Language of loss, colours of grief.
On a nippy autumn morning of 2003, I waited for my school bus to arrive, accompanied by Moon Didi.
The entire street was marked by the presence of school children and their parents. Moon Didi and I , were trying to dodge the prying eyes of our relatives. Monisa, my father’s cousin, would take care of my brother and I, both yet to enter our teens then, her in her early twenties, while my parents were away , for my mother’s treatment. On certain occasions, her and I were successful in avoiding any unwanted encounters with relatives each morning, other times we were ambushed and interrogated on my father’s absence . Why are you(moon Didi) here at the stop? Where is he (my father ) ? We made up stories on him having had a long day at the court and therefore not being able to accompany me to the stop.
The questions broke away from my heart’s reverie in denying my mother’s deteriorating health.
I was 9 . I clung to hope. I went to school to forget that I had to come back to a house where uncertainity around my mother’s health was screaming loud on everyone’s face. Where every phone call on our landline flashing a 'Delhi PCO number' made everyone nervous.
Days passed, one exam at a time , without having our parents around. Moon didi took care of my GK and Hindi. Both of which I wasn’t much fond of. I would go to her place, put on her lip liners, she had aplenty , never used them herself, listen to music on her red tape recorded cum chargeable light. She also had a collection of cassets. I would quickly have meals , come back to her room and listen to music , all day.
We woke up late in the mornings, a habit I easily hold responsible for half of my problems in life today, we cracked jokes, discussed topics ranging marraige and dresses, I was all of 9, she applied Hena on my hands. Most beautiful designs, mostly on her own and sometime copying from an old Hena design book, there were no mobiles in Kashmir back then. She made cones from emptied salt packets. She made the best cones and applied the best designs.
Moon Didi, was asthmatic. And it was mostly allergic. That somehow hampered here day to day work and education. Despite that she was best at almost everything. Hand writing, art, cooking, to name a few.
She continued to play a vital role in the life of my brother and I , while herself a young adult, who , when I now think of it, was so much wiser than her age.
She got engaged , and my excitement knew no bounds. We shopped for her and discussed her looks. She was a simple girl. Beautiful skin and curly hair. Never fond of makeup. Hair covered with a head scarf worn over an abaya.
Our hair commonality often became the butt of our shared jokes. We woke up looking like exhausted zombies. Our hair, sometimes tangled with one another.
I was a part of her journey from engagement to marraige , all those conversations, meetings, emotional upheavels. All of it.
A year later. My mother on the other hand , who was by moon didi’s side on her engagement, passed away. In her battle against the dreaded disease, my mother’s life charted a path of resilience, hope, faith and lot of strength. She persevered . She fought. She kept correcting my grammar and my brother’s Hindi from across the room, lying in her bed, her physical strength uprooted by the malicious chemo therapies.
For years together, after her passing, we lived in disbelief and with un-expressed pain. I was a clingy child. I held on to my mother’s shirt, hair, Bossom, face, in sleep. On feeling too cold or too hot, I kept moving my hands all over my mother, all of it , was too usual, too common-place for me to let go. Just like that. Hair, shirt, Bossom, face, lips were replaced by an empty bed space and a pillow. I adapted. I got used to being my counsel. I let it out at nights, sobbing under my blanket for years and waking up with a face , that showed no signs of previous nights struggle.
In 2005, Moon didi’s upcoming marraige , got us all excited. She continued being a trusted confidante, a friend , an advisor. A female figure I needed at that time.
She got married and much to my excitement , just a lane away from my house. Time kept wheeling past us, I became a teenager , a school pass-out, a law graduate. Her, a mother of one and then two boys.
Meetings and conversations became fewer. Life’s empty indulgences and distractions , got us a lil distant. However , whenever we met , nothing was lost sight of. Not what we shared, not what lied ahead of us.
2 months backs , she visited our place, on my cousin’s class 10th result, we briefly met , she was ever so glowing and smiling. We spoke about my brother’s upcoming wedding. That she couldn’t believe we had grown up , according to her , so fast. Some 20 days back, while my dad and I were spending a lazy locked down , afternoon in the kitchen, a relative called informing about Moon didi being hospitilsed with Covid, but she was doing alright. With each passing day, her breath was betraying her. She valliantly fought. From several oxygen cylinders a day, to being put on life support . Every ounce of strength , she had, she must have put in. Every prayer , every tear worked towards sustaining her , one day at a time , until the morning of 12th June, when a call from my father , readying me for the inevitable said ' moon Didis oxygen saturation is falling, she might not make it' , an hour later she passed away. Leaving behind , two teenaged boys, dotting but broken husband, dismayed parents, helpless siblings, heartbroken relatives and family.
What followed her passing, was a storm of grief enveloping me. Engulfing my senses into an irretrievable black hole of pain.
I went back to being a 10 year old, looking for my sanctuary, that had just been dismantled. Leaving me feeling vulnerable and exposed.
Right now, right that moment, it was not about me. My history of/with losses. My grief or pain. It was about a life , a young brimming life , cut short . A human, moon Didi, monisa, Mona, most humane and kind. Her warmth wells up eyes of those who knew her. Her patience in times, when her health wasn’t the most promising, makes loved ones wriggle with pain. Eyes full of dreams and hopes , being rested in eternal sleep. Two teenaged children’s sanctuary dismantled , yet again.
Mind refuses to write 'was’. Anything past tense, is a moment of Reckoning,still. Heart refuses to let go and enable 'positive' prospects of the future, of surrendering to the 'wise decision’, our mind may not be farsighted enough to absorb. What could probably be wise in a life so young being snatched away ? Does gnawing hollowness in the middle of the chest ever fill?
Irrespective of the number of mournings or funerals one has been a front rower in, each mourning is different. Each grief unique. The last time I felt my body react to an emotional loss, was when my grand-father, a keeper of my life’s story , passed away on 1 Dec ,2019.
The physicality of that grief was surprising. The aching of muscles of mind and heart, if at all there are any, made me touch grief’s core. It’s ok to fall down. It’s ok to feel scattered and broken. It’s ok to feel nothing will ever make sense in life or bring you joy, hereon. It’s ok to wander mentally and physically in search of respite. It’s not ok to stay there. Emotions, as oxymoronic as this may sound, are anything but abstract. Emotions are words, actions, courtesy. Emotions are what you amass, in your dealings with other humans. Therefore, what must stay, is the outcome of what actions translated into , and not what was said or not said. That makes things