He was a shadow of his former self, and his memory was not what it used to be. But I could see his eyes light up when he was reminded of who I was. We spoke a bit, and I like to think that a bit of his joviality returned in those brief moments. My interactions with him are more than three decades old, and our memories of each other are probably a bigger bond than any relationship we have. He complimented my demeanour, much to the annoyance of the other M. He passed away a few weeks later. These days, I am ambivalent about meeting old people. On one hand, I think I’d like to remember them in their prime. But then again, there is a good chance that I’d be meeting them for the last time. So these days, when I do meet, my behaviour factors that in.
The worst thing about death is the fact that when a man is dead it is impossible any longer to undo the harm you have done him, or to do the good you haven’t done him…They say: live in such a way as to be always ready to die. I would say: live in such a way that anyone can die without you having anything to regret.
Leo Tolstoy, (via Arthur C. Brooks’ From Strength to Strength)
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I had one specific agenda item on a recent trip to Cochin – to meet a classmate from a couple of decades ago. He runs a famous book shop there, second-hand books at cheap prices. It sits in the basement of a building on a crowded street. I waited until the buyers thinned for a brief bit, and struck up a conversation about a purported police case against him from the late 90s. It took a couple of minutes for him to recognise me, and then another couple of minutes for the conversation to reflect the original fun banter from years ago. He even joked to D whether I was still getting calls from my supposed old girlfriends. I bought a book, one that I had in mind. And he teased me again as to why I was buying only one book when I bought dozens from Amazon.
As I walked out, a part of me was happy that years of separation could be wiped away in a few seconds. But I was also melancholic. He had met with an accident years ago, and walked with a permanent limp. He sat whole days in the shop, on a chair that really didn’t meet any ergonomic standards. A part of me hopes that he is happy. He is well regarded in the reading community, and maybe he has found his purpose. But another part thinks about how he feels his life had turned out. I don’t want to know.
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After I got back, I went for a reunion dinner with ex-colleagues from a decade back. All reasonably well-settled folks, but on different paths and in different ways. And very comfortable with each other. Easy conversations and lots of laughs. The object of everyone’s attention was the pigeon clutch as made famous in Sex and the City. My friend, who is quite the fashionista, had paid more than 70k for it. Another colleague owned a Merc for which he had paid a crore. I couldn’t help but compare all this to the Cochin episode above. I left a little earlier than I normally would have.
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How does one reconcile all this? What is the internal narrative, if any, of all these different folks? Are they happy and thankful for the blessings, are they bitter and resentful for things that didn’t go their way, or are they a mixed bag of feelings that wax and wane? Do they pause to reflect on this? Or do they simply go about living the life they have made? And when one looks back at decades of life, and remembers those fleeting moments – some of joy, and some of pain, does one feel their significance, or their insignificance? I like to think it is the former.
P.S. The book that I bought was an old edition of Great Expectations. Fitting, on hindsight.