Living When You Are Less Than Fit

There is something about death and dying that has a powerful draw.


It's certainly palpable. On the rare days that I venture into discussions anymore, I would passionately argue that it borders on tangible. It's all around us, meant for each of us, and indeed, for all our whimsical projects. And yet as topics for consideration go, it is so easily overlooked.

We're just so busy living, making things work, trying something different; reinventing the wheel in the hopes that the rust that has gathered won't matter in the long run. We take the idea of a "long run" for granted, because what other way is there to move forward? How does one not move forward? Is it even possible to stand still without the lurking guilt of stagnation, let alone to take a few steps backward merely to reassess your trajectory?

As a society, as a species, it is ingrained in our cores that we must strive to survive. Get ahead, because that's what we do. Outdo the other's accomplishments, but retain the human courtesy of respecting the other. So engrossed are we in this continuing human pursuit that we would float rudderless if forced to stand still and taking account of time.


The powerful draw of death and dying has much to do with how I understand life and living. Some days, I suspect I don't understand it very much. On all other days, I know I don't. It is a recurring theme in what I write publicly, and yet one that I have few illusions of "decoding".

The 'purpose of life' could consume many lifetimes spent in the cradles of literature, philosophy, metaphysics, and in the knowledge and instincts that govern the vocations of rabbis, sadhus, doctors and counselors. Quite the disbeliever, those are not lifetimes I believe I have the time for, or the time for. I excuse myself from the burden of plotting a blind, arrogant route through these disciplines.

In an uncharacteristic move, I open up to learning from man's follies instead of making experience my guru. I trust that those who have come and gone before me penned their thoughts on the matter - and of course they did, eloquently so. So I dip my toes in, test the waters a little. And within a few texts born of raw prose that is nothing short of a legacy, I come away having re-learnt that one truth:

A little learning is a dangerous thing ;

Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring

I do believe there is a certain rhythm, a set of values each one of us unknowingly puts together over time, and that dictates how we execute the grand task of living. I would think that our personal philosophies of how we live are inextricably linked with how we would conceive dying, were the process to be laid out before each of us as the task of utmost priority, replete with a timeline and a plan of agenda. The connect is so simple and obvious that it amazes me how everyone doesn't bring it up right away. To be in death as you are in life.

Perhaps these values are only exposed in trying times, when there is more at stake than the forgettable priorities that make up the daily mess. Trying times that can befall you directly and indirectly. Perhaps it is only a matter of how hard you are hit. And how vulnerable you let yourself be to this impact has got to be a marker of how strong your core is.

'Survival of the fittest' is a difficult ideal to keep in sight if you no longer rank among the fit, in the conventional sense of the word.

Know Thy Query

It's quite the sham, what people say.

About time healing all, and fissures erased.
Time does nothing but remind you repeatedly
That what once was yours no longer exists.
Matter may reassemble, but never resurrect.

They ask you to smile, for the "fond memories",
Those that may recur, tweaked beyond recognition.
They inquire politely, "Come to terms with it yet?"
You stare, you shrug. The terms are unknown.

The Inertia Of Existence: Debunked

That which takes birth must die. That which begins must end.

One could argue that this is the founding law, the very basis of Nature. The crux around which all else took form. If you'd rather do away with laws and imagine death as the point of convergence instead, you could say that the grand End is the culmination of the vortex in which all of existence is swept along. Or perhaps each entity is in a vortex of its own, and that culminates (how!) as the End of that entity. Possibilities abound, and they would make for some fascinating illustrations.

We're usually so fascinated by the End and how it comes about, that we forget to study how things live. Pathology beats Physiology. Dramatic and sensational beats the ongoing, the mundane, hands down. But "you have to understand normal before you can identify abnormal". That's the 1st MBBS mantra as far as our faculty and textbooks are concerned, and it makes a whole lot of sense to me. 

If we can extend that line of thought to say that the "normal" state of existence is being alive, and that the "abnormal" is death (or "not existing"), I will echo that studying the normal, the living state, is of paramount importance. It's what will allow you to prolong the normal and avert the abnormal. You could make anything the subject of this study and it would be valid. That weed creeping about your garden. A pet, a friend. An emotion, your convictions. Relationships. The ruling government.

