The Last Laugh.

The ceremony was small, unpretentious, heart-wrenching. No loud bawls, just tears silently shed. No stories exchanged that sung his praise, just a collective silence that recalled special moments that were shared with him, special because he made them special. The crowd soon dispersed, close friends stayed back to clean his apartment. A forty year old bachelor cannot expect to have a family to cry for him. His life and now death were no different.

A small apartment, neatly maintained – a living room, kitchen and a bedroom with two closets. Silently, methodically, they started collecting his possessions, each small object – an old football with their names scrawled on it, a faded photograph from their college days, his favourite T-shirt - only your wife will change you, they had claimed – summoning a fresh surge of tears, until they could cry no more. The frail woman clad in a black saree looked the most devastated, she often took deep trembling breaths and hung on to anything she could place her hands on, for support, her lips quivered but made no sound. The two men in the apartment were lost in their own memories, trapped in their own mental turbulence to help her. Friends for life, they had proclaimed proudly and happily. He had broken his promise, unexpectedly, unfairly – or so it seemed to them.

The woman walked, unseeingly, towards the bedroom and slowly started collecting his belongings; each movement seemed to take forever, her brain refused to respond, her heart, still in denial. She picked up the neatly stacked novels gently and placed them in a cardboard box. She stared at the picture on the cover of a novel for several moments – a happy picture, a man and a woman laughing, holding hands and walking down the street – she blinked a few times to look at the picture through her tears and traced her index finger along the man's face, life seemed to have come to a halt. The simple picture drew several powerful images from her past and painted them in front of her eyes; she closed her eyes and sank down - an absolute surrender to her emotions.

She was introduced to him by a mutual friend, she had nursed a crush for him, for quite some time. The first few years, she even thought that their relationship might lead to something romantic eventually; she did not realize when the definition changed. Suddenly, they were friends, and suddenly the bond had grown stronger than it ever was. He was always there for her, until today…

She dusted invisible cobwebs from the cupboard and started placing the old greeting cards, audio cassettes and trinkets into the box. Several cards were from her, proudly displaying years of careful maintenance…a small notebook fell down and she picked it from the floor – a heart was drawn on the cover, broken and over it his familiar scrawl, "Broken…still beating, for you". She had never seen him as a romantic, and she knew there was nothing about him that she did not know…yet the writing was definitely his. In spite of herself, curiosity prompted her to open the diary.

Today, yellow is her color…and mine! She is dressed in a yellow half-sari, blue pavadai…her hair is still wet, little curls bounce off her forehead, no anklets today but when there is music all around, I little need the sound of her anklets to make me dance…she is late again to zoology class, every second I panic – what if she does not come today? But there she is, my one indulgence, my one love…

Her eyes automatically looked down at the next entry dated the next day, again a few lines but just as mesmerizing and heartfelt...

Splitting headache, maybe because I dreamed that she would not be mine? If she will be by my side only in my dreams, I can desire nothing but eternal sleep…but even my dreams betray me!

She read, skimmed frantically, perplexed, not wanting to understand...

She cried on my shoulder today; I wanted the moment to last forever. I want her to lean on me throughout her life and I want to cry with her and care for her, forever…am I selfish? No, how can I be selfish? Every bit of happiness within me quells with her every tear drop…I ask not for her to cry. I plead for her to let me trail by, like her shadow, so that my heart knows what to feel, looking into her eyes…I feel because she does. I am because of her.

As if in a trance, she turned a few pages over, scared to comprehend what she feared it would convey…

Yesterday, we held hands…she did not let go of them the whole evening. I still feel her hands in mine – they are so soft, I am scared I will hurt her if I hold them tightly. We walked on wet grass, every little thing delights her – a butterfly, a rose, sunrise, my silly jokes. I want to talk to her till I can talk no more. Should I tell her what I feel? I am scared she will flit away like the butterfly…but her hands seem so right in mine, does she not feel the same?

More limericks, thoughts and doodles later, his past swirled in front of her, memories that they shared intervened and the pieces of the puzzle seemed to assemble themselves, new meanings extended their hands to her and she caught a reflection of herself in every precious line in front of her. Forgotten phrases made a quick appearance...

"Of course, I love you, you do know you are the one woman who can tolerate me, don't you?"

"Stay with me forever...I might just die laughing!"

"I can ask myself the question or you, it's all the same to me..."

She had lost count of the number of times he had made her play the guessing game with her, "Name the girl in my dreams and I am your slave for today!" She had laughed and indulged his innocent game, five, six names later, she would always give up and they would forget about it until the next time they played the same game. She had never been able to name her and had assumed there was no her.

A thousand "What ifs" surrounded her - what if they were meant to be together? Had he died of loneliness because she had been blind? Did she not recognize love that was so evident in the words that spoke to her today? He had been the perfect friend...maybe he was destined to be more and she had turned her back to her own destiny.

Inexplicable emotions gripped her and unconsciously, her eyes moved to the source of her uncertainty, despair, sadness, love...she resolutely turned to the last page of the diary.

Anjali, Anjali, Anjali...

She held her breath. She could almost hear him whisper her name...

Caught you? Didn't I? You were right after all, there was no girl. But, I did get you thinking there, for a while, didn't I ;)? If this book is in your hands, it only means one thing and I know for sure I will miss you, wherever I am. Ever yours.

The two men who came rushing into the room looked at each other in confusion. They had no idea. He had managed to make her laugh, one last time.