So many of my friends have been old.
Like really old, 60s, 70s, 80s. I draw a line at 84, it gets hard to make sense with dentures and all. Nothing against dentures, I like parallelism in life, you know. I need to relate. Might sound ageist, but yeah, if you are older than 84, we are no-go.
So many people think they are friends with me, whom I fail to call acquaintances. So many of my friends don’t know we are friends. I don’t talk to my friends that often. Words have failed me more often than my friends have.
The particular friend I am writing about, his name is RK, but I have never called him by name, and I don’t think he knows mine.
I have always referred to him as King Kong — not out of affection, not out of appreciation of some imagined heroism, sheerly out of his insane capability of commuting rooftop to rooftop and sitting in more ape fashion than apes can. Apes have been disturbed far too much by scientists trying to make them human. King Kong’s life was a silent protest against it — my theory.
When we met, I was 14, and he was 73. I was standing at the unfinished floor of what would be my room, and he was, well, he was drying methi leaves next to marijuana to avoid suspicion. I didn’t know what it was back then (I was 14, guys).
I stared at him for a couple of minutes, his precision and focus on this mundane task was what first amused me about him. My mind is everything, everywhere all at once. Here he was with what I thought to be merely methi, making sure every leaf dried perfectly, yet none would lose vital aroma.
I am not sure what made him interested in my day-to-day, my guess would be boredom, or perhaps my extremely long walks/singing sessions on the roof.
Through the years, he saw me in my badminton drills, long conversations about nothing, string of breakups, bad decisions, failed attempts at romance and suicide. He saw me when I was alone, I don’t think anybody has had a better chance at knowing me.
Did he ever say something other than “Ram Ram”, or “Hari Om”? I don’t think so. He burped really loud once when I was talking about how much I liked this girl who was very clearly trouble. He had my back that way. I owe him my self assurance.
Its been more than 5 years since I moved. I don’t remember exchanging nods or glances in the while since. He missed me, I think looking back at the glare he subjected me to when I came back for Diwali. It is really hard to be alone when you are alone without someone else being alone near you. That explains marriage, I guess.
He died last night. He was 84.
I need to thank him for all the times he smoked while sitting buck naked on top of a running washing machine — as if to console the clothes being washed — hush now, there’s beauty in the pain of a good cleanse.
Which led me to getting my blackheads removed.
After getting my nose scratched with 4 different lotions and 3 types of metal instruments, blackheads had turned into navy blue bruises. My gullibility lies in still trusting the guy when he said best way to pay tribute is to get my head shaved.
See, I didn’t get my head shaved — because I have trust issues (and a job, and a life).
But, I did not explicitly say no to getting my upper body shaved — because I am a people pleaser who will die playing a zero sum game.
So, here I am, standing half naked in front of 4 guys I have never met, as they figure out where to start grazing this thick foliage.
I feel shy, cold, and insecure about how I look. I look in the mirror as a team of trained professionals’ trimmers struggle to find the easiest path out of my chest hair.
I smile, and I think if King Kong could see, he would too. Or maybe he would want me to go full brazilian?