So do these things survive simply because they don't die? Because nothing comes along to uproot, kill, convert or impeach them? It seems spot on, right? The Inertia of Existence. That once things take shape, they stay that way unless acted upon by an external force. After all, Newton was a very smart man, and Aristotle did get bashed a fair bit.

But perhaps there is a different system at work here, in lives that don't adhere to ideal situations. A system in which friction is an inbuilt feature, so deeply embedded that we don't give it a second thought.

Entities in our non-hypothetical lives survive because they are kept alive - not just because they are born, not just because they don't die. There are external inputs, whether we notice them or not, whether we feel the need for them or not. These inputs check and balance activity (homeostasis!) such that you don't pay much attention to their role. But they avert the abnormal at every step. One fine day, something leads to the drying up of inputs over time. It could be lack of reserves, it could be poor timing or a stroke of bad luck, it could be sheer negligence. When the supply of these inputs dries up, the entity starts to degenerate, approaching its inevitable End. And as stupefying as it is obvious, that's when we begin to deconstruct matters.

Sure, the drying up of inputs, the end of an external event, leads to the larger End. But the Living is made possible by inputs. And it would be wonderful if we were to not lose sight of that.

That weed in your garden still needs its water and soil and sunlight and fresh air. That relationship with your friend or partner needs your time and concern and initiative and effort. You may see the weed as thoroughly undesirable, and you may actively consider that relationship the anchor of your existence; you may be fascinated by the weed's unending growth spurt, and you may view that relationship as an unchanging constant - Your perception of the entity does not affect the fact that it needs something to go on.

The weed will wilt on its own if the soil around it was to turn barren. The relationship will cease to exist if you call upon each other only when you seek comfort. It was not enough for that seed to sprout open. And it never will be enough that you first shared sweet nothings many moons ago.

It would indeed seem that life in general is geared towards the End, and that we only keep putting it off. Stubborn in our belief that the next day is guaranteed, as is the year after that, even the next twenty. Stubborn because inputs that we take for granted are expected to just keep flowing in. 

Suspend the belief that you get to "wait and watch" how matters proceed. Every entity, every relationship, every academic program you will ever undertake is an ongoing process - and it needs active participation from both ends to sustain, let alone flourish.

This may not find a respectful place in the next pathbreaking textbook on blog-derived physics gyan, but to this layman, empirical evidence suggests thus -

That which gets moving needs pushes to keep moving. That which exists needs something to keep it alive.

Blindness & Bombay

I was born and brought up in Bombay. I now live in Mumbai.

They used to tell me changing Bombay to Mumbai would change things. That I would feel the difference.

But when I walk past the park in the evening, the children are as noisy as before. They still run around me, laughing and calling out to each other. Sometimes they stumble, crying foul and complaining earnestly. At other times, they form the perfect background score while I sit down cross-legged, spread my fingers in the damp grass and take in the sounds and the fresh air. My city calls out to me.

People waiting for buses and trains are the same as always. Some push and shove, intent on moving ahead. Some seek their physical space, giving me mine in the process. But they still talk about the same old things. And they swarm together in the same old way, such that conversations and contours merge. That familiar buzz spreads through the crowd when a fast train approaches, there's a sudden patter of feet pounding onto the floorboard as the train slows to a stop. The wind lashes my face when I stand close to the door and concerned arms still reach out to protect me. My city calls out to me.

When I walk through the by-lanes of crowded markets, men call out to me to buy their wares. Dogs scurry by, sometimes resting against my leg, waiting to be entertained. I listen as customers bargain hard and shopkeepers do what they can to dissuade them. The smells and sounds of my city combine to form a feeling that is comforting, yet chaotic; but remove one element and the chaos fades away. The comfort ebbs. I walk through these by-lanes because this is my home. My city calls out to me.

               

I often take visitors for a tour of tourist sites in the city; does that surprise you?  It's too bad people think the seafront is a cliché to be avoided. I think it is a gift to be shared. I smile as tentative steps into the water soon translate to excited chatter and childish games. The sound of the waves as they collapse against each other.  A faint whiff of the sea on my clothes. The lingering taste of seawater. My city calls out to me.

