Small Encounters, Big Absences

Krishnan Uncle, Arya, and the Lessons of Goodbye!

I’m not a pet lover. I never have been, and I don’t think I could ever pull off being a pet parent. As a kid, I was terrified of dogs. However, over time, I’ve slowly gotten better at dealing with them. That’s why, when I first saw Arya in my neighborhood, I felt more awe than panic. She was a fully grown golden retriever, carrying a fierce yet calm poise. Even with a leash around her neck, she moved as if the world was hers to roam, unbothered, unrushed, and completely carefree.

But as soon as I walked a little more, at the turn near my building, I saw the man who owned this fierce dog. Krishnan Uncle. A retired ex-army officer in his mid-60s, with grey, well-kept hair and glasses to ensure he never lost sight of his dog. He was disciplined enough to make sure to take Arya for a walk every morning and evening, without fail. It was easy for him to strike up a conversation with me as I would see him almost every other day at the crossroads. He would ask me about my work, tell me about his experience working across India, and how he relates to being more of a Kannadiga than a Telugite.

The best thing about Krishnan Uncle was the ease with which he would strike up conversations with anyone and everyone in the neighborhood. Be it the street vendors, watchmen, or even the frustrated IT employee. He could connect with them all. The only other person that I know who could pull this off is my mom. However, she had her social anxiety kicking in when she met Krishnan Uncle. That’s how cool he was. Krishnan Uncle was a boomer with a millennial heart.

Then, around winter last year, my working hours changed, and so did my routine. It was only the weekends when I could have time to roam around the lanes. I realized I haven’t been seeing Arya and Krishnan Uncle at all. Initially, I thought maybe he would have gone to his hometown. There was a part of me that hoped to see him and Arya around the lanes someday. And I would ask him where he had vanished all of a sudden.

Around four months later, while waiting for my turn of pani puri at the chaat stall, I saw Arya! I was looking around to see where Krishnan Uncle was. But I was disappointed to know Arya was accompanied by a bunch of teenagers, one of whom was trying to get hold of her leash. Arya, however, panickily ran away. I noticed the chaat vendor, calming Arya down by calling her name. That’s when I asked him, “Where is Krishnan Uncle? I haven’t seen him for a long time”. He said that Krishnan Uncle had a heart attack around October last year. This was not his first time, so he didn’t survive it. Doctors had warned that he would have to limit his smoking and drinking; however, Krishnan Uncle was an ex-army officer. His discipline was too strong to break old patterns.

I finished eating my round of pani puris and returned home, dejected and hopeless. I won’t deny that his absence for so long did make me wonder, “what if he is no longer around…” But I had opted to go with the thought that he was at his daughter’s house, busy playing with his grandkids. Discovering that he had left the physical realm was worse. Sometimes, more than knowing, not knowing is a blessing.

I do see Arya more often now. And every time I see her, I look for cues to see if she knows what everyone else knows. Things have changed. And this time not for the better. The lane misses his warmth and his smile that could light up the whole city.

No matter how much the tech world advances, the only thing that even AI can never predict is when you meet someone for the last time. And then I wonder, even if we did know, would it really change anything? And maybe this is why it is so important to know how we make people feel in our presence. Because you never know which moment might become a memory. Perhaps what stays with us the longest isn’t how someone left, but how they made us feel when they were around. And maybe in that way, they never truly leave.