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Requiem for a friend
As my friend Homyar rests under layers of rocky local soil — in the reassuring shade of a well-ramified mango tree at Jamshedpur’s Parsi Aramgah — I wonder what he is laughing about today. His sense of humor never left him. Equally, I am sure it shall never leave us. There are far too many memories.
Dr Homyar Keki Gardin (1959-2020, pictured), a dermatologist thin of skin when it came to the pain of others, perished to Covid-19 around midday on September 24, 2020, two months shy of his 61st birthday.
I do not know what he wanted his epitaph to say. His wife Rukshana and sons Danesh and Kaizad might know. But I can only imagine: it would be something funny, something that made anything heavy bearable — indeed, even with his half-replaced hip and attendant ambulatory problems. The thought of his unflagging humor alone has prevented me from beginning this requiem the way I really wanted.
We see what Covid-19 has been doing to the dying. There is no respite from that at all. To those who outlive them, though, it claws their hearts out and leaves them beating before their own eyes — raw, throbbing. It is a hard way to be shown that life must go on.
In his life, too, he constantly reminded us of that as he limped into his car and wiggled into driving position. He then drove like nothing was the matter. All kinds of conversations would follow. I have yet to come across someone who could switch so effortlessly between the sublime and the ridiculous — playful even when serious.
"Why don’t you take my calls Homyar?” someone always protested.
"That’s because you insist on calling when my hands are examining someone’s crotch. My phone’s weird; it needs a hand to be held.”
He hated saying he was busy.
A 10-knot westerly, like Homyar’s humor, made the ambient temperature of 35º at the Aramgah bearable on the day he was interred. The priests clad in their jamas had said the prayers in Avestan or Zend, which had the occasional Sanskrit ring to it. One strata of Avestan, the Gathas of 600 BCE, I am told, is close to Vedic Sanskrit. So, it should not have been surprising.
As he came to final rest, under a wreath of roses and a sprinkling of jasmine amidst burning incense sticks, I engaged in a phantom exchange with this dear friend with whom I should have been in more frequent touch since he made it fashionable for me to wear the newsboy cap 45 years ago. How symbolic!
"What do we do about these wrenched out hearts that grieve for you, Homyar?”
"Nothing,” I imagined him saying. "Just take two capsules of time. Things will be back in place. If you need any-thing else, just think of me. You have my memories, don’t you?”
Yes, my friend, we do.
And as he rests a few feet under, I know for sure there does not lie interred a single bad bone. Even the artificial hip joint was good. NARENDRA JHA
Jamshedpur
enjha@yahoo.com
Dr Homyar Keki Gardin (1959-2020, pictured), a dermatologist thin of skin when it came to the pain of others, perished to Covid-19 around midday on September 24, 2020, two months shy of his 61st birthday.I do not know what he wanted his epitaph to say. His wife Rukshana and sons Danesh and Kaizad might know. But I can only imagine: it would be something funny, something that made anything heavy bearable — indeed, even with his half-replaced hip and attendant ambulatory problems. The thought of his unflagging humor alone has prevented me from beginning this requiem the way I really wanted.
We see what Covid-19 has been doing to the dying. There is no respite from that at all. To those who outlive them, though, it claws their hearts out and leaves them beating before their own eyes — raw, throbbing. It is a hard way to be shown that life must go on.
In his life, too, he constantly reminded us of that as he limped into his car and wiggled into driving position. He then drove like nothing was the matter. All kinds of conversations would follow. I have yet to come across someone who could switch so effortlessly between the sublime and the ridiculous — playful even when serious.
"Why don’t you take my calls Homyar?” someone always protested.
"That’s because you insist on calling when my hands are examining someone’s crotch. My phone’s weird; it needs a hand to be held.”
He hated saying he was busy.
A 10-knot westerly, like Homyar’s humor, made the ambient temperature of 35º at the Aramgah bearable on the day he was interred. The priests clad in their jamas had said the prayers in Avestan or Zend, which had the occasional Sanskrit ring to it. One strata of Avestan, the Gathas of 600 BCE, I am told, is close to Vedic Sanskrit. So, it should not have been surprising.
As he came to final rest, under a wreath of roses and a sprinkling of jasmine amidst burning incense sticks, I engaged in a phantom exchange with this dear friend with whom I should have been in more frequent touch since he made it fashionable for me to wear the newsboy cap 45 years ago. How symbolic!
"What do we do about these wrenched out hearts that grieve for you, Homyar?”
"Nothing,” I imagined him saying. "Just take two capsules of time. Things will be back in place. If you need any-thing else, just think of me. You have my memories, don’t you?”
Yes, my friend, we do.
And as he rests a few feet under, I know for sure there does not lie interred a single bad bone. Even the artificial hip joint was good. NARENDRA JHA
Jamshedpur
enjha@yahoo.com
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