DO NOT TOUCH ME.

I dance-walked from work to the bus stop. It was a Saturday !! This meant that I had 1.5 days to myself. To cook, to experiment, to trek, to read and do everything the other 5.5 days at work wouldn't let me. To live the life work had taken away from me. The life I was living in the wide-eyed dreams of the 12 year old me.

My bus stood at the stop, ready to leave. I panicked and rushed to make it just in time through the massive 50-human-barricade which even hung outside the bus.

Sandwiched between a mob of fish-paan-sweat-smoke smelling travellers in the bus, I struggled to reach my pant pockets for my handkerchief. The pushing and unsuccessful dodging had smudged the lens of my glasses to render my vision blur and make me practically blind. As I tried to clean the lens amidst the shouting, howling and chatter, the driver hit the breaks. It threw all the passengers including me to the front, but my glasses managed to get thrown a little further, out of the bus. I kept my cool and sat on the seat reserved for the Physically handicapped. I could not see. Colors and odours moved in and out. I waited desparately to get out at my stop.

"Excuse me, do you mind holding my bag for a minute while I pay for my ticket?" asked an innocent voice. 14/15 I thought.
"Sure!" I said, "provided you help me count my money".
She thought I was blind. I did not care to explain.
I took her bag and she helped me count. The bus was too crowded and she could not get a seat. I offered to hold her school bag until she got off.

A few minutes and 2 stops later, I smelt alcohol enter. The smell kept lingering and did not leave. I heard the driver shout "Men go back. Ladies in front". But I still smelt alcohol. He was there. He did not move.
The next few minutes were mute, yet disturbing in an un-describeable way. The women were still talking, there was loud music playing from someone blue and the sound of traffic was deafening. Yet, there was a disturbing silence.

I held the girl's bag to make sure it was still there and she was still on board. I wanted to check, for some reason. Alcohol was still there too. I was worried. Maybe because I could not see. Or watching too much CID and reading the news paper was making me overly anxious for nothing. Thoughts and fear rushed through my head.

"DO NOT TOUCH ME". a voice screamed. A voice I almost failed to recognise. That same innocent voice that helped me count my money.

The next minute, she took her bag from my hold, said a warm "Thank you" and walked out of the bus.

I did not see her after that and I probably never will. I only know her by her voice.

The Subramanian.

"Ask them to stop laughing and screaming so loud".
Said the man who once bought us surprise goodies just to see the zest in our face and tone.

"Get me out of this bed and room".
Said the man who once repaired the broken and counted his money and wrote his story in this secret grotto.

"Tasteless. Tasteless food. Ruchi e illay"
Said the man who never-ever in his life made a fuss about food.

That is what cancer does to people.
On the 11th of January 2007, it took him away from all of us.

It was a Thursday night. I was packing my bag for school next day. The phone rang. My mom answered. But I did not wait for her to hang up and tell me. I knew. I just knew. After all, that was the one moment I always dreaded.

As dad drove us to my uncle's place, I sat numb. No thoughts. Nothing.

I shivered and struggled to climb the stairs to his room. There were a few neighbors and relatives. I walked straight to his bed, held his hand and kissed him. I kissed him hoping he would wake up. I've always been scared of dead people. But that was my grandfather there. And he cannot die. He has to wake up.

His body had given up. The medicines and the patches, the doctors and the saints who had promised to keep him alive, failed. He was 78 and always healthy. But he died. Just like that.

I was 12 then. I am almost twenty today. And in all these years, I have not met another Subramanian.

He would come to my rescue every time I forgot a homework was due ( every Wednesday, when I had art class). He would help me with math too. I remember the magnet band he wore during terrible headaches. But I did not notice the combiflams he gulped to ease his pain. I wish I did.

He would always, always take my side. For him, I was always right. Now when I am yelled at, there is nobody who would yell back for me. Nobody with whom I can snuggle and sleep. His room was my hide out when I was at war with the world.

The many sides to my personality,( yes, the temper too) come from him. He taught me the value of money. We had a joint account. We would save up in both metal and paper, and he would update me on how much we have saved so far ! ( I would calculate-Another 12500 rupees before I can buy a pup or 100 new clothes. That was a tough choice)

He was extremely hardworking. You could never find him taking a nap in the afternoon. He was always on his feet. Fixing, cleaning, searching or simply entering accounts in his diary. Every summer he covered our books. Every afternoon he walked to my school to give me hot lunch and lime juice. That was the best part of the day for me. He was a great cook. I miss his special sambhar.

While my parents were out at work, he was my mother, father, friend and everything. I never missed my parents. Today, I have my parents and friends and so many happy people around. But there is a void. Like, everything I have always wanted is here but yet nothing means anything. Nothing makes a difference.

Whats the point of everything? My grades, friends, relationships, achievements, events , life feels worthless when I cannot tell him about it.

Unconditional love and support. Care and concern. I've experienced it. Therefore I know how it feels to not have it. I wish he could come back. I wish he could  buy my birthday chocolates from monda market( I swear I am okay with eclairs now. I wont trouble you for melody). I wish we could tap our feet to your serial's music. I wish I had accompanied you everywhere you went, even the market. I wish we had more time together.

For carrying me around all the time when I was a big fat heavy baby to carrying my tantrums when I was bigger, fatter and heavier, I love you thatha. And I know, if you were here today, my life would have been very very very different.

                                                                                                                    I miss you.