Get on a bus heading out of the city. It’s easy enough; people will help you. Sometimes they play songs you've never heard before. Sometimes they keep up a constant chatter and sometimes, they snore noisily. But turn your face to the breeze outside and you'll realise they're still nice people. Give it a couple of hours and you will have reached the ghats. You will hear the water rushing down the slopes long before you can reach out to feel it. Go ahead and get to a hilltop, there are so many to choose from. You will be surprised by the crisp air, the lush spreads of soft grass. Even the midday sun will feel like a pleasant greeting. The pressure of the breeze will envelope you, comfort you; it will tell you you were meant to be here. It's what I experience every time. And from a distance, from far beyond valleys and postal codes, my city calls out to me.

And you see, I tell the breeze I come from Mumbai. I tell the children that is where I live; I help my guests set out for Mumbai Darshan. It’s Mumbai, no longer Bombay. But that has changed nothing. Who’s to decide what’s more beautiful than another, more perfect than another? 

They used to tell me changing Bombay to Mumbai would change things. That I would feel the difference.

I still fill in six letters when asked to provide my address.

I fail to see the difference.

Not Poetry, Not Prose

It's not like I'm traumatised about my last post but it is weighing on my mind. Perhaps because normally, men say/pretend it was an accident. They either brush past you and get lost in the crowd asap or mutter an apology as they're compelled to walk past. When you glare back or hit, hurl an abuse or snap at them to hold their elbows in, they comply and look away duly chastised. Sometimes people around you join in in giving the man nasty vibes. Big help. But we're just so used to being felt up or brushed against. The next time you see a woman turn around looking disgusted, disgruntled but not too shocked, you know what could have caused it. 


In contrast, what I wrote about was just so overt. Not even a facade about it being an accident. He moved in with an intention, he ran away to avoid the consequences. Such a conscious act. I think that's what shook me up more than anything.

It would be very cliched to talk about being scarred, mentally or otherwise. But scars are demeaning. Ugly leftovers from ugly times. They hang around even if you're "over it" and they almost always evoke a reaction from you. I suppose it would approach high prose if I was to talk about how they remind me of goats being branded before the kill. Shall avoid.

But indulge me here for a while. Picture it for yourself. You were unable to see his face, it was turned away for the entire duration of your chance encounter. He could walk past you on the street tomorrow and you may not be able to identify him. He could be the guy standing behind you in the line at the ATM, or one of two people you share an auto with tomorrow morning. You still wouldn't know. I don't know.

I don't get how this works. I'm not sure I want to figure it out. Would that evening go down in his mental record as just one of many such incidents? Was that his idea of scoring? How does the bugger sleep at night and look his mother in the eye? How long until I stop wondering if I ran as best as I could? Am I ever going to stop picturing myself walking down a road with restless eyes and a sharp not-quite-a-stone-but-not-quite-a-rock in each hand? I detest how I now walk around with a grim expression and a tense jaw. I feel like I'm not being true to myself, but right now, that's what feels right. Convenient.


Most of all, I hate how I stiffen up every time someone walks by too close. It doesn't matter whether it's a male or a female, how they're dressed or what they look like. Be it at the rickshaw stand or on a railway platform or right outside college. My default mode involves being stiff and glaring at the world, a part of my mind devoted to considering how I'd block the guy closest to me should he decide to swoop in. Do I sound like a paranoid fool who's overreacting? Chances are that's how your mom and sister feel. Have a chat. See where your sympathies lie the next time a man around you is being abused and you're not sure if he really did anything, if it was a big deal. "Arre at most he only touched her na." Who gets the benefit of doubt here?


It's too convenient, telling the female that she was asking for it. That she should have double thought the time of the day, the way she was dressed. She should have know that's what the neighbourhood is like. That she shouldn't be laughing aloud while she walks, she shouldn't draw attention. You tell her how to keep herself hidden away. How to be inconspicuous. But it's really not about the clothes she wears, how attractive she is, what her "character" is like or what time your wristwatch reads. It never is. It has nothing to do with attraction. It's violence, plain and simple. So why does it not occur to you to talk sense into the heads of the men you know? How about addressing fucked up mindsets, the root cause? Tell your son what I'm saying and ignore that friend who thinks you're making too big a deal of this shit. This is a big deal.

I've shared this before. Once more won't hurt.

Please don't pull a Mulayam Singh Yadav on the world around you. He promised government jobs for rape victims in his state. You see, rapes will continue in this state, we can't possibly address that. But I will give you a job to make up for the violation of your self. Come forth and abuse the provision, dear voters. Come help me ride my bicycle.


