Death - Cruel (might or might not be), certain, a truth, has taken away the man who had introduced Biryani to me. Kushaal Singh, who had provided the lip smacking combination of Chicken Biryani and Egg Curry last night is no more. He had a cardiac arrest about 4 hours back, while he was having a hearty laughter session with a gang of colleagues on a busy market road. He could not survive.
I'm still coming to terms with the truth. His wife lifes in Pauri-Garhwal, I'm not sure if she has been made aware of the news. His working son is traveling from Mumbai after hearing the news. His another son studying in 7th standard cried uncontrolably. I'm thinking about the younger son right now, while he would be thinking of his departed father there is no other family member to console him. I'm thinking about the son, who's taking a maiden flight to his place in Delhi, the longest-fastest journey ever. The journey of the widow from the village in the Himalayas to the capital city. 36 hours long jouney during which she a thousand memories would come to life and die. The void, the hollow, the vaccuum which will never be filled again, ever. Is this the reason why death is called cruel? But, it's a truth as well.
My means of introduction to him were minimal, in fact I don't remember seeing him ever. No one from the Annexy that I know of meets the description provided by my mother about the departed. But I do know him one way. The name flashing on my father's mobile 'Kushaal Singh'. Last I "heard" of him was yesterday to confirm the delivery of last night's dinner to our place. During the call between him and my father, I was insisting my father to ask dinner's menu to be delivered for lunch, which Kushaal Singh had declined with a smile and insisted items to be served for dinner. We got mutton instead, for the lunch.
I'm thinking the contact from which no further calls will be made. The person who always cared to ask if there is no "order" for tonight. He, who, prepared the cutlet with the choicest of the dry fruits. He, who, prepared every food with so much love and passion. He, who, has fed us sumptuous Biryani several times. He, who, introduced world of Hyderabadi cuisine to me. He, who, I would never see again.
May your soul rest in peace - The great Khansamah!
I'm still coming to terms with the truth. His wife lifes in Pauri-Garhwal, I'm not sure if she has been made aware of the news. His working son is traveling from Mumbai after hearing the news. His another son studying in 7th standard cried uncontrolably. I'm thinking about the younger son right now, while he would be thinking of his departed father there is no other family member to console him. I'm thinking about the son, who's taking a maiden flight to his place in Delhi, the longest-fastest journey ever. The journey of the widow from the village in the Himalayas to the capital city. 36 hours long jouney during which she a thousand memories would come to life and die. The void, the hollow, the vaccuum which will never be filled again, ever. Is this the reason why death is called cruel? But, it's a truth as well.
My means of introduction to him were minimal, in fact I don't remember seeing him ever. No one from the Annexy that I know of meets the description provided by my mother about the departed. But I do know him one way. The name flashing on my father's mobile 'Kushaal Singh'. Last I "heard" of him was yesterday to confirm the delivery of last night's dinner to our place. During the call between him and my father, I was insisting my father to ask dinner's menu to be delivered for lunch, which Kushaal Singh had declined with a smile and insisted items to be served for dinner. We got mutton instead, for the lunch.
I'm thinking the contact from which no further calls will be made. The person who always cared to ask if there is no "order" for tonight. He, who, prepared the cutlet with the choicest of the dry fruits. He, who, prepared every food with so much love and passion. He, who, has fed us sumptuous Biryani several times. He, who, introduced world of Hyderabadi cuisine to me. He, who, I would never see again.
May your soul rest in peace - The great Khansamah!
