Date: 13-Jan-2014

Time: 7:00 pm

I was ambling along the lane — hands in my pocket — tossing a stone by my bare toes. The weather was cool, reminded me of the summers in Bangalore. I passed by a castle of wrinkled leaves. Seconds later, I came back to that spot. I swear to God, I did not notice anything odd which pulled me back to that spot. The lamppost was not performing its duty. On a closer look, I noticed a flap. Veiled in the flaps was a bat. I tried to shoo it away — I’m acquainted with the dogs here, it was not. But it wouldn’t fly off. I carefully cover it with a dry leaf, and hold it in my hand. I could feel its heartbeat. Boy, it was fast! I walked my way home. For once, I thought it was looking at me. I responded. It tried to free itself incessantly, only to later lick the joints of its right wing.

I reached home.

I asked mom through the window, “I brought a bat. Can I have a bowl and a small cup of water?”.
“One does not brings bats inside home”, pat came the reply.

I reiterated that I needed the bowl and cup, outside the flat. She brought it, and swiftly closed the door.

I shouted, “what is it? It can’t fly right now.” No answer.

I carry it, along with the stuff to the terrace. I switch on the torch (in my mobile), and see what’s wrong with it. I noticed that its right wing was broken and the bone had tore itself out. Even the blood had clot around. I tried to feed it some water, it wouldn’t drink. So, I poured some over the wound and its eyes. Then did I realize that it didn’t have cataract in it’s right eye, it was a dust speck.

I couldn’t help notice its eyes. It was glaring. I noticed its hair — it were horripilated. Maybe out of fear. I switched off the torch. Full Moon was merely 2 days away. So, the terrace was not dark and all. It was fairly visible. It furiously tried to crawl out of the bowl. That struggle continued for a full minute. That’s the law of nature, i observed. It was mortally wounded — beyond redemption. But, it struggled to be free, to survive. Then, it stopped and started to lick it’s right wing. I felt bad. I slowly turned the bowl, and it crawled off with ease. It lay down — with it’s wings widespread — like it’s moon-bathing.

In my restlessness, I dialed up on Blue Cross, Itika, Promit, and Asiem to see if anything can be done here!

“Hey Promit! I have this situation here. Can you help me?”, I explained that it had a broken wing.
“Oh. . Get some Iboprufin and give it to it. May help.”, came the reply.
I was not sure. I’ve never done that before.

The Blue Cross picked up the phone. Apparently, it undertook cases pertaining to cats, dogs and other non-flying mammals. Silly me, should’ve known that!

Most of the efforts went in vain. I tried help it drink water, it wouldn’t lick. I brought milk. It wouldn’t lick it either. It’s hair was still pointed straight — it was still afraid. I built a small fort (I know, I’m exaggerating) of withered leaves, an old mat and a broken cricket bat. I came the next morning. It was still there, alive. I told Dad about it, and asked his advice. Surprisingly, he didn’t question my actions. Normally, at situations like these, he would advocate zero-intervention policy. This time was different, he listened to me. But, he helped me realize that I’ve hit a dead end. We decided that after dusk, we’ll relocate it — to a vacant plot which had overgrown weeds and creepers.

Night fell. Me and my brother relocated it. I looked at it one last time. It didn’t make any movement. My brother was confident that it was alive. I was not. We left it there.

Sometimes I feel like a hypocrite — preaching something and doing something else entirely; at times facing a crisis of morality. Asiem told me there were hardly any chances it’ll survive. I knew that earlier, I saw it’s wound. But, it took an other person to tell me that.

But one thing is for sure. Bats are stubborn. When they don’t want water from you, they DON’T want it from you.

Today was a good day. I had fun, studied a little, woke up early and bathed. It was perfect.

Night fell, and I opened facebook. Usual notifications on likes, comments, apparently a request to like a page too. I scrolled through the chat screen. There! Bharath was online!

“Hey!”, I started.

“hi dude”

“Wassup?”

“Hey Vk, one sad news dude”

“what?”

“Our school friend Bhargava passed away a day before yesterday in an accident”

My fingers were typing the condolences and sad smileys; and my mind was pre-occupied with the moments which come up whenever I hear “Bhargava”.

Rewind to 2007, my first day in higher secondary school. I sat with Bharath, Muthu, and Bhargava. I had many other friends like Chetan, Jaspal, Jigar, Karthik, so on. . But, its Bhargava who died. So, I’ll write on him to vent my regret. I remember him as a good, lean guy who was never afraid to do anything — literally anything.

There was one day, when he came to my home for group study. We had our board exams. He entered my room. And, “Enna da! Evalo books ae vechi enna panna pora? Potti kada torakka poriya?”

\*translation — what the hell! What are you gonna do with so many books? Planning to opening a Petty shop?*/

And we studied. I was in computer science group, and he was in biology. He came for chemistry. He even noted a jar of water with 2 glasses on my desk. He told, “You’re a pakka Seth. .” I snapped, “It’s a plastic jug dude!”

\*Translation — Seth vaguely refers to a Madu (Marwari) guy*/

2 weeks later, I went to his home. He guided me to his room. There was a hill of books, neatly piled up one on the other. The pile was taller than him, and I was 1.5 feet taller than him. I chuckled. I didn’t have a camera then. I saw a jar of water on his deck. I asked, “what’s that?”. “I borrowed your secret for scoring high marks”, pat came the reply. I sighed, “If you have bowel movement problems, then that jar will help you”. We laughed.

He was so good. One day, I fought with him. In class. A local rowdy style fist fight. And, it was a draw. After school, we parted our ways. And never heard of him. And when I did, he was no more. A car run over him and his bike  near  Light house.

I couldn’t say him good bye. I couldn’t be there for his funeral. I couldn’t tell him how good a friend he was for me. When I had the time, 3.5 years to be approximate, I thought “I’ll meet him later. Where’s he gonna go anyway?”. Well, he’s gone for good now.

I want to cry, sob. But; all the memories I have of him are so jovial that I can’t stop smiling and roll on the floor laughing. Maybe he wants to be remembered that way. Or maybe, I’m hysterical.

Reaper, you made your presence felt. Don’t let me forget that. Don’t let me forget the eternal truth.

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