A friend once claimed he read the end of books just in case something might happen to prevent him from reading to the end. He was joking, but I bet serious, too. What if I die not knowing is our fear, is it not?
Despite peeking, I watched the remaining episodes of The King’s Affection, and found the show magnificent and satisfying. It offered twists, and surprises. The ending could have been tragic, like Hamlet, with everyone dead, facing the logical conclusions of their respective actions. And in this drama, the actions were dire, violence dragged through political machination. Yet variations of endings were offered, with happiness a possibility at last, defined by love and companionship.
I think binge watching a serial drama lowers my capacity for patience. It makes me restless, wanting my questions answered ( who ends up with whom, mostly), unwilling to see the unfolding of story, the slow tease of reveal. For instance, I have started watching another Kdrama, one that is also full of dramatic curves, but one that also has me laughing out loud. And at episode ten, I peeked to episode thirty to see how it all shook out. I left room to be surprised though, though I am aware of where the show will end. I did this though I swore not to.
It has been ten years since my dear friend Rosie passed. I miss my companion, my best literary critic. Her husband and family remain heartbroken—her life cut too short. She would roll her eyes at my kdrama obsession. Are you mad, Indira, she would say, and I would laugh.
There was no way for me to peek at the ending of our story together, no way to predict what would happen when we first met all those years ago in San Diego, both newly employed at the university there. She was brilliant, a young professor who would go on to take her field by storm, a highly in-demand mentor and scholar. I had written one book at the time , and of the maybe hundred people who had read it to the end, she was one. We became fast friends, sisters really, and my family became hers.
I only stayed in San Diego for three years, leaving in 1995, but we remained friends for twenty more years , but that was all the time allotted to us.
All over the world now, friends are losing friends in the disaster of war, in the wake of illness and old age, or sheer accident. Nothing prepares you, and nothing explains the sense of powerlessness and loss in the face of death.
Indira, my friend Rosie would tell me now, go back and finish up your silly tv drama, and stop worrying. Better yet, darling, go write another book.
I have never preferred sunsets over other types of natural phenomena. To watch a sinking sun, as it elegantly widens and smoothly dips into the ocean, while flame colored clouds unfurl around it is beautiful, but not an activity I especially like to see. I am too attached to even the sun which must go through a daily cycle of seeing death and rebirth. Better for me sunrise, which offers softer colors, the scope of possibilities, the beginning of all things.
Today I went to the ocean just before sunset to see the water and sun and sand; to collect round stones; to thank the universe for giving me a chance to make my way to another coast, to meet a rare woman who became a soul sister, mentor, and trusted friend. Her life has enhanced my life in countless ways, sharpened my intellect, my sense of humor, and my stories. She has made me braver, bolder, and more humane. She leaves behind a world of family and friends touched by her innate humanity, kindness, and wicked humor. My heart swells, overflows.
Indira Ganesan 