That time, I had a witty smile on my face, “Funny, Hawking’s been alive 55 years with that”. There was a moment of pure love and respect for a person that defied and resisted not just a disease, but all the grave problems it brought along, let alone watching your kid at the top of stairs and not able to reach him, let alone watching everybody dine peacefully while your peas fall into your lap.
This wasn’t it. You’d wish it were.
To be able to think so monumentally with that becoming a liability for everyone around you, to be able to think what no one else could, what no one else was able to believe so easily, telling how Blackholes could eat you up and Big Bang could be understood, how would anyone amongst us be able to deny the importance of one person sitting on a wheelchair for 55 years?
In a trivial and mediocre world, where people like Stephen Hawking are desperately needed, people like Stephen Hawking are desperately scarce. There’s a niche now, a void in the intellectual space, filled partially with his dust-laden books on my shelf.
Rest in peace sir, and explain to the angels how the big bang happened.
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