Recently, my friend Jugal and I shared a moment reflecting on Jean-Michel Basquiat's profound quote: "Art is how we decorate space, music is how we decorate time." I cannot recall who said it first—perhaps it was him, perhaps it was me. What matters is that this crystalline idea, blending 50% sentiment and 50% clarity, resonated deeply with both of us. It encapsulated something he cherished, and I came to cherish it too.
A Musical Connection Beyond Knowledge
I must confess, my musical knowledge paled in comparison to Jugal's. I knew and listened to merely one-hundredth of the music he immersed himself in. Unlike him, I lacked any historical or technical interest in music. Yet, Jugal understood what music meant to me at a visceral, physical level. He constantly fed that inner beast without ever expecting my middling tastes to evolve or gain intellectual depth. Our music exchange program, which began nearly two decades ago, seamlessly transitioned through newer formats over the years, a testament to our enduring bond.
The Pain of Loss and Unfinished Melodies
In his final years, Jugal had embarked on a new creative journey: writing and making music. Collaborating with his friend Aditya, he was diligently working on an album. A few days after his passing this January, I listened to a rough cut of one of his songs. Without warning, I found myself howling—standing in the doorway between the bathroom and bedroom, overwhelmed by a wave of grief. Like countless others worldwide, I was grappling with the harsh reality that Jugal was gone.
Sunshine in Jaipur: The Beginning of a Friendship
I first met Jugal Mody in 2008 at the Jaipur Literature Festival. At that time, I was a prickly, anxious, wise-cracking, and often weepy reporter. In contrast, Jugal radiated sunshine. I was content simply listening to him talk about anything and everything. A year later, when we found ourselves living and working together unexpectedly, he revealed he had just completed a novel. I read it with great trepidation.
Faking enthusiasm for a friend you see daily would have been challenging. However, his debut novel, Toke, was fun, original, and clearly the product of immense thoughtful work. From that moment, I never worried about feigning enthusiasm with Jugal again.
The Enthusiastic Creator: A Life of Boundless Energy
Enthusiasm was the hallmark of Jugal's interactions with everyone he met, even in passing. In recent years, he grappled with this aspect of his personality, questioning where genuine enthusiasm ended and people-pleasing began. Regardless, his ability to embrace the "yes and" principle of improv comedy meant he remained prolific until the end.
In the last year alone, he wrote fiction, composed music, created countless reels, starred in a hilarious ad with his mother promoting her instant food mixes, traced his musical appetite to his father's influence, and designed a tarot-based planner. While many are now labeled online creators, Jugal was a creator in the truest sense—he simply could not stop.
He authored stories, movie scripts, a heart-wrenching yet magical tarot column, and even developed a video game. Millions of words remain stored in his computer, with countless more ideas flourishing in his remarkably fertile imagination. Jugal cooked elaborate and simple meals, danced, performed improv comedy, laughed, clutched his head in thought, and responded to every friend's call and text.
He once shared that as a child, he decided to attend every birthday party he was ever invited to—a sentiment he later wove into a novel about parties. He wielded Photoshop like a machete and experimented with oil paints. If this sounds like he never slept, it's because he often didn't. In his twenties, when he tried to discuss his erratic sleep cycles with me, I retreated. It took years to realize this wasn't merely cute, eccentric roommate behavior; world-making and people-pleasing were exhausting endeavors.
Grief and Memory: The Battlestar of Loss
I recall an uncle who developed Alzheimer's. His wife passed away when his memory was still present but erratic. Every day, he stood at his gate, cheerfully imagining his wife was out and he would greet her upon her return. Multiple times a day, he had to be reminded she wasn't coming back. For the past fortnight, I have felt like that uncle. Every 33 minutes, the Cylons attack my battlestar; every 33 minutes, I remember my friend is gone.
A Special Bond Amid a Cast of Millions
Jugal had an extensive circle of friends, and so many loved him that only sheer ego allows me to believe I was special to him. Others knew him longer, some knew his secrets, a few witnessed his tantrums and raw truths, and many cared for him meticulously over the last decade as his mind and body needed support. Some were privy to his quest for romance. Amid this cast of millions, he permitted me my ongoing hallucination of that perfect Jaipur afternoon when we first met—a moment when I instantly knew we were special to each other.
Well-lit delusions with great soundtracks were part of our folie à deux. In one of our final conversations, he mentioned a new acquaintance who annoyed him with fanboy behavior. "He thinks I am an edgelord. How do I tell him that I am a soft romcom boy?" he quipped.
Decorating Time with Friendship
I wish long lives and good health to all my friends, his friends, and our shared friends—everyone mourning his loss. As I continue to struggle with the permanence of his absence, glancing sideways at where he was texting just moments ago, I find solace in knowing he was aware of my love for him, and I of his for me. We expressed it constantly.
Good memes and trashy music. Good music and trashy memes. This is how we crafted our art. Over all these years, we decorated time with the enduring canvas of our friendship.
Nisha Susan is the author of The Women Who Forgot to Invent Facebook and Other Stories.
