Death of a flat faced boy

It was Friday the 13th when he killed himself. I don’t think its a coincidence that he chose this day to perform his act, because knowing him he probably planned it so, and chuckled at his ‘splendid’ idea of turning myth into reality. Friday the 13th. The day bad things supposedly happen. Not supposedly anymore.

His were the smallest eyes I had ever seen, like they were slit with blades which disappeared when he laughed. Its amazing how much one can change when in love. The flat faced angry boy fell in love and learnt to see the beauty of life.

Though he had a vision of himself as a MAN’S MAN in a house full of girls he could only be so much of a man! Discussing lady problems with him around was not a big deal, nor was the time he puked in front of us after a dizzy amusement park ride. No fucks were given when we came out of the shower wrapped in a towel or pranced around the house in hot pants because we wouldn’t have it any other way.  The boy assured me that my Knight in shining armor was not the one I was chasing, and when I found the real one (albeit in a Royal Enfield Bullet) he was one of the first to see that I had found the one. He was extremely shy in front of strangers and, I cannot be grateful enough that he and Diego became friends at the drop of a hat. And the movie hangovers! The boy appropriated the character of Jaguar Paw (from the movie Apocalypto) for days to come and, couldn’t stop addressing himself in third person when he was feeling extraordinarily cool.


I missed him when I saw a friend’s boy-friend singing songs to her on her bachelorette. That should have been my flat faced friend wishing me luck with his Blink 182 songs. I missed him when I took a moment at my wedding party and saw the happy faces dancing around. His face should have been there and shone the brightest. I miss having someone who will agree to putting on make-up, slip into a dress and pose for the camera (and then point out that we forgot to make fake boobs for him). I hold on to the times when we chatted about Kim Kardashian’s butt while I ironed his shirts. Or the time we played poker with popcorns and chips and drank champagne out of steel tumblers and college coffee mugs.

Sometimes we take things at face value and leave things unsaid. A day before his death he asked a few friends if they will miss him when he’s gone. Nobody could process the question and gave him all sorts of funny answers. And then he wiped himself off the face of  the earth. Since then I have come to believe how important it is to show that one cares even if that is “out of character”. While talking about everything around the world sometimes we forget to ask how the other person is really doing. Not what-did-you-do-for-weekend kind of doing. In the cauldron of coulda, woulda, shoulda I wonder if things could change if we had told him obvious things like how much he meant to us, that we will always be there for him, that love will come back again. Well, we should have because what was obvious to us clearly wasn’t to him.


I read somewhere that we are all afraid to say too much, to feel too deeply and to let people know what they mean to us lest that puts us in a vulnerable position. Well, that will never be me again. For I know what it feels like to leave a friend in a place and walk ahead in life. I only wonder if tomorrow when I meet him on the other side and ask him “Chinky, why did you do that?”, if he will simply shrug his shoulders like he always did and answer ,”I don’t know”.


Never Again


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