I cannot get Lali out of my head for now. It’s impossible to articulate what she meant. That it was in the mundane nature of our conversations that saved me. I’ve never spoken to a stronger person. There she was, struggling to sit with the pain shooting through her body, and she would joke about having shaved off her hair for nothing, because it was too late to get chemotherapy afterall.
She didn’t whine. And for some reason I never was scared of asking her how she was doing? I thought I could deal with the truth. But once she sounded so weak, that I called Dipali right after and nearly broke down. It’s in selfishness that I miss her. Because in her love for words, and her anagrams, I saw flashes of such strength and compassion…
I once pondered about what happens to blogs when people die. I am in my Gmail inbox and seeing my contact list. There she is, Lalita – and there’s probably never going to be a green round light next to her name. I find myself wondering what happens to her Scrabble games, her words, her blog… Does her email account get purged at some point? I am tempted to mail her. She always used to respond. Sometimes our to-and-fro email threads would run into fifties and sixties. And she would sign off, telling me she needed to go get her dinner. I can imagine what happens to material remains, but what happens to the virtual ones. When do they perish?
Lali.. Dearest Lali.. Every poem I ever write.. Will have a syllable of you thrown in. Without me even knowing it. Love you.
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