Rahat

by Natasha Badhwar

One of the hardest things I have done in my life so far is waking my children up on a misty March morning in 2021 to tell them that Rahat had died. Rahat is the name of our beloved cat, the first born animal in our family.

Rahat was an adventure-seeking tomcat. He was also the most vulnerable in our family. He was small, but he lived expansively. In that moment of breaking the news to our children, I was learning a life lesson. I had to keep moving despite blinding grief and brace myself to hold the distress of others. The pain was physical. The luxury of being able to break down would have to wait.

We used to spend a lot of our time with Rahat; searching for him in the grassy plots around our house, to bring him back home. Once we found him trapped high on a thorny tree. The girls and I managed to extricate him with the help of a step-ladder. For days afterwards, I admired the cuts and scratches on the back of my hands with pride.

Rahat’s name served a dual purpose in those moments of looking for him. ‘Rahat, Rahat...’ we would call out in various tones, almost as if it were a chant. Rahat means solace, and it always reminded us to stay calm. He was okay. He would return. He was obedient that way. He loved us.

Rahat’s short life was the site of many miracles. He had a pronounced limp from a spinal injury he had recovered from at six months of age. He had been rescued as a palm-sized, abandoned kitten by a schoolgirl who brought him home in a cardboard box. He was fostered by a multi-talented artist, who took him to work with her as she nursed him to health and instilled cat-confidence in him. He was put up for adoption by a close-knit group of animal champions who expend time, energy and love trying to make sure that as many street-animals get safe, protective homes as they can manage.

Rahat came to us when he was three months old. Our youngest daughter had just turned eleven. She reminded us that we had said we would adopt pets when she was ready to care for them. ‘I’m ready,’ she announced a few months before her birthday.

We brought our cat home in a blue-green cat carrier, talking to him on the long car ride home. We watched as he explored the house and found safe corners. We celebrated when he chose to sleep next to my head in my bed. We felt accepted. We were jubilant.

Two weeks later, we brought Scarlet, a rescued puppy, to add to our family. Both of them were the same age. My phone is full of videos of Scarlet and Rahat chasing each other, Rahat swatting Scarlet from a safe height, the two of them sleeping cosily on the same mat when winter came, and other moments of our cat and dog bonding with each other.

Rahat used to call out incessantly from behind the wire mesh door when we went out for a walk with Scarlet. Friends warned us not to let him out. But Rahat wanted to be out in the world. He was not smart about it. Or timid. I wish I could describe the joy he exuded as he ran out with his peculiar gait and turned in the loose mud to feel the earth on his back.

‘Rahat!’ I would call out to him from the first floor balcony. He would respond in cat-speak from the spinach patch below.

By the time we finally lost Rahat, I had managed to convince myself to trust him and the universe to keep him safe. Despite our fretting and fears, he would come back to us each time he went out.

Rahat was at home with us. He is now in another home without us. Our grief is doing the thing it does, coming in waves. Transforming into guilt and shame. Making it hard to sleep. Making waking up difficult. We hold it close, we let our tears roll.

Rahat’s presence gave us joy every day. Now Rahat’s memory is what we have. What would Rahat want us to do?

Rahat was generous. When a pair of new cats began visiting our home during the weeks of lockdown, he would let them eat from his bowl. When one of them moved in and gave birth to two kittens, Rahat made space for them too. This is what we must do too. The human heart has infinite space. We must extend ourselves. Be capacious.

For months I was not able to speak to anyone about the death of Rahat. Temporarily, the silence felt protective. What use is a voice when it has lost the power to call out to a loved one and make them appear? I have no capacity to have a conversation about what has gripped my heart and drenched it in pain. I go about my everyday life looking okay on the outside. Yet, when I began to write here, dear reader, there was nothing else I could write about.

I hope reading about Rahat evokes memories of your own deep loves and losses. I hope you are reminded of the unexpected grace we discover as we unwrap the folds of grief, one petal at a time.

First published in The Tribune on 14 March, 2021.