Ishmeet is No More

I am hurrying up the kids to finish their morning rituals of getting ready and eating breakfast. Just before I am about to go drop them at the bus stop, my mother- in- law tells me that last night, Ishmeet expired. Shocked, I am unable to register the news. She, on her part, has to decide about whether the singing program she is organizing in her college is going to be held or not. I have to decide what to tell the kids. I ultimately decide not to tell anything to them. Just when I call their van driver to pick up the kids in time, he informs me that the school is closed. That the vans will not be picking up kids. I call my daughter’s class teacher to confirm and she informs me that they will be going to school, but there is no point sending children to school.

Ishmeet was the alumnus of R’s school – a recent one. R adored him. When he had reached the finals of Voice of India, and needed votes of people to help him win, R simply told me to sit on net, use all my email ids and go on voting every single day. I don’t like reality shows, I despise the hot exchanges of judges, and I hate the disappointed looks on the singers’ faces when they are told they sung badly. I hate the sound of dreams shattering on stage, on camera and I cannot stand people trying to make money and audience deriving a morbid pleasure from the debris of broken expectations. But I recall that I had told a few of my blogger friends to support him because R wanted him to win. That was and is the only reality show I ever saw. I recall how R somersaulted atop the bed with sheer joy the moment she came to know of his victory. I asked her, “Would he come to know that his school mate, a little girl is risking breaking her neck because he won?” She giggled, said she didn’t care. She was crazy, she was shrieking, she was mad with happiness. I was happy for her. Her dad was happy for her.

How can I tell her now, that he is no more. She has a bond with him – she is his fan, like many others. I finally tell her, she is shocked. Her first words are, “I feel like crying mama.” Usually she doesn’t express her sadness like this. When she says these words, I know her throat is choked but she won’t cry because she cannot know if she is to cry or not. In a state of daze, she changes from her school uniform into her home clothes. She is not happy about the school being off today – she usually is not happy about not having to go to school. She takes up her abridged copy of As You Like It that she borrowed from her library yesterday and sits. Then closes it, says, “Mama, I don’t feel like doing anything.” I tell her to take a nap. But she won’t, I know she won’t.

May Waheguru give his family and parents strength to bear the shock. May his soul rest in peace . R is repeatedly saying, I cannot believe it. We all cannot.