Chiku

 

It’s been a couple of years since I last wrote for this blog.

I casually checked a few short posts I had written earlier. One small note for Luna  (my beloved, heavenly-aboded cat) made me return to writing this.

So much has changed since May 2023.

I still think of Luna, but now in a more peaceful and lighter way, rather than in a sad and heavy way. Grief has softened. It no longer sits on my chest; it lingers quietly somewhere in memory.

After she was gone, I kept feeling as though I was searching for a cat again not consciously, but somewhere in my heart. My life was seeking that companionship.

And then, another cat found his way to my home.

It was a rainy evening in August 2024. A tiny kitten came running and took shelter under a car near our house. Dogs were running around, and he was frightened. He darted back and forth on the street, unsure where safety was.

My mother noticed him and asked a neighbour to help. Eventually, we brought the kitten home.

That was the day I met the most handsome little male cat - my Chiku.

He was barely 20–25 days old. Ill. Scared. Shy. Ready to attack if anyone came too close. It took me several hours to make sure he felt safe. I remember sitting patiently, speaking softly, just allowing him to adjust.

Since then, Chiku has been my constant companion.

Now he is a full-grown adult cat - naughty, playful, full of personality. He runs through the house as if he owns it. Sometimes he stares at me in a way that feels strangely knowing.

Luna will always be a part of me.

But Chiku is here, in the present - alive, mischievous, demanding attention, asking to be played with.

And perhaps that is how life works.

It doesn’t replace what we lose.

It quietly sends something new to sit beside us.