After the waterworks: A hopeful essay on grieving

Long-time readers of the blog will be familiar with my fondness for my maternal grandfather.  For those of you reading this and not as familiar, my grandpa died in a freak accident in 1994 when I was 13 years old.  I was extremely close to him.  I probably did not realize it then.  But I think I took it for granted that I would just grow up under his steadying influence.  His sudden death shocked me.  It shook me.  But not in a way that I find it easy to express.  Recently, his 30^th death anniversary just came and went.  I did not cry.  I did not dig up any photographs of his.  I did not really reminisce about him with anyone on that day.  But the realization that I got to keep a little of him whereas he took a lot of me when he went, was a palpable one.  The heaviness was akin to the blockage of a heart that needed a stent and balloon to keep it functioning.  So, what makes me retain the lightness of heart amidst the burden of his passing?

Before answering that question, I’d like to revisit the period after Thatha passed away.  After the wailing.  And after the waterworks.  It is safe to say that the period starting from a few days after an unforeseeable event like a premature death, are the hardest for the near and dear.  My grandpa was survived by my grandma, their two daughters, sons in law and an only grandchild (at the time), which was, of course, yours sorrowfully.  Regardless of his passing on, there was a routine for everyone.  My parents, Uncle and Aunt had to return to work.  I had to go back to school.  Thathama (that’s what I called my grandma) had a house to run.  But once the flood of tears subsided, the drought of emotion took over the house.  The sadness in the air was as hard to concretize as it was real.  There was a certain numbness felt by everyone.  The huge set of people who came on the day of his passing on and for a few days afterwards could, of course, not keep showing up every day to express condolences.  But there was something that I noticed about the small set of the people in the inner circle who kept showing up.

You know what they did so wonderfully well?  I just answered that.  They showed up.  My grandpa’s best friend and his family, my grandpa’s brother and his family, my grandma’s sister, her sister-in-law, a nephew of hers, a niece…the list is not that long but they played a hugely important role in our recovery.  They just came to our house consistently and spent time with us.  I honestly do not remember any pearls of wisdom that they shared about grieving or how to cope.  They just were there.  They let my grandma be.  They knew that she had to lead the rest of her life without a partner that had just been a rock-solid pillar of support for her in 40 years of marriage.  Sometimes when my grandma needed her space, they would not disturb her.  They demonstrated something that Sheryl Sandberg and Adam Grant wrote about years later.  That the platinum rule of supporting grieving people is that you treat them the way they want to be treated.

I was not that young that I did not notice all this but I was young enough to not quite comprehend everything.  And for my part, I bottled a lot of my grief within me.  I never reached out, even to my loving family or my caring extended family, for much emotional support.  I don’t even remember saying as much as, “I miss Thatha a lot.”  Not that my family ignored me.  Far from it.  They would sometimes wonder why I didn’t express myself much despite being so fond of him.  I even remember, in 1995, during my Thatha’s birth anniversary, I did not join my family on a visit to an orphanage.  When my Mom asked me whether it was not disrespecting the memory of someone whom I respected a lot, I just bumbled something along the lines of, “I have to study for tomorrow’s assignment.” (Yeah right!)  I do not have an answer to the question why I never opened up much.  But I have an answer on how I eventually did.

It was during my late teens when I started to open up about missing my grandfather a lot.  I would speak to my family as well as my friends about it.  It all started with a visit to the hospital where he died.  A friend of mine was undergoing a surgery there.  I was very hesitant to visit the same place.  But when I told my Mum about it, she responded that if at all I wanted to internalize the spirit of my grandpa, that I must visit my friend.  Thatha’s friendship of 50 years with his dearest friend, the late Mr A. Sivasailam (Sivasailam Mama, to me) was one of the things that defined his life.  That day when I visited the hospital, was a bit of an epiphany for me.  One that has helped me grieve a lot more effectively.  And fortunately or unfortunately, has helped me deal with other life-altering events like the passing on of my Aunt. 

When I lose someone, I genuinely try to remember what they stood for.  And how they wanted or rather, would want me to lead my life.  Earlier, I used to put an undue amount of pressure on myself to almost mimic them.  And I would get frustrated when I did not experience the kind of peace that I craved.  But I realized over time that I had to put my intentions through the filter of circumstance as well as the character of people that I interact with.  As a result, I have been able to almost customize certain kind of behaviours where I try to capture the spirit of the loved ones who have left me. 

But what I have learned the most from the people who supported us during trying times 30 years ago was the need to be a shoulder to the ones who truly need us during times of grieving.  Especially in the period after the initial shock.  I have realized that that is when and where the grieving ones truly need us.  The outward silence they sometimes project is a by-product of a thousand voices in their mind.  Voices that sometimes they don’t know how to respond to.  Voices that sometimes raise questions about the purpose of life, about the fond memories of the loved ones that can never be recreated or about basic things that have to be sorted out – finances, logistics, new routines, etc.  Above all, the questions around leading a life without the one who has left us prematurely.

I have seen that the most thoughtful of supporters do so by being there and by gently prodding the survivors to take steps into creating a new normal and a new purpose for their living.  When my grandma (who never got a college education) decided to take over as the proprietor of the small factory that my grandpa had built so lovingly, people such as Sivasailam Mama and his equally loving family members, ensured that she was able to execute my grandpa’s vision to the best of her abilities.  That she did so for more than 20 years after my grandpa’s passing was a testament to her willpower as well as the thoughtful support of her trusted circle. (In an unfortunate repeat of events, when my Aunt predeceased my grandma, the latter found solace in caring for her granddaughter.)  As the line in Rhythm goes, “Death is not the end.”  Especially not for the ones who have to keep going.

So, back to the question of what makes me retain the lightness of heart amidst the burden of my Thatha’s passing?  The first is, a willingness to make an invisible yet meaningful line of connection to him by striving to imbibe his spirit, in essence the ‘soul’ (pun intended) of his character.  And secondly, to reach out to people who grieve for reasons of their own.  After all, giving is one of the most sustainable forms of healing. 

All said and done, I do miss you a lot, Thatha.  I wish you hadn’t left me so early.