Life, Laughter and Everything Else

It was just a bar, but it was also his sanctuary, where he regularly returned to share the triumphs and tribulations of his life. At Publicans, he found a listening ear, a comforting pat, the guiding hands and all the memories that would eventually become his bestselling memoir of the name ‘The Tender Bar’. It was reminiscent of Central Perk in Friends, or MacLaren’s Pub in How I Met Your Mother. As S stood near the stove and patiently stir fried the onions like he always did, it just hit me. This was where I came, lugging beer and chicken, when I wanted to get away from it all and just be at home. It was where we could open our heart out and speak of the torments, the absurdities and the loneliness of the lives we led in this foreign land and expect to be understood. The alcohol would soften our hearts and loosen our tongues and the chicken curry that he prepared would keep the thoughts of our actual home at bay. It was a ritual between the three of us. Sometimes we met outside,

"So what does he do", I quizzed her, zealous in my attempts to paint a picture of this stranger who had taken over what was once mine. "He's not always reading like you", she gave a hint, a slight rebuke at a habit that she used to always mock me for. To read. To write. To think. I had to admit they never gave me the bliss she did. Nor did they give the memories. Or the pleasures. But unlike her, they were always there by my side, only absent by my own choice to not be with them. It was they who made my dreams as a child, endowed me with that lively imagination I still have to this day, helped me make sense of all the chaos in the world, comfort and inspire me in my darkest movements, fill the vast swathes of time that threatened to bore me and lifted me up when she let me down. It is reading that made me who I am, and I am damn well proud of it.