It's been a month and a week. The death of my father is a blow which I still need to come to terms with. I open Skype and think of talking to him and soon realize, that time is long gone. I find solace in that red close button on the upper right side of the Skype window. Until now, I haven't allowed myself to think much about him. I think, I just don't have enough courage to do so. I know how broken and hollow its going to be inside, even If I had enough.

I don't seem to remember the last time I touched his living body. Probably 2 years ago. And I don't even remember the last words I said to him or he, to me. Probably regarding the world at large, without a hint of how we both enjoyed talking and debating.

We went to Harihareshwar to scatter the ashes. We walked way into the backside of that mysterious temple, where there were big rocks, big dark volcanic rocks with holes in it. Carved probably since ages by some unknown innumerous sea species. At one of the points where these rocks touched the ocean, the waves were crashing effortlessly and leaving the foamy water under our feet. My brother held the box; in it, the ashes and some bones of his ailing burned physical entity. He opened it, turned it slowly around. The waves took the ashes and the bones with a warmth of a final homecoming. The wind blew calm, sky was grey and we stood there on the rocks, silently. Just before we were about to turn back and leave, a relatively bigger wave came, crashed on the rocks and when the water receded, a small white piece of human bone was left stuck in the rocks. I bent down, took it in my hands.

For a second, I thought I'd slip it into my pocket and keep it with me. But then I bent and let it go, maybe it didn't belong here with me, maybe letting it go where it belonged was the only way. That moment, was the heaviest of all I could imagine of those 10-12 days. Just this crunching thought that I was the last one who touched any part of his body gives me a strange mixture of happiness and melancholy..

I had decided neither to get into these emotional things nor to write about any of it. This is the last of what I guess I'd say or write about it.

The hardcore melancholia part of my youth officially ends here. I have decided to stop this blog here. Maybe in time, I'd start another one; but the time has come for this one to end.

The pieces are scattered. And the last one, by me.

येतो मी...

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