I used to scoff at women who'd insist on ladies compartments in trains at all times. Now I dwell on what made them insist.

He Only Touched Her Na

Let's say we're making a movie, you and I. We need a story. A screenplay. A character.

A girl, almost a woman. Age: 20; the number suits the tag. In keeping with the law that Facebook confirms for us each day – even a boring female lead is more likely to hold the audience's attention than the average male lead could ever hope to.

So what have we here? A young woman, urban, easy on the eyes. A clean heart. Nowhere near perfect. Not exactly an outlandish creature. Too simple, we need to spice it up. Let's say she gets molested.

How shall we shoot it? A desolate alley, a flickering streetlight? She walks by a dark corner, shivering slightly, wearing her slinky off shoulder dress and her best perfume. A hand creeps out of the midnight shadow. A gagged mouth, flailing arms. She falls to the ground.. No no no, that's too cliched. Let's change it all.

6 pm, an open road. A bright summer evening, a pleasant breeze. The school is shut today, it's a bank holiday. Another festival when no one knows what they're supposed to be doing, but okay. It's a holiday. She's about to leave from home, she has an errand to run. She walks to the front door then returns to her room. Swaps her shorts for a pair of jeans. Why give the grandfather something to agonise over? An oversized shirt and modest jeans. Modesty modesty. She's good to go.

15 minutes. She's on her way back. Another 30 steps on that footpath and she'll be home. She approaches the corner, walking between wall and vehicle.

He moves in right at the blind turn. Rough hands on her front. Legs locked. A disgusting sense of violation. In hindsight, a peculiar lack of smell. She instinctively twists her elbow, jabs him in the chest. It's over before a count of three. A quick, violent fondle and he's running. She follows on his heels, faster than she's run in some time now.

The chase lasts longer than the action he got. It always does. Around three long blocks, twice as many turns and loops. Two pairs of shoes slap against the road. A constant stream of abuses. Men standing ahead stare at her; what makes her chase this guy? "Pakdo usko!" From behind her, "Arre but what happen medam?" He races ahead, clear about where he's going. She follows, clear only about why she's running.

Random thoughts flood her mind. Wrong day to have put on these worn out slippers. A big middle finger to anyone who later dares to say women ask for it. Abuses that rarely get considered are being yelled, men on the street continue to stare at her funny. The guy's athletic, fast, maybe 18. A striped blue and white shirt, smart dark jeans. He could well have been her junior in school. She wonders how she can think of anything just then. She wishes she'd managed to loop her arm around his neck. Kneed him hard. The skin above her left breast stings. Crazy montage. That bastard. Speed up.

She loses him at a sharp turn. It's a maze of bylanes, each as empty as another. She was a fool for asking people around there if they'd spotted someone like him. "Arre madam problem kya hai?" "Chutiye ko chamaat marna hai." Silence. Failure.

She's home now. Sweaty. Furious. Loathsome. Breathing hard. Itching to lash out. To do some damage, maybe rip off his balls. How could she? It hardly matters. She's mad at herself for not matching his long strides. For wanting company but not knowing what to say. Still so furious her eyes sting. She’s bruised and bleeding and it wasn’t her fault. She was violated, just because he could. Not because of how she was dressed. How dare people say this is part and parcel of being a woman?

It's still bright outside.

The Loophole

They take her out to the shore and point to the faint edge of the horizon.

That’s the thing, they announce. That’s what you were made for.

They can’t imagine her doing anything else. She couldn’t possibly want to do anything but this.

This is her thing. It’s what she’s meant to do.

This is what she was made for.

Perhaps they’re onto something, unlike her. Perhaps they just know.

And perhaps it’s only right that they’re the ones who coax her. Perhaps that is what they were made for.

It’s not like they seek something that will endure. Just once, you 'll do great, they smile to reassure. 

A quick fix is all, nothing more than that. No pressure, of course. No pressure at all.

A one-shot, a cheap thrill. A quick dash in the woods.

A sneaky run that could become her intimate adventure. A failed detour that could blend in with the roadmap.

The comfort of knowing she tried, for them. 

The insecurity of being no more than a one-time end credit.

Often she’d really want to, but a block would set it. She’d freeze and that’d be the end of her little experiment. 

Perhaps she wasn't smart enough. Or cool enough. Or hot enough. Perhaps lukewarm was all she ever really was.

