Farewell to a Friend

Neela no longer worked with the effortless strength of his younger days, but he still did every task entrusted to him.
Hardworking and steadfast, he never complained about the many tasks, some rather demanding.

His co-worker was young, and a bit of a show-off, he had noticed. Why are you groaning and sweating so much? Look, how effortlessly I handle the task! He seemed to rub it in.

Neela remembered his youth. He, too, was strong then—working long hours with only brief rests, faster and more efficient than his older colleagues. But he never showed off. Age takes its toll. Hadn’t he watched his mother grow weak with age, begin to limp, and then rest in final sleep? Youth and power, too, pass, he knew. Why scorn the elders? Don’t they deserve a little understanding and respect for the hard work they did in their prime?

Neela was born here, raced the village streets as a kid, never afraid of getting lost. If he went too far, he knew mother would call. Mothers will be mothers, getting worried once the boy is out of sight. Neela respected that, and bounded back to tell, ‘I was just round the bend with a few friends.’

He was a good listener, could identify the unseen speaker from voice, and decipher their mood. Is he angry? Is she agitated? Aren’t they happy when the house is filled with laughter?

He recognised all voices, but cocked his ears for one who was his dearest friend. Ever since he could remember, the owner of that voice filled him with happiness. He played with him, fondled him, and never forgot to share a piece of gud or a mudhi laddoo. He had a sweet tooth, and Neela, too, got it from him.

Sometimes when that voice would be absent for a few days, Neela took notice, for before his own dinner, that voice came near and checked if Neela had eaten and eaten well. He never came empty-handed, but always with a favourite delicacy. Upon return from his brief sojourn, when the voice was heard from the street, Neela would enthusiastically call to welcome him. He knew the voice would first come to greet him, and only thereafter the other members of the family. For they were buddies, and soulmates.

Both of them grew together, sharing many moments of joy and sorrow. Very strong, hardworking, and diligent. There was a lot of manual work to do, but that was never a burden if a friend and soulmate was around.

The years went by, and then Neela began to feel the weight of years. No illness, only the inevitable wear of age. Long work hours tired him. Tough tasks began to look tougher.

Neela stayed as long as he could. He didn’t want to be away from his dearest friend. But he knew he must. The evening before he bid adieu to his home and friend, Neela peered through his eyes hazy with cataract. He sensed his friend’s presence, heard his voice as though coming from a long distance, managed to munch a little of the delicacy he had brought, and wept a tear. Maybe we’ll meet again in next life, he muttered. The voice understood. He, too, wept a tear.

That night, the voice heard Neela who had bade a hushed farewell lest he awoke other members of the family.

Neela was a bullock.
He had a coat of grey with specks of blue. He passed away at 18. Jogindra, more friend than master, did not eat that day. Nor the next.

***