So after booking countless tickets to fly all through India,
I have decided to book myself a one way ticket aboard the train to the town of
self-pity.
Armed with Mumford and Sons I sit upon my bed and type out
the woes of days gone by.
How terribly emotional, and oddly reminiscent of teenage
years and the piteous belief that “the world hates me” and “why am I alive”.
These hollow and sad statements echo through my ears as I recall the 4 months
of 2013 that have come to pass and how I ended up buying this ticket.
It starts with losing a person I believed I would spend the
rest of my life with. From Prince Charming to King Jerk in 3 years… you have
got to be kidding me, right? Well, no! WRONG! Everything I felt, everything I
believed and everything I saw in him and in my future disappeared. Three years I
spent building myself, life and dreams around he who shall not be named
(henceforth referred to as Exhibit A). In 3 years everything was lost, as
simple as that.
I remember a sense of relief on the day it all ended, believing
I was okay and had now gotten my life back and could do everything I ever
wanted. How fickle my thoughts, how pointless and absurd! Why would I have
spent 3 years with a person who was holding me back? Oh the silly things we
tell ourselves as we search for a way to deal with the cacophony of thoughts
and voices assailing the consciousness when you have just lost a person who
meant a great deal to you.
It is akin to severing a limb from the body. Or that is
how it should have been unless you are me and believe it is possible to totally
ignore the bleeding stump of a hand that continuously draws uneasy glances from
the odd passer-by. It simply cannot be
done! Eventually you either die from bleeding to death, or you decide to deal
with the problem. However, how you choose to deal with the bleeding also
reflects how things will turn out. Do you crudely bandage it or do you seek
medical attention? Well no surprises as to the choice of a third year medical
student with a slight superiority complex. If you guessed medical attention you
are wrong! Crudely bandaging seems more apt for a person who believes they have
all the answers. Sepsis (infection) soon sets in and either the pain or the stench will eventually affect you. With me,
definitely the stench! Headache and vomiting inducing, I was forced to
eventually evaluate the choices I had made up to that point.
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Sadly, before I could completely deem my actions as
masochistic in the least, tragedy hits again. Another person, one whom I had
pictured growing old with, who my kids would call cool uncle Bawa, met in an
accident and left this world.
If I could equate losing a lover to severing a
limb, I can only compare losing a cousin-brother-friend as taking a knife in one’s
hand and carving out lungs, liver, and any other vital organ not as cliché as
the heart. You are left feeling empty, dead of emotion. The shock will never
truly leave. From the day it happened (30 March 2013) random images assail my
waking form. I hear my father confirm the news. I see Yacoob clearly in my mind
as I share the news. I see Lucas looking at me with pain and shock. I feel the
tears welling up, Yacoob holding me as I sob uncontrollably, Suhail taking his
place, Saadiyah comforting me in shock. I remember falling into my mother’s arm
and crying as I have never cried before. I cried myself to sleep. I cried
myself home to Ladysmith and I cried throughout the entire funeral. And then I
was all cried out.
Of Bawaa himself I remember silly and random things. The
texture of his hair, the way he always played with the cavity between this
front teeth and my favourite: the sound of his voice as he said “ay you too you
know…” I deeply regret not talking to him as much through the last few months.
Regretting lost time, however, serves not the dead. “Lemon Tree” will always
hold a special place in my heart and, without a doubt, bring a tear to my eye
every time I hear it. Walking through the now chilling walkways of the San
Marco Centre I am reminded of many a childhood memory spent in his company. Bawaa,
Ubaidah, Saadiya and I spent countless holidays creating and indulging in many
an escapade there: Buying cocopops, milk, cereal bowls and spoons to have
morning breakfast. How about when we birthed a nokia N90 from the “swollen”
belly of the “impregnated” Ubaidah? Not forgetting to mention the terrible yet
supremely funny videos of us dancing to soulja boy and low. Oh the memories are
endless. Many a freezing night we all spent huddled in the garage of my Gorifoi’s
sharing a pipe, tea and endless stories. How many times did he pitch up at the
Sports Locker with a box of dye and asked me to do his hair? That crazy soft,
incredibly untidy hair was always housing blonde streaks (perhaps the colour
was indicative of the personality of its owner?). Every memory I type leads me
to thinking of 3 more and I cannot possibly type them all. It is as clear as
the ocean on a sunny day that Muhammed Bawa Asmal or simple Bawaa was something
amazing. I can barely get by every time I think of a life without him. Home
isn’t home without him. How does one simply move on?
Accepting he is gone is
simple; it is walking through the town and not seeing him there that takes its
toll. Just as I continuously search for the red van of my grandfather’s as I
follow his once usual route home, I will always look out for that mop of blonde
hair whenever I enter the hometown I shared with him.
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