The Last Goodbye

A few years ago, I came across a yellow cat with a bob for a tail wandering the areas around my block. He was somewhat temperamental, and also extremely scared at the time. I tried looking for him because I was interested to see if he was a new stray who had not yet been sterilised, but he didn’t show up so frequently. I came across him twice over the period of a month or so, and on the second time I managed to feed him. He looked fairly well-groomed, actually, and I guessed that his owners had let him go or he had escaped somehow. He also bit me because he was scared.

My mom also managed to feed him once. He was big-sized and ate a lot. He was also very hungry, another sign that he had probably been domesticated prior to this and was struggling to find things to eat.

Eventually he got to trusting us, and we named him Bag Bag. He came to our place and we would feed him.

Later, through the network of cat aunties, we learnt that he had owners who were looking for him. By this time, he had taken to staying outside our door. We didn’t take him in because we didn’t have enough space for him, and it also didn’t feel right taking in someone else’s cat. His owners came for him after a while and we thought that it would be the last we saw of him, which was good in a sense because he hadn’t adapted to living outside and there were also wild dogs.

Then we saw him again. His owners came for him again. Then he came back. His owners too. This cycle went on and on. Sometimes he would show up for a couple of weeks. Sometimes longer. Sometimes his owners would find him the next day. Whatever it was, he always came back.

A few months ago, he stopped showing up completely. We heard from people in the know of it that his owners had made it harder for him to escape. Which was all good, really. We missed him, certainly, but it was better that he had a home.

A couple of weeks ago, he showed up again as my mom was watering the plants. I was outside, and she gave me a call immediately. She told me that he seemed particularly affectionate that day. I sighed because I didn’t want him to have to put up with life outside again. She also said that she tried to feed him but he wasn’t very interested in all of that. Then he was gone, and he didn’t show up the next day either.

Just now, one of my mom’s friends called and said that he had died. Apparently, he finished up a last meal and went to sleep for one final time. He had been ill, it seemed.

I tried to say as little as I could about it, but I couldn’t help thinking that I had missed his last goodbye.

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R.I.P. Rabbit

John Updike has passed away. [via The New York Times] He died of lung cancer.

I was never the biggest fan of his work, and it has been a long time since I’ve read the Rabbit Angstrom books, but I will never quite forget the muscular poeticism that had at that time left me quite enthralled. A modern great, and no matter one’s opinion of his work, we are surely the lesser for this loss.

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Harold Pinter, 1930-2008

Harold Pinter has passed away. [via The Elegant Variation]

No matter the magnitude of his contributions to theatre, Pinter has always struck me as an intensely intellectual and compassionate man who would (and did) fight for the the things he believed in. In writing, he was an unforgettable proposition and a force of nature. I will miss him, as all of us surely will.

Pinter, best known for his play The Birthday Party, was an immense figure in English theatre, and typically dealt with themes of identity in his works. His body of work was so unique that ‘Pinteresque’ has entered the modern dictionary. He also directed for theatre, television and film. He won the Nobel Prize in 2005. In that year, he also announced that he would stop writing plays, although he continued to be active in theatre as well as in politics. Aside from acting and directing, he was also involved in radio plays and television. He continued too to write poetry.

He died of cancer of the oesophagus, diagnosed in 2002.

A remarkable figure in modern literature, and–I have no doubt–a remarkable human being as well. Rest in peace, Mr. Pinter.

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On David Foster Wallace

I just learnt that David Foster Wallace has passed away. [via The Elegant Variation] He was 46.

The only work of his I’ve read is Infinite Jest; and now, I still remember the deft touches, the power of voice, the immensity, the sprawl, the exuberance of it all. He was a really special writer.

It is truly sad that he had to go. Rest easy, sir.

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