Dokhin kothay?

Dokhin, like all cats I suppose, loved to hide. In an empty shoe box, behind my study table, underneath our TV cabinet, inside our low seating wooden box chairs. The tighter the space, Dokhin would squeeze right in, all snug and comfortable. And then he would give us a wide-eyed look of surprise when we managed to find him. After a good ten minutes of searching, of course. One of the recurring jokes that the wife and I shared, was that - in the past twenty months of our marriage, and the sixteen months of having Dokhin, we haven't said "I love you" to each other as much as we've said "Dokhin kothay?" (Where's Dokhin?)

We won't be saying that anymore. Dokhin Ray jumped over the rainbow bridge yesterday at 11:45am. He was diagnosed with FIP (Feline Infectious Peritonitis), a fatal disease with no known cure. After three weeks of fighting tooth and claw, we decided to let him go. Dokhin was such a magnificent little tiger, it would have been unfair to make him live minus his dignity.

He was only one and a half years old, and in that small amount of time, he had filled our lives with affection. To those who don't like cats (and I would know because I was one of them), I must point out that you probably have never received the affection of a cat. They are very choosy about whom they love, but when they do trust you, when they do feel secure around you, when they purr as you lightly stroke their chins, when they rub their bodies against your leg, when they follow you around the house just to check on you because you're home alone, or even when they're fast asleep on your arm with their head upside down and belly exposed... there's no feeling of more contentment.

Good bye, son. We know you've found a better hiding place.

Lost and Found

It was her dark green handkerchief,
With an even darker perfume stain right in the middle.
She had put two sprays, like always, from her favourite glass bottle
And tucked it herself inside your shirt pocket.

Later that day, in between sobs and almost choking
On that lump in your throat, you told her how sorry you were.
That you didn't mean to lose her dark green handkerchief.

She laughed and laughed. "It doesn't matter, you dodo. I'll buy a new one."
But you just wouldn't stop crying, and just couldn't explain
That you weren't really upset about the dark green handkerchief.

But, for a few hours that day, from lunch till school got over
You couldn't smell Maa on you.
And that is the worst thing that can happen to a five-year old.

Or a thirty five-year old.

The Train

Found this on Facebook today. Such a beautiful expression of life and love. Some of you might not have had the chance to read Bibhutibhushan Bandyopadhyay's 'Pather Panchali', or watch Satyajit Ray's brilliant on-screen adaptation 'The Apu Trilogy', but I'm sure your own experiences have taught you, in some way or the other, that life is all about letting go. We are all Apu, on our own little journeys through an endless time. And along the way, we will lose a sister (like Durga), a father, a mother, a friend, a lover, a spouse, a child. We will thank them for joining us on our journeys. We will remember them through bittersweet memories. But eventually we will let them go. Because we're all meant to be chasing our own trains. Never catching it.