His life is crowded with people. He is people’s people.
Sameer, Humsa, Vijay, Rishu, Derek, Chahek, Asif, Amir — their names are always ready on his tongue. He shares their photos, their milestones, their wins, as if each one were his own. He was there for every wedding, every ritual, every small crisis — showing up, doing the unpaid, unthanked work of love, simply because it needed doing.
His duties began at twenty-three. Contributing to every wedding in the family — that’s what his religion, his role, asked of him. He built his own house — a small triumph, hard-earned. He helped relatives when they needed money. He looked after his parents until they were gone.
And somewhere in all of that — I think — a sliver of loneliness. The particular loneliness of a man who understands everyone, and whom no one quite understands back.
There must be desires too, wrapped in old cloth, pushed to the far corner of a tall cupboard no one has opened in years.
Still — a life well lived. A life lived for others. A life that earned, coin by coin, people’s affection. A full life.
I scrolled past a reel yesterday. It said: take a blank sheet, write the names of three people who’d sit with you at 3 a.m. if things fell apart.
My sheet stayed blank.
I’ve earned money. I’ve flown across the world. But the one thing I never learned to earn was people. This is where he outran me — a life stitched thick with love, without even trying.
I want a piece of that life.
I want a piece of him.