The End of the Beginning
I left Calcutta in 2001. My departure was sudden and abrupt, not as I would have planned or ever dreamed it to be. It came as a surprise to everyone, including myself. The sudden move and change of plans meant a sudden breaking of the news to my roommates. I needed to some how explain that my time was over, that this chapter was ending and to relate that a new and fresh episode in life’s journey was about to begin for all of us.
It was easy to tell my roommate Chandni. She had already moved back to Goa India six months back, so her only question was, “Who will take care of Nula?” Neither of us had the answer to this question. Nula’s fate haunted our conversation and lurked behind our friendly discussion like shadows in the corners of a once-lit room.
See, it wasn’t as if others were unable to care for Nula. It wasn’t as if we were her salvation. Nula had already found her Savior. She didn’t need us for that. What Nula did need were people who needed her. Nula not only needed friends, but she needed friends who needed her. We needed Nula. I needed Nula’s laughter. I needed the security blanket of her motherly love and comforting touch. I needed Nula… and she needed me. She needed a friend to hold her when the seizures struck with an iron rod and suffered her hapless. She needed a friend to cook dried pork for, a friend to walk home drenched in the rain with, a friend to spend a lazy Sunday listening to Lee Ann Womack. Nula needed friends. And I needed Nula.
Who was more helpless without the hope of others than Nula herself? I believe Nula needed people for the longevity of life.
I broke the news of my home-going to Nula on Sunday night. We had just finished a humble meal of rice and lentil beans. We were fingering through her grandmother’s jewelry which she dearly cherished and kept in a locked box. “Nula, I am going back to America.” She didn’t say much. But her eyes said this:
Tears, tears, tears, and more tears. I don’t talk about her tears for my sake, to boast of the tenderness she felt for me or to exude some false humility about the sadness of my friend. Simply… we were saying goodbye. And Nula knew something I did not. She knew we would never meet again and that our friendship, just like her coveted grandmother’s jewelry, was about to be locked and sealed… forever.
Forever a memory. Forever my Nula.
1 comment:
Libby, What a beautiful memorial to a precious friend. I don't remember the story of Nula's death. Did you talk about it? If you're not going to write about it, what happened. You did what any good storyteller does: you make me want the story to keep going. I love you.
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