Jan 13th
I have tried to write a version of this in my head but I automatically start crying, it’s a muffled cry — not hysterical, the noiseless crying one can do on a bus without anyone noticing. It’s fitting that ultimately you make us cry this cry, you were so quiet, wincing at any attention directed your way.
I still close my eyes and see you standing there against the living room wall of dada’s house, shyly grinning, listening and absorbing. I wish I had taken more pictures of you standing there, just being yourself.
Sometimes I close my eyes and can have conversations with you till 3 AM about life, movies, TV shows, cricket, our family and plans for the future. I wish I had told you how smart you were, how much I valued your opinions. We discussed death, afterlife and belief. I wonder what you would say to us now. How I wish for an afterlife now.
I try to ward off memories of the last Eid we spent together; we sprawled over the floor on chaand raat, watching hereditary (one of those generic horror movies, it’s too painful to even Google now). I remember we felt physically sick after watching the movie, watching losing your sibling in a car accident. It was too painful to even imagine. I think that’s why you paused the movie and asked if we wanted to keep watching, you must have thought of your younger siblings as well — I thought of them on your behalf too. I forgot that bodies of older ones are frail too. You were my chota bhai too, why didn’t I think of you? Now our age gap will keep getting bigger, this August you’ll be 3 years younger than me. Next year 4. I never thought this was possible, for someone to be frozen at an age. I guess death can do anything. It does feel like a horror movie.
We pooled Eidis together to eat our first pizza together. Last year you brought crisp notes to give Eidi to the chootay. This year we visited your grave.
I close my eyes and remember you arguing with us on Afridi’s batting placement. You won’t be alive for the next world cup, how is that fair?
The next time I’ll go to the cinema, how come I can go and you can’t?
I can’t send you an article about JK Rowling’s latest misstep, it feels unreal.
I had to tell you I went to Germany, we had to compare notes.
You left on a rainy Monday
it was raining like it was monsoon torrential rain, Abu and I discussed how unusual it so was
the day you left, the day it never stopped raining
there were white hotel coffee cups in front of me when I got the call
I didn’t even ask how
I remember how difficult it was to say, ‘tayarri karo Abbottabad jaanay ki’
I called Abu, he didn’t ask me either
I called a Careem, quietly sobbed on the ride back, I never stopped
it kept raining, we couldn’t see on the way there, it was like looking through tears
every winter rain reminds me of you, it feels weird to tell people around me
I remember you took me out to dinner when I visited Karachi. You were so grown up. I am so glad we went, we’re so unsentimental we often forget to reach out. You told me about your job and the person you were becoming. You asked me what I did, you asked if they were paying me well. We laughed about the time you had to take pictures at a family wedding, how uncomfortable it made you. I close my eyes, smile and remember. It’s a memory untouched by childhood nostalgia or hazy filters, it is an ordinary memory of the person you were when you left us. I wish we took a picture together then, but then again that wouldn’t have been you.
There nothing uplifting about this, there never will be. Just a bunch of people trying to live with the reality of your absence, the lack of you.
When I got back I opened Spotify and the National played:
Rylan you should try to get some sun, you remind me of everyone
Rylan did you break your mother’s heart, everytime you try to play your part
It is easy to keep so quiet?
Everybody loves a quiet child.
I wept, you remind me of everyone.
