Minutes after landing at the Chhatrapati Shivaji International
Airport, I see a text message that my 49-year old Aunt has passed away. No, it doesn’t come as a surprise; to see ‘her’
is the reason why I am in India in the first place. I had been prepared for the devastatingly sad
event by my family who told me the previous day that she was on life support
and that she would not survive. I don’t have
much time to let anything sink in because I have a very short transit. As I board my connecting flight to Chennai, why
is it that I feel a sudden urge to encapsulate of all of my memories of my Aunt into a few minutes as though I am running a highlights reel in my mind? It’s a strange feeling that the mind goes
into overdrive while the rest of the body feels anesthetized. Numb.
Totally numb. Slowly the numbness
wears off. And, seething anger towards a
supreme power (“supreme” and “power” seem such unlikely terms in the wake of a
death) that I hope exists up above, is one of the first emotions that I feel. Then I land in Chennai and see some of my family
members at the airport. Suddenly, I snap
out of the maelstrom of emotions. “There
are people to console,” I tell myself. To begin with, an 80-year old mother that has lost her daughter, a 12-year old daughter
that has lost her mother. Surely their loss
is greater than mine, I convince myself.
In the next few hours, I see every close family member
and every meaningful friend that my Aunt had.
Some of her friends are people that attended my first birthday
celebrations. So, you can get a sense
for the history we share collectively. As the final
rites are performed, I see everyone consoling everyone else. Some of my Aunt’s friends console me and my
other family members. Another family
member, probably with the hope of squeezing out every ounce of grief,
extends to a friend that most comforting of gestures – a hug. All this while, I feel like I am in an entirely quiet zone, continuing
to run that highlights reel in my mind.
Finally, I accompany my Uncle, my parents, my Aunt’s friends and a few
other family members to the crematorium.
That is where it hits me. The
sight of people getting my Aunt prepared to be turned into a pot of ashes yanks
me out of my own daze. And, that
maelstrom of feelings that I had been experiencing, finds my eyes to be an apt conduit
to erupt out of. I am incredibly thankful
for the fact that one of my Aunt’s dear buddies of 30 years, is nearby – equally submerged
under the weight of his emotions – to ensure that I feel that I am not
alone. An hour later, what gets submerged
is the pot of ashes in the nearby Besant Nagar beach as the priest overseeing
the final rites directs my Uncle to have his back to the waters as he throws
the pot over his shoulders. Watching this
rather pointed direction from the priest, one of my Amma’s cousins comments, “We are a very practical people.” Are we? More on that in a bit.
Cut to the present…
It’s been
nearly three weeks since the above events happened. And, I feel like I have had a complete grieving experience. Sure, my Aunt’s memories will be in my mind
continually for the rest of my life given what an important mother figure,
sister figure and friend she was in my life.
But the short term impact of this life event taught me a few important
lessons. One is what Professor Morrie Schwartz mentioned in the wonderful, illuminating book on life, loss and death, “Tuesdays with Morrie.” When asked by his student as to how he dealt with grief, he talked about how he faced it head-on, going through it
and coming out the other side. (I pictured going through a dark tunnel to see light at the end.) When
reflecting on my experience from three weeks ago, I realized the importance of
fully being aware of one’s grieving process, identifying what works for you– some internalize while just
focusing on the happy memories, others cry out loud, some wail about the
unfairness of it all, others ruminate on the science around the illness – and immersing yourself fully, never once having the fear of being judged. As with every theory, there is an
exception. And, that exception is that,
while it is critically important to experience one’s own grief fully, it is
also important to balance it with a focus on being there for others whom you
think need you.
Talking of
being there for others, what also comes to mind are the people in the extended
family and acquaintances (outside of the immediate circle) that call on the
surviving family members. In thamizh,
there is a term called, “dhukkam vijarikardhu.” I have
never understood the true meaning of this term.
It translates into (bad) English as, “Asking about your sadness.” People that call on the near and dear of the
deceased, I feel, have a responsibility.
And that responsibility is to walk the tightrope walk between expressing
your own sadness and giving strength and expressing support. And, I feel that I saw people on both sides
of this balance. I remained a mute
spectator as I witnessed my family listening to a few well-meaning but
ill-timed comments from certain people. Comments
such as one from an old family member to my grandma -“What is the use of you
and me living when she (my Aunt) is gone?” Surely, not the advice that the Doctor ordered for my grandma, you would think.
But all these reflections aside, that anger that I experienced towards the Almighty, thinking of the
unfairness of it all, still persists. And, that’s okay. My family gives me the
permission to ask my own unanswerable questions, trusting me to live with life’s
glorious uncertainties, with those seemingly cruel vagaries of fate, all while assuming that things
will look up, that there is some reason for these things to happen. I haven’t accepted any ‘theory’ or ‘explanation’
for why this thing had to happen. For
the time being, I continue to face my own tough questions. And, I continue to celebrate the life of my
Aunt in my mind, over and over. The show
is over. But the highlights will continue to
play...
