If there is one gift that I am blessed with, it’s the ability to forget, especially those people or moments that make me sad. I have this tremendous power to isolate bad memories and keep them in a hidden corner of my brain. Those memories become alive only when I want them to, or when similar instances happen.
But today I choose to write about Bhola here, because he deserves a space in my blog, for being a child to my parents when I wasn’t there with them. Those of you who have followed me from my initial days know about him, my companion and friend, Bhola. Well, he is no longer with us. It’s been two months since he left home and never came back. He was almost five years old, and had grown old and physically weak. He had lost one leg, while fighting with a devilish cat in our neighbourhood. That cat was primarily the reason why Bhola suffered in his last days with us. Every time I see that cruel cat, my temper soar sky high and I wish to kill him. But I know that won’t bring my Bhola back.
Bhola and his different shades
I first saw Bhola when he was a little baby. I had come home for winter holidays and he slept with me inside my blanket, and the next morning I found my headphones in bits and pieces as he played with them whole night.
The only thing Bhola enjoyed eating was flour and eggs. My parents being vegetarian, he never got to eat meat, but that one time when I was home I gave him some chicken bones, and from that day he followed me everywhere I went. That one year when I was at home, he was the only one I talked to about my depression; thankfully he never gave me any advice and just looked at me with his big, thoughtful eyes. Bhola never asked my mom for food, my dad was the one responsible for that, and he never slept in my father’s room, he always liked sleeping near my mother’s pillow. Every time she hears a light sound near the window, she thinks that he has come back.
Bhola’s girlfriend lived across the street. The times he was with her, he would forget each one of us, and would go missing for several days. He had poor hunting skills, given the fact that he was domesticated since a young age. He once brought a live snake inside the house and freaked us all out. He was fond of killing lizards though, I guess they were the easiest prey he could feast upon.
The last time I came home in March, he had lost one of his forelimb. I pitied his helplessness and often cried seeing him like that. He got in a fight with the big cat again and injured himself…seeing him bleed, I secretly wished for him to die. I didn’t know it then, that was actually the last time I saw him. When I finally came home this time, he wasn’t there. Unlike my parents I don’t want to think that he is dead. I have read somewhere that male cats leave home when they grow old, and I sincerely hope that Bhola has somehow gone on a pilgrimage to the forests and is really happy there, enjoying all the things he couldn’t do at home. He lived a great life till the time he was here; I hope he’s honing his hunting skills now.
The Last Picture
We miss him.