Two friends starting with S.

Today is the birthday of two boyhood friends of mine whose names begin with S.

The memories we shared.

S. was my gateway into music. We would spend long afternoons in the palatial flat his parents had in South Mumbai listening to LPs. Simon & Garfunkle - live at Central Park, The Beatles, Dire Straits - Brothers in Arms. We formed a proto-band - he knew a bit of guitar - I provided 1 tone back up on a keyboard. S. was a German but loved India. His father was a top-boss in a huge German engineering company. His mother taught us photography. They had a holiday house in Italy. S. and I explored Chor Bazaar together and had coin collections in common. After our 10th standard exams I went to boarding school - and he went to Germany

The other S. was my gateway to boarding school. As a green, awkward fellow in 11th grade I was welcomed by S. who had been in the hallowed halls since his medical missionary parents put him there in 1st grade. S. was a sportsman non-pareil - but never let it swell his head. We shared many classes - memorably 2 years of biology - and he welcomed me into his remarkable family who had taken up residence just next to the school. The razor wit and deep love that I received from his parents and sisters opened my eyes to new vistas. This bond continued with the family being a second home for me when I graduated two years later and the S. family shifted to the US.

Why are the ides of February a melancholy day for me?

Well, the second S. has prospered over the past decades. He married a wonderful American woman and has 3 amazing kids. He works hard and is active in his local church - and in a local prison as a volunteer. His wife helps out with a charity that looks after newborns in challenging circumstances. They live on a farm and have various animals - including horses and mastifs. The sadness with S. is that our lives have been physically apart for 15 years. There is an ache that wants us to be together - but it is a good ache because it underlines that which could be but which a mere 22 thousand kilometer distance has wrought.

My ache for my first friend S. is far deeper. I wonder if it will ever go away. We are seperated by death.

The last I met S. was in south Germany. He had continued on with music. It had already taken its toll. He was a guitar wizard - and had one identical to the one on the cover of "Brothers in Arms." He was alienated from his parents - especially his father. He hung out in the park and was on drugs. His girlfriend - a hollow pasty-faced girl - hung onto his arm as we sat in the uncommon sunshine. I was shocked. He seemed so completely different from the old S. I knew. As if I was talking to a dopplegaenger.

S. died within a year. I understand it was a motorcycle accident in Italy.

The pain of separation. Of a full and complete break. I had so hoped that S. would come back to his senses. I had been wishing that I would again meet the boy who I knew and loved from Bombay days. But then I heard from his mother that he was gone.

Each year on February 15 I remember my late friend S.

And am grateful for my other friend S.