JK – disclaimed
This is not about ‘the J.Krishnamurthi’.
This is about my friend, who was called, by all the mutual friends- jk!
Usually a friend reminds you of a rock on which you can tread, a tree to which you can cling, a sea into which you can gaze, a sky into which you can dream, a reality in which you feel true; but, jk reminds me of a furnace- not a fire that ignites, just a furnace that destroys.
I had met him with a person who was then our mutual friend, and in the following years we had mutually decided that ‘that’ person was not a friend but a person rather well-known, infact, he was too well known to both of us to decide that he was not a friend but a person.
Jk was one of the few friends with whom I would drink. One such occasion was on the day the screen siren ‘silk smitha’ died. He called me up and said we should drink. We did. He toasted to her death. Though my glass clinked his, I could not toast to death. My wife, though agreeing that it was a moment to mourn, agreed with me. Can mourning be toasted? By that time, jk had not read Rajneesh while I had, and I was told by the master of those times that death is a celebration! I could not, and I am not sure whether he did celebrate either. He had the uncanny way of talking as though convinced even when he wasn’t !
There were times when he would land up in my house, drink and chat, and decide to leave after midnight. Since I do not drink and drive, my wife would have to take him in her then-basic (and base) two-wheeler, the sunny! When she came back after every such delivery-to-home she would complain only one thing- ‘ he keeps talking’. He kept talking, throughout his life.
He almost talked me into killing him. He said I should not see him suffer. He said I should make him exit the world in dignity. He said I have to as a friend, kill him before he kills his image- well, not in so many words. I didn’t.
He died with a cancer. He suffered. I saw him suffering. He pleaded even in those later days of his life to me, to put an end to him. I couldn’t. Not just because he was my friend, but simply because I couldn’t.
And he died; I heard that he died in pain. I avoided my own pain of seeing him in pain- and I wasn’t ashamed of that. I had to go and see him as a dead body, a pale blueing body in an icy cage. I did not cry when that image struck me in reality. I just ran away, just as how I ran away from his death-wish.
That evening, I was there at the crematorium, I saw his body and the lies (that he had collected all his life) arrive. With the permission of those who were blatantly in authority I joined the few hands that lifted his body onto the slide of the final furnace. And then,
I kissed his forehead. The man whose nails had not brushed with mine, had become a body whose forehead brushed with my lips! Shunning the shocked eyes, my eyes focused on the body sliding through the furnace, to be enveloped by a flame. Even now as I type I feel the heat of the flame that engulfed the body of my friend, but I do not cry.
In 1998, I needed 25,000 Rs. and he had enough contacts if not bank balance to arrange that for me. He didn’t. I was not trustworthy enough for that amount. In 2005, he gave me a watch and said it was RADO! I gifted that to someone just to be reminded in 2008 that it was an imitation! He had told me Rajneesh was crap, and he told me in his dying days that the only solace he derives from life is by reading Osho!
He had not done many things for me! In fact, he did not do many things for me that he could have done. Yet, he was (the verb has to be past in grammar though the meaning will remain in the present-continuous) MY friend
Friendship is not by what they do not do, but what they do to you. The doing is love.
I loved JK, who loved JK (jiddu), and I love JK!