like the ones we heard on television. This broody, handsome person belting out tunes on his guitar was our cousin--we just couldn't believe it. Although we couldn't work up the courage to speak to him, we never left the premises; always hanging around behind the drying clothes, never tiring of listening to, and whispering about, this movie-star-like avatar. When the littler ones in the house gathered around him curiously and made him play on demand, we shared the excitement from a distance, too shy to make the first move. 

    After the first day, the sheen of newness began to wear off; the constant deluge of music began to grate on our nerves. The boy seemed to play all day--why couldn't he stop and come and speak to us? We were mildly put off--being the older one, wasn't he supposed to break the ice? The whispers went from admiring to conspiratory, but we continued our strategy of sticking around to listen. Some of the whispers may have wafted to his ears; on the third day, we were surprised when he stopped playing, and came over. With a friendly smile, he asked if we would like to play cards. The two of us were at our speechless, stammering best--we might as well have been Laurel and Hardy carrying out their usual repertoire. But the first step had been taken--matters soon smoothed themselves out. Although the fetters of shyness and strangeness never quite fell off, we were on fairly good terms by the time the wedding was over. All of us returned to the strange lands we were destined to call home, and Life went about its usual course. Every once in a while  waves of memory would bring back snatches of the Intriguing Cousin and his sweet tunes, and I would grin, thinking about how thunderstruck we all were.

THE NEWS

    A year had passed, interspersed with joyful news about the astonishing accomplishments of the multi-talented (as was later revealed) Long-Lost Cousin that added to my fascination and admiration. Mr. Perfect was obviously well on his way to greatness.

     On a usual, languid weekend afternoon, the News found its way to us through a short phone call to my dad. The way he said "SHIT." and the look on his face filled me with awful foreboding. An earlier phone call bore the news of the Accident--my Guitar-Strumming Cousin was hurt. This one, apparently, was the last straw--my mom started weeping, and my dad turned red-eyed, with a look on his face that I hadn't seen before.  Nobody said anything, and I was afraid to ask. Maybe he was more seriously hurt than they had all thought. Of course he'll get better--my parents always get overly worked up over the family matters happening hundreds of miles away from them. But then my mom said: "It's all over..."  Ha! Leave it to my mom to be so dramatic 

(NOTHINGSWRONGNOTHINGSWRONGDONT BELIEVEHERDONTBELIEVEHER...) 

      I could not bring myself to clarify; to ask The Question--it was laughable; impossible. I didn't want to know the Answer. Stowing away the blackness beginning to fill the pit of my stomach, I went about the day as usual, trying to shut out my mom's weepy face, and avoiding my sister's questions. I had almost re-established normalcy, forgetting the events of the afternoon, when my cousin sister, her husband and the kids came over from Abu Dhabi. (JUSTAVISITJUSTAVISITNOTHINGSWRONGHESDEADNONONONONO NOTHINGSWRONG)  

     The elders looked grave and teary--nobody said much. The kids were as nonplussed as me. Soon, the parents began to talk. I shut the door of our room, where the kids were playing--I didn't want them (or myself) to hear anything. At all. Inspite of all efforts, we heard. In a loud phone conversation, with awful, unavoidable clarity: "Yes....he passed away...bike accident...". The world froze for a moment, and then--nothing. The news was immediately rejected by our minds--it was ridiculous and irrational. It simply could not happen. For us, the Intriguing Cousin was still in his home, probably watching TV, or studying, or making plans to go out....anything else was impossible. Unacceptable.

     The tears never came--except once, much later, with only the bathroom mirror as witness. But I was soon lulled back into the same illusion, made more comfortable by the fact that it was all so far, far away. My dad immediately left for India and came back a couple of days later with something horrible and sad in his eyes, and my mother wept over the phone everyday--but it could all be shut out. After a while, things went back to normal, as they inevitably, painfully do, and the cocoon was complete; nothing had ever happened. The Musical Cousin was probably sailing through college, raking in the trophies with his massive talents, living the colourful life that he was meant to lead. I learnt to fill my head with such thoughts; to fight off the massive blackness that threatened to flood all the memories related to Him.

THE PRESENT

   Now, as I sit in my aunt's house (higher studies has brought me to  the place that has been her home for so long) studying and wondering about my college life ahead,  upkeep of the perfected farce becomes increasingly difficult. There is no distance to protect me now. Massive, enlarged photographs of His face hanging upon the wall, so close that I have to sneak a glance every now and then to ensure that His languid eyes didn't just wink at me. Posters of the rock concert held in his memory. The teary puffiness that shows up in my aunt's eyes sometimes. Her muffled sniffles at night as she lies beside me. My uncle, pondering in a frighteningly matter-of-fact way about the senselessness of it all.  A doomed sense of the sheer inadequacy of anything I might have to do or say in response makes me afraid to even breathe in such situations.  It makes me want to run far, far away--back to where I could fool myself.

   And yet, it's easier in some ways: his well-built form is skilfully photoshopped into every family photograph taken after.... (NOTHING), the way his parents speak of him as if he is just....gone for a while. Most of the people for whom He was a part of their lives seem so...normal. Have they accomplished the insurmountable task of Moving On, or have they succeeded at my strategy as well?  All I can say is, mine's falling apart. Little things--a picture, a word uttered by someone--let loose a deluge of heavy blackness upon my spirits. Each time, it takes longer to coax myself into my manufactured thoughts of a Living, Breathing, albeit Out-of-Sight Cousin. I dread the day when I can no longer do so.

      In the living room is a glass case displaying His guitar, complete with lighting. Sometimes, when I quietly creep into the living room for a middle-of-the-night drink of water or a snack, I look into the case, half expecting the guitar to not be there. In bed, I imagine the dusty terrace of our family house, long since sold and abandoned, ready to be demolished. And if I try hard enough, I can see a shadowy figure in the corner and hear the mad, beautiful strumming that breaks through the sad quietness of the lonely night.