Summer; cold sweat, boy just dies. Read the papers. School - to home - to play and then he dies. Nobody is supposed to die playing basketball. It's a sport for chrissake. It's fun, it's safe; as it now is morbid, and freaky. It wasn't road-rage, or an alcohol induced calamity; just basketball.
Fourteen year olds don't die. It's warped, it's so chillingly macabre. Shiven Gupta, 14. Modern School kid. His numb friends, and their solace in candle light vigils. Roshanara Club. Damp; bitter, the taste of antibiotics. "Internal bleeding". Where is he? Is that his only identity now, his remaining status, that he doesn't have one because he's DEAD?! What happens to his school uniform? His email account, and the sneakers he used to play in? What happens to his favourite mug and his towel, and his school bag? What happens to his mother, what happens, what happens.
What happens to his place on the dining table? Does the shock stop being one? Where is the strength to come from, why should it even. Agarbattis and ice slabs. Gone dissipated, vacuum, sorrow, bleed, smile -- gone; cut short. Basketball. His life was, and now will be just his incomplete childhood. Cruel sting made permanent.
Knees give away, a roll number in his section gets filled with a hyphen. Abrupt. The albums become dearer, photos of his more precious, for that is what he has become, trapped in his kiddie-gear and forever in those pictures. What happens what happens.
A parent is built, not geared to see a child go. It's not the natural order, things aren't right this way. Future nephews and grandsons will be named for the one who left; how short the consolation falls to what is lost. Basketball. When did playing basketball in the evenings become dangerous. Who understands this, how is this even to be understood.
Fourteen year olds don't die. It's warped, it's so chillingly macabre. Shiven Gupta, 14. Modern School kid. His numb friends, and their solace in candle light vigils. Roshanara Club. Damp; bitter, the taste of antibiotics. "Internal bleeding". Where is he? Is that his only identity now, his remaining status, that he doesn't have one because he's DEAD?! What happens to his school uniform? His email account, and the sneakers he used to play in? What happens to his favourite mug and his towel, and his school bag? What happens to his mother, what happens, what happens.
What happens to his place on the dining table? Does the shock stop being one? Where is the strength to come from, why should it even. Agarbattis and ice slabs. Gone dissipated, vacuum, sorrow, bleed, smile -- gone; cut short. Basketball. His life was, and now will be just his incomplete childhood. Cruel sting made permanent.
Knees give away, a roll number in his section gets filled with a hyphen. Abrupt. The albums become dearer, photos of his more precious, for that is what he has become, trapped in his kiddie-gear and forever in those pictures. What happens what happens.
A parent is built, not geared to see a child go. It's not the natural order, things aren't right this way. Future nephews and grandsons will be named for the one who left; how short the consolation falls to what is lost. Basketball. When did playing basketball in the evenings become dangerous. Who understands this, how is this even to be understood.
5 comments:
What a fantastic post! Grim and poetic.
Thaenkoo Yohan. *Humble bow*.
umm.. thank you! thts my brother u wrote about..
"Anonymous" -- Don't thank me, I wish I HADN'T got the chance to write that. I also wish it didn't say anonymous; your comment was probably the most unusual one I've ever got. Small place, the internet; you did a Shiven search and this, I guess, is what got tossed up. I'm deeply sorry for your loss. Love and God bless, to you and your family. And may bhai's soul be at peace.
Thaks, He was my best friend. missing you Shiven :(
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