It was an expected death. The signs had been apparent for a few months and all (most, anyway) were prepared. But the news caused me some imbalance. It is a curious thing to know the inevitability of an event, yet still be very surprised when it does happen. That moment in time when firing synapses register, the brain processes and sends things back to the rest of the body to feel.
Behind me, grieving relatives. Some showing it outwardly, others silently and perhaps not yet in comprehension. She’s draped in white, tinted blue by the fluorescence of the light that bathes the glass box in which she lies. She was a good person to me. How many others in this room would agree with me?
There’s a constant buzz of ring tones.
The balcony looks over the edge of the city from the 19th floor. In the distance, the Bay of Bengal shimmers blue. A few fishing trawlers bob up and down. Towards the north, hulking ships at anchor, waiting for berth at the harbour. I make out some slim figures on the beach playing cricket. The coastal road below snakes around marshes, bikes and cars competing to get ahead. A red car brakes suddenly to avoid hitting a push cart and careening into the salty weeds.
I hear a relative order breakfast for the rest of us. I can make out “extra chutney” towards the end of his frantic call.
Chennai, even so high up, early in the morning and in the beginning of February is oppressively hot. The panting Husky next door has his head against the balcony railing, waiting to catch a breeze. My forearms are beginning to glisten and the back of my neck feels wet.
“You see those big ships in the distance? The ones that come from China have to be at anchor and be quarantined for 14 days before they can dock”, a relative who works at the port suddenly appears and shares this piece of knowledge. I nod. The converstation ends and he moves to another person for the same factoid.
The door bell rings loudly.
Below, on landscaped area, a father and son are playing football. The son seems to be not more than three or four and his kicks end well short of the father. Faint sounds of “harder” seem to carry up the floors, but maybe I am just imagining things. The ball is kicked and bounced around for a while. The father picks up the son and off they go inside, but not before some tickling and loud giggling.
Breakfast packs are passed around, with cups of coffee. It is hot and strong. The waves in the sea seem to gotten taller.
Some mornings are very alike, some mornings are very different.