(borkatakiswaswati@gmail.com) hey say it is extremely difficult to write about something that is close to one’s heart. Perhaps that is why I have typed this manuscript, edited, deleted, and typed it again countless number of times.
But then, it was important to let it out—to pour it all out. A part of me died on September 12, 2024, the part called Oreo, and with him, they buried a large chunk of my love, longing, and repentance—repentance for not having been able to be with him in the last moments of his life and not feed him his last meal, or maybe clean his water bowl for the last time, caress his forehead, and so much more. Oreo had found me some two years back when I was going through one of my worst bouts of depression.
In that dark, dingy hostel room, he was a constant companion, especially during those brutal December nights when the fog and the ghastly cold winds threatened to rob me of the last traces of sunlight and life. He would sometimes hop onto my bed and sleep on my blanket, right in front of the blower. His presence was a reassurance that I was not alone, even during those horrendous nights when panic throttled me.
Oreo never left my side. But I did. I left for home and returned after three whole months.
When I came back, he followed me to my room. March, they say, is the most beautiful month to be on the JNU campus, as it marks the onset of spring, marked by vibrant hues of bougainvillaea, bringing in respite from the frost biting cold, not just for hu.