There's a little bit of my grandfather in people all around me. In the vegetable seller outside my hostel, the night watchman, or even Dr. George Schaller.
Perhaps it's only when you lose someone dear to you that you realize how well you had memorized every bit of them - their mannerisms, their eccentricities, the way they held a pen, the way their eyes crinkled around the edges, or how they meticulously handled groceries. There's a lot more to a person than their interests, careers and legacies. A lot more than the objects they leave behind or the stories people share about them. We build our lives around goals and careers, and hold those ultimate targets higher up in our minds and hearts than our true everyday lives. But it's the little things that make us who we are, who made them who they were. The language, the gestures, the slow blinks of reassurance and unwarranted criticisms. And, although this seems clear today, it's only in retrospect.
It's the reason why I watch an elderly biologist giving a lecture, know he reminds me of my Thatha keenly, but still have no idea why. It's a constant feeling of I-know-you-but-I-can't-put-my-finger-on-how feeling, where flashes of familiarity draw my attention and leave me perplexed as I wonder about what I'm missing so ardently. I find that I miss the presence and nuances more than the whole. The emptiness comes from a space of lacking interaction rather than physical vacuum. Little can replace a stray fit of laughter from a well-placed bad joke or the silent introspection from receiving a lengthy sermon.
With time, it's the laughter I remember more than the tears.
How can it not be so?
Perhaps it's only when you lose someone dear to you that you realize how well you had memorized every bit of them - their mannerisms, their eccentricities, the way they held a pen, the way their eyes crinkled around the edges, or how they meticulously handled groceries. There's a lot more to a person than their interests, careers and legacies. A lot more than the objects they leave behind or the stories people share about them. We build our lives around goals and careers, and hold those ultimate targets higher up in our minds and hearts than our true everyday lives. But it's the little things that make us who we are, who made them who they were. The language, the gestures, the slow blinks of reassurance and unwarranted criticisms. And, although this seems clear today, it's only in retrospect.
It's the reason why I watch an elderly biologist giving a lecture, know he reminds me of my Thatha keenly, but still have no idea why. It's a constant feeling of I-know-you-but-I-can't-put-my-finger-on-how feeling, where flashes of familiarity draw my attention and leave me perplexed as I wonder about what I'm missing so ardently. I find that I miss the presence and nuances more than the whole. The emptiness comes from a space of lacking interaction rather than physical vacuum. Little can replace a stray fit of laughter from a well-placed bad joke or the silent introspection from receiving a lengthy sermon.
With time, it's the laughter I remember more than the tears.
How can it not be so?