She saw the wisdom of their plan. She lived the loopholes it contained. 

It’s hard to lean over the table and promise not to look over your shoulder.

To know that they are your audience and to still let go.

It’s hard to bend over backwards when you don’t know what you’re reaching for.

And it’s harder still when you don’t know what’s reaching out for you.

Your Statistic Is My Santa

An Ex-Army-brat About An Ex-Army-man

Papa served in the Indian Armed Forces. As a post-graduate student of AFMC, Pune and then an officer with the Army for 16 years, he is the reason I was once an Army brat.

My pre-school years were spent in and around the Army, predominantly in Ambala Cantt. I’m talking 1991 and thereon, when “pre-school” simply meant before school, not a bastardised version of Kindergarten. I was brought up amidst families of other servicemen, dignified Army mess workers and staff at cantonment hospitals, where Papa served as Gynaecologist.

In case you’re wondering what a Gynaec was doing in the Army – women serve in the Forces too. Male officers have families and wives who bear children. Doctors serve as part of the “fighting units” too, for a few compulsory years and also as backup forces. That’s what took Papa to Siachen and to the border by the Indus river. The former is how he knows everything about frostbitten, amputated limbs. The latter is how he has zoomed in photographs of Pakistan’s armymen holding rifles and looking out at the Indian camp from across the border.

As an Army brat, I’ve had my share of “top secret” bike rides from uniformed officers when Papa was busy elsewhere. I’ve had military hospitals’ nurses fawn over the awkward fountain ponytail he’d tie atop my head every morning when it was just the two of us.

I’ve been included in jokes about a rotund officer who was allegedly always forced to rest his huge belly on tabletops and I’ve had a very friendly Brigadier take me on a tour of defunct canons and rifles arranged in the cantonment garden.

I’ve been entertained by “Santa Claus” on the phone for precisely 15 minutes every night for a week I spent with Papa at the Alwar cantt; I’d share my Christmas wishlist with Santa and justify my requests with “But I’m shining Papa’s medals, buttons and buckles with Brasso, Santa!” We once discussed what was wrong with the porridge Papa cooked for me at breakfast and I never could tell how my bowl of porridge suddenly tasted better the next morning. I was 11 when I discovered my gift-bearing Santa lived down the corridor and was usually called Captain by others and “scary uncle” by me. You cannot begin to imagine how betrayed I felt.

This may evoke a smile for the child that I was and the memories I cherish. This may have you believe I’m boasting about the perks of being an army brat, particularly one pampered by a whole bunch of dapper Army personnel. This may have you believe that Army-folk and their work is overrated. “They even have the time to play with random officers’ kids at work, beat that!”

But I’ll tell you one thing – this is why my heart breaks every time I read of casualties in the Indian Army. I've had my internal debates about patriotism and nationalism and all of that, but amongst those casualties could be people I have known, people who have given me some of my best memories. Perhaps this is why I cry like a baby when Border plays on television twice a year and this is why I’d wake up with nightmares as an 8 year old who kept hearing about an ugly Kargil War in the news.

As I write today, it amazes me that I’ve never brought this up before. Perhaps that’s because I no longer see him as Lt. Col. Dr. Rakesh Kumar Sharma. Somewhere, I no longer see him as Papa. Today, he’s Lt. Col. Dr. Rakesh Kumar Sharma (Retd.), a practising Professor. Today, he’s Dad. And that is my loss as much as his. 

Stranded.

There are times I stand convinced that the very concept of Time is flawed. Not often thought through.

It is, after all, only a warped output of the control freak mankind has been through the ages and continues to be. It is an expression of the need to measure our moments, which in turn measures our actions. This need to define time and to appropriate thereon is inherently accepted, never questioned. Because hey, Time knows what it’s doing. It can judge, it can change, it can reveal, it can heal.

But I’ll tell you what, time cannot heal. You say it to a child with a bruised shin and you say it to a grieving orphan. You say it without really knowing what you’re promising. You say it despite having had the same said to you! I use the word “despite” because deep down you know time had nothing to do with your recovery, be it from a scraped knee or a personal loss.

You just started to think differently about that loss. That can be done at any stage, on day one, day hundred or never. That’s how some people care two hoots about scraped knees and distant deaths. Not because Time, in all its wise benevolence, decided to give them Tatkal treatment and heal them sooner.

