I lost an old childhood friend to domestic violence a few days ago. Her fault was that she tolerated for too long the cruelty meted out to her and told herself that it was 'okay' for things to be this way.
The sudden news was unfathomable to all of us who had known each other as classmates in school. For the longest time we wondered why she had not told even one of us what she had been going through. We had known each other for over 25 years after all! If she'd have shared her trials and tribulations with us, perhaps, we could have helped. Perhaps, we could have shown her that she was not alone. That she could get out of the seemingly impossible situation. Why did she go through this all alone? Why did she not reach out?!
And then it dawned on us, a group of grown women, some married, some single, some divorced; some as yet childless, some mothers of children; some working at home, some outside too; women that had shared several years together as 'girls'. The last time that any of us had spoken to her was six months ago.
It dawned on us that we don't 'talk to each other' anymore. We know of each other all right. Thanks to Facebook, WhatsApp, Instagram and several other apps that let you believe that you are connected to your friends, we all know about each other. But, we don't really 'know' each other. The instant gratification promised by social media, and the narcissistic indulgence in the 'selfie' phenomenon have rendered to us such contorted versions of reality that we start to trust in this make-believe world of pretty pictures that belie the truth of our lives. And, unfortunately, this friend had had some of the prettiest pictures to share.
The incredulity and pain of this whole experience made me think back to the times when I shared a bit of myself with my friends. I realised that those were the times when I actually met them in flesh and blood or, at the very least, had a heart to heart conversation over a phone call. It was those moments of 'connecting' that actually helped to keep the bond of friendship alive and meaningful. The numbers of 'friends', 'tags', 'mentions', 'likes' and '+1s' have never really mattered. Because that's not where the whole of me is. Those things are but a minuscule manifestation of what my life is about. Sadly, our minds perceive this manifestation as synecdochical and believe it is the whole truth.
As much as I cursed my own failings as a friend, not to have seen beyond the pretty pictures, not to have called my friend more often for just for a casual, agenda-less, heart-to-heart conversation, not to have realised that it would matter a lot more to her to actually speak to a friend than to receive a text message, I was reminded of all those friends who have actually taken the trouble to do this for me in the past. I recalled the times that a friend called me to wish me on my birthday rather than sending a text message on a WhatsApp group (which would, in no time, be copy-pasted by several others on the group). I remembered when a mentor and guide called to congratulate me on a promotion and wished for my well-being rather than dish out a perfunctory 'thumbs-up' sign on my Facebook wall. I recollected when a relative called to ask if I needed any assistance when I shared news of child-raising troubles and challenges on the family group.
Anissia's death was a rude shock in every sense of the term. For me, personally, it has been a wake up call and reminder that I have much to do to be a better friend to my friends.
I came across these beautiful lines recently that capture the essence of the kind of support friends offer each other. I vow to endeavour to be such a friend to my friends.
Kheench kar utar dete hain
Umr ki chaadar
Yeh kambakht dost
Kabhi boodha nahin hone dete.
Doston se rishta rakha karo, janaab
Tabiyat mast rahegi
Yeh woh hakim hain
Jo alfaaz se ilaaj kar diya karte hain.
