She was a deep thinker, wise and feisty. She died resting on a cloth from the Ganges. It was appropriate. Her name was India.
At 13 years old, India was never meant to pass so young. Always having an opinion on things, she also loved to ponder over the universe while lying on the couch or on a chair, and she insisted on resting her lilac Burmese head on a cushion.
Her demise to us humans was sudden but the reality is she had been in physical pain for many years and we never knew. The two last vertebra fused together to form one solid vertebra, slowly pinching vital nerve endings. I left for work one day and she appeared fine. When I got home, she could not walk properly. Within 6 weeks, she was just existing. Barely walking, not eating, her presence limited, her lilac fur dishevelled and unable to control her bladder. India’s time had come.
We will miss her deep stares, her attempts to meow but all that happened was her mouth opened, her insistence despite a drought to drink water from the bath tap, the lashings she would give the puppy and the ability to destroy anything left on a bedside table, be it a book, magazine, alarm clock or light fitting.
India’s memory is all over our home and it will forever be with us.
Om shanti shanti shanti