A tale of 27 years
Roshan is my first-ever friend (not getting into the PoV of my mom or my dad being my first friend, etc.). We are friends since the age of 2 or perhaps 3. My memory is betraying me, maybe I am developing grey brain cells already. Or it could be that the age of the friendship is old enough to make me not recollect when we started hanging out together, under adult supervision of course. Except for once, and I can clearly remember when we were left unsupervised (yay!) and we had the time of our lives. We did the unimaginable, the unthinkable, wait for it... We ate mud. Only to be made to vomit later :(
We stayed in the same neighbourhood, 4–5 houses apart. I was introduced to him by my baba (granddad). I could clearly see the terrace of his house from mine. His was a 1-storey house, the terrace had a rough floor with small boundaries made up of red bricks, unplastered and with a tinge of green from the algae growth. There was a small hideout of sorts on the terrace, a hideout when you enter his terrace from inside his house; not so much of a hideout from the aerial view that I had. Privacy from people at home, not so much from the outside world (duh!).
Roshan’s first image in my mind is that of a kid with a small hair bun on the top of his head, wrapped with a handkerchief using thin rubber bands. Roshan was dark, very dark. As I write this I feel so protective of him, maybe I always did. When we were growing up, he was made fun of. People spoke about his complexion. Sometimes in hushed tones, sometimes out loud. Even the hushed tones had energy loud enough to be heard clearly. I don’t remember participating with other friends in making fun of his complexion, but I think I never called them out. I perhaps never participated because I was friends with him from an age when the familial/societal teachings around complexion had not taken over. And when I was a little older, it didn’t seem relevant.
Roshan (and his cousins) were a part of my birthday parties at home. Cousins because you just can't send a lone kid from the house, or else all the other kids would feel sad/left out. And boy, what parties! High on chola bhatura and pav bhaji. The 1-pound zero-floor no-fuss rectangular cake being the protagonist. After the cake cutting, everyone would be made to sit on the verandah with a plastic mat (the plastic mat where there are these plastic straws stitched together and when you get up, there’s a series of marks on your leg). Food served on steel plates in small quantities first. Of course, no wastage was allowed (as if respecting elders was not enough, you had to respect food too).
Roshan was a good singer too. I would say great singer, but the modern world has just corrupted me to value excellence over expression. So let's settle for Roshan being a good singer. Whenever asked to sing, he would start with his favourite bhajan — Krishna, Krishna bole ye jag saara, saare jag ko lagta tu prano se pyaara. His absolute favourite, he can break into singing this whenever and wherever. Maybe Krishna was his escape god. Krishna was dark too and it was Roshan’s way of reminding the world that dark people deserve as much love as any other.
We grew up playing on my terrace, his terrace, on the road, everywhere. Like when someone says “The world is your oyster”, this is what they mean. You can make the world a place to play. Now, this is where it gets a little dark-ish. We were playing chain-chain (game description here) on my terrace with a bunch of a few more friends. I was holding his hand, trying to catch other people. I pulled him towards me, to run. And as he got pulled, his cheeks brushed the rose plant on the side. Not the good part of the rose plant, the part where there are thorns. His cheek instantly spewed blood, red. Not the rose red, the blood red :(. Fear gripped my face and my body. The fear emanating not particularly from hurting him but awaiting to be thrashed by parents and not just by one set of parents but two — mine and his! We rushed downstairs. Fast forward, he STILL has that scar on his face. Left cheeks below the eyes. It's not a smooth scar, it has a series of sharp edges. And he is going to take this to his deathbed. Some scars don't leave, ever!
We were physically together till the age of 16. At that age, the only people I had spent more time with than with Roshan were my parents (and maybe grandparents)! Studies, career, life happened. We moved on, faintly in touch. Being in the know of each other’s whereabouts, but no deep conversations. And then I once fell severely ill. This was when I was away from family in a foreign land (Foreign is any place where you don’t have your heart). I had fallen sick and the only place I could go to without an iota of apprehension was his place. His parents had moved with him. And for the next half a month, the amount of care & unfettered love that I received is what true love stories are made of. They gave me a room of my own (in a small 1.5/2 BHK). I don’t even know how the remaining folks in the house managed. Dil mein jagah honi chahiye, baaki jagah toh apne aap ban jaati hai.
I celebrated my last birthday with him in person after about 14 years, with a no-fuss 1-pound rectangular cake. A couple of days back, Roshan got married. I couldn’t make it to the wedding in person. Neither was he able to make it to mine. No games being played here, just fate playing games with us. I was lucky enough to attend his wedding reception today. And as I caught the first glimpse of him on the stage, decked up in a fucking three-piece suit with a watch and shiny shoes, I travelled back to Roshan — the co-mud eater with a small hair bun, to the singer, to the friendship that is as old as us. He sparkled. He would have even if not for the bright lights and the pomp and show. For you know what, his name itself is Roshan — shining, sparkling and being his own light!
Yaari teri yaari, chal mana iss bari
sari meri fikrein tere aage aake haari…
Is bedhangi duniya ke sangi hum na hote, yaara
Apni to yaari atrangi hai re..
❤
