A glimpse of a shooting star

“What is going on in Tamil Nadu? Tell me everything!”

It was typical of S. We had not spoken in perhaps ten years or so. And yet, we were in the middle of a conversation even before I had said my first hello to him. Why was OPS meditating? What is this vow Sasikala made? What will happen to Tamil Nadu politics? Somehow he had decided as I was once upon a time a reporter in TN, I would know everything. I assured him repeatedly that was not the case, and he kept insisting, I would know. I am sure after speaking to me he told his friends that he spoke to someone in the inside and that they told him things he could not share. He would say that with a wink and a knowing smile, a smile that wraps and ties a bow on secrets.

S. was my bhaiyya, the elder brother, whom I always called by name. And he called me kutti - the little one. That’s what he called me when he was stretched out on a hospital bed about a week ago. When his wife asked who it was who had come to the ICU room, he said, “S. kutti,” as if he always knew that I would come. It was as if the decades in between where we had not kept much in touch dissolved. We were back in the Goregaon of our childhood, and back to playing our designated roles.

S. was not the bhaiyya you see in films like Annathe or Paasa Malar. His role was to be audacious and I was the responsible one. I amused him; he always knew the sanctimonious glue that made me stick to the straight and narrow would wear off.

S. was not the bhaiyya who you thought would protect you. Rather, he is the kind who would piss off someone who knew the local goondas, and would come and hide inside your house for a month. And what a month that would be. Every night when you came back from school, he will tell you stories of bhatakti aatmas in an abandoned theatre in Goregaon east. They were all murderous ghosts, who would rip your limbs apart and twist your neck and eat up eyeballs. But the the best stories would be the ones that were about black magic and unspoken horrors — three sisters living in a house and all of them dead one day, no one knows how. Yes, that house which is in Unnat Nagar.

S. , I think, was a shooting star. When certain celestial objects enter the earth’s atmosphere, they choose to burn bright, and light up the sky.

S. was the dildaar sort. “Listen to this,” he said many moons ago, giving me a cassette which had ‘Making Music’ written with a pen on the spine. I learned about Zakir Hussain, Jan Garbarek, John Mclaughlin, and Chaurasia. That cassette, which I heard many, many, many times over, led me down a rabbit hole of musical wonders, from which I never left. I discovered Shakti, and when I excitedly told him about that, he gave me another cassette, and said, now listen to this. It was Mahavishnu Orchestra. I never returned it back to him and gifted it to someone whom I had a crush on, to impress them. That person is now one of my closest friends. S. didn’t know the bounties his gifts showered on you.

S. was the dildaar sort. Yes, I said that earlier, but it behooves to repeat it again, because whoever knew him could not disagree with the generosity with which he gave. He gave without measure. If you went to his house, or if he took you out, he would treat you like royalty. He spent like there was no rainy day marked on his personal calendar.

When he got married and had a child, he told me during a visit, “I booked non-ac. Abhi baccha hai na,” and we both smiled. He wore prudence like a newly bought iron bracelet with spikes; he was wary it would rust and infect him, and alter something in his chemistry.

S. , I think, was a shooting star. They are creatures of the night; there’s a darkness within woven into their very being. He understood sin and sinners even better. And so, unerringly, he will hone into the secret you have tied carefully on to your soft underbelly, and give it a sharp poke. He liked to toy with mortals.

S. is is the elder whose advise you follow implicitly, for he rarely doles them out. He told me before I started college — ‘Sab kuch ek baar try karne ka. But no chemicals. Promise me.’ And you would solemnly promise for if he is saying chemicals are bad, then they must be truly diabolical. It also gave me the sanction to be curious and try things and not be uptight as I am wont to be. He was the one who introduced me to bhaang. Laughed when I was irritated that I did not get high immediately. And looked on amused as I ate up the crushed leaves at the bottom of the pot, and then was a bit alarmed when it truly hit me, and made me promise I will not leave the house.

S. is not the one you can give any advice to. I tried once. “Don’t try that psychological bullshit with me,” he snapped, his nostrils flaring. I never tried after that.

S. believed ‘Nirlajjam, sadaa sukham,’. Those who let go of shame find bliss. I once told him I wanted to ride a bike, one of those tagda ones. The next thing I know I was on it, and he started it saying, go. I flew a few paces, maybe he ran behind me, not sure of what was coming next. I didn’t crash, but it was close. We both laughed.

S. , I think, was a shooting star. You look up in awe at them afire, your gut clenching with worry.

S. is the sort of bhaiyya who disappeared one fine day, and no one knew where he went for almost half a decade. And then one fine day in Chennai, you get a phone call from a strange looking number, and there he is, saying ‘S kutti’ and telling you he is going to visit, and he shows up in an Dishdāshah saying shukran.

S. told me he once ate monkey brain, a delicacy served at the table of the King of Thailand, after he completed a project of creating a national network for them. You are not sure whether to believe it, for this happened during those five years when he disappeared. You choose to believe it, because it is better than any other story you can conjure up.

S. is the sort of bhaiyya, who will call you from the airport saying he is coming today. And then meet you in the ICU. And then call you “S kutti” and then say you are lying when you tell him he will become better. He always knew when I lied.

I am not sure S. heard me the last time I spoke to him, for he was hooked onto machines and wires holding him aloft. I told him we will jam once again together. He can play the drums. I can sing. I don’t think we ever did make such happy memories. I thought there would still be time. I was wrong.

S. , I think, is a shooting star. For they are bound to come crashing down. They will choose to blaze rather than fade away. And if you are close, you will be left scalding.