There is nothing left to do

His name is Selva but you called him Chinnu. Or at times, just an aii. For two years, he has been showing up at your doorstep unfailingly with a cup of tea, brewed just the way you like and served just when you want. You have taught him a few English words. You have always had plans to rescue him from the unending cycle of penury that afflicts people like him because there aren’t enough people like you. And one morning, Selva is gone. Just like that. A day passes, you think he is unwell. A week passes, you think he has gone home. A month passes, you think he has run away. You keep an eye on the papers, what are they saying? Is there a missing report? An abduction? A murder? A trafficking case? Or burglary? A brown boy, maybe 12, maybe four feet, maybe frail-ish, what are the papers saying about him? You take a moment and consider the number of ‘maybes’. Yes, the boy who showed up at your doorstep every day for two years. Your losses mount.

This season isn’t like the others. It isn’t raining as much. There aren’t half as many rainbows. Sure, that means fewer traffic snarls but also much lesser hope in the mornings and much lesser consolation in the evenings. Your mind harks back to the summer which wasn’t like the earlier summers either. And spring neither. The winter had been tepid too but at least you were younger then. When you look around, you see fields that are unsure whether to sway in anticipation or droop in despair. The lakes which once gurgled are now barren and wrinkled, punctuated by little pockets of water that look like open infected wounds. The monsoon of romance and memories? It has passed, with no word of a return. Your losses mount.

The gates are rusty, the paint chipped and the only personality it carries is due to the red ants who solider along on them, in a strict rank and file. Could they possibly believe that there was work to be done and that things could be set right? Delusional. The solitary teak stands at the far end, watching over the house. He’s the only one who has survived your journey from a boy to a troubled man. Every time you looked at him in the past, he seemed to be saying, ‘don’t worry boy, go on, I’ve got this.’ Now he is old, no longer useful, and must be made to step down from the watch, however he may resist. In a few hours, your mercenaries arrive and you watch them hack into every pore of his body. They pull him by his hair, stab him, puncture wounds into him, and dismember him. Aged and feeble, he goes down without a protest. You stand there as a party to the successful obliteration of your childhood. And your home. Your losses mount.

He barely speaks to you these days. You hear him when he is annoyed that his bath water isn’t warm enough, or when there is no salt in his food, or when the Communist Party wins an election. He blames your mother for all of that, of course. Every time she exits his room, she has a mischievous grin on her face like there is an inside joke. Yes, he doesn’t share a bed with your mother any longer. Their marriage is firmly tethered to the bare essentials that constitute the smokescreen of a happy family. You realize where your fear of commitment comes from. When you see him try to get up from his bed and struggle to walk, you want him to stop clinging on to life. Just let go, you want to tell him. This isn’t the same man. The father you know, has been dead for a while. Your losses mount.

You have always lived with losses. You lost what you had in the past. You will lose what you have right now. Unlike some people you know who possess, nurture and create something beautiful out of everything that matters to them. You fumble awkwardly, say the wrong things, allow your darkness to pervade everything you touch, and mourn its loss later. You are neither a mother, nor an artist. You’re not even a creature of habit. So you don’t know how to get used to this unending spiral of losses. Nothing prepares you for it.

Nothing prepares you for the goodbye. As she gets into the taxi, you know promises are lies. That was the last embrace. That was the last kiss. That was the last time she lied to you. She will speed away in that black taxi and then on a plane. She tells you this is not the end and that she will give it her all. You say no such thing because you know better. A new life awaits her and it has very little room for you. A new life awaits you too. Of piecing together moments from the words of a song. Of beginning to say something but stopping midway because it reminds you of something. Of finding a person in places. Of laughing at the things she said, laughing at yourself, laughing at the four walls and the cobwebs and the mirror because, there is nothing left to do.

The losses mount and there is nothing left to do.