It’s been a while, some people remind me. “Surely, you must be over it by now?” Allow me to ask what it means to “get over” something or someone. Another common favourite is “So you haven’t come to terms with it yet?” Tell me once again, what does “coming to terms” involve?

Does it mean you don’t think of it anymore? That it isn’t the only thing on your mind when you take a break from slaving away, wasting away, all in an effort to distract your mind? That when you do think of it, you only remember the good parts?

Does it mean the issue doesn’t “affect” you anymore? That you don’t break down when you think of it? That if you had to go through it again, you’d come out unscarred? Or that you now have the courage in you to go through something similar?

If your answer to all of these questions is Yes, my response to them would have to be in the negative.

Does it mean you haven’t accepted what happened?

Again, I don’t understand what “acceptance” people speak of. Do I realize and understand that the man I loved most is dead, gone forever? Yes. Do I not understand that his body went from decaying flesh to ashes in a matter of hours, all before my eyes? I do understand. Do I expect him to signal me in any way? No. Do I expect Nana to walk in the door with that impish grin on his face, telling me this was all a prank? No.

What am I supposed to accept here? I understand the finality. I understand the implications. I understand the responsibility. I don’t understand what you’re asking me. And I don’t think I will ever understand what you’re asking of me. Because you don’t understand it either.

Surrounded by all this talk, it can only be called the height of irony that the one physical object that ties me to him keeps time. It took me months to gather the courage to ask Nani if I could have it. It’s taking me weeks to wear it without reminiscing or breaking down. And like all that’s precious, it comes with a deeper story.

It was purchased shortly before Mom’s wedding. It was the first delivery Bombays’s virgin Titan store made. It was the watch Nana wore on his wrist for as long as I remember. So many memories, so many associations…  all rushing in, all getting entangled.

It’s a 22 year old story in a language I can’t begin to decode. And a strand of coarse black hair trapped within its links.

86400

Your days are limited; no shocker there. But what if you knew the precise number?

And what if you had to spend those days with just as many people, only one person a day? All of them real people who exist today, all of them people you personally know. So no Star Wars, no Shivaji and definitely no Salma Hayek unless Salma Hayek insists she knows you.

Would a thousand days fall short? Would a hundred be far too many?

What if you may contact them only on that one day allotted to them - never before, never again?

What if you were given the chance to draw up your list, your own order of preference? Who would you eliminate? Who would you include?

Would new bonds be forged? Would those you took for granted snap?

Would your time with those you love be spent buried under nostalgia and farewell or would you still go out for a movie, a meal, a drive?

Would you permit acquaintances, the fillers by force, to come closer and get to know you or would you hold on to old biases, fake a headache and sleep through the coffee?

Would you be able to take in your stride the days that bring you bitter fights and misunderstandings with some? Would you be able to accept absolutely no more shared smiles and tears of mirth ever with some others on your list?

Would you be able to survive the agony of 86400 - no more, no less?

17.9

This is the most I’ve ever shared of myself on a public forum. I’m putting it up after considerable internal debate. I wrote this when caught between what I have lost and what I don’t want. I don’t know how many who know me will be able to relate it to me but that doesn’t matter. There’s a lot more to it all but I choose to keep it off this space.

17.9

You enter my room

Woeful and lost

To say you’ll be back

In an hour,

But the look on your face

Says clearly to me

That you intend to remain

For more.

You begin to talk

Of nominees and banks

I know you’ve been harassed

By his calls;

You make small talk

About colleagues long gone

And your medicines

And errands of yore.

You tell me it’s hard

With no one for help

You tell me it’s tough

To cope,

To manage alone

To not rely

For in this new place

Ground and comfort lay afar.

I see the silent plea

In your rheumy eyes

I see you beg me

To get involved,

To hold you

As I would hold him

To care for, to love

To respect and to adore.

But don’t you see

I can’t do it

Not for you,

I can’t;

Despite knowing

How you need me

And how much it takes

To ask.

It’s too soon for me

The loss is still fresh

It hurts

And that never must show;

But why don’t you realize

Though I would never say it

His place

Will never be yours.

I’m struggling to cope

Though I hide it well

I’m trying so hard

To stay strong,

But every time I enter

His empty room

Or see his silly netbook

The tears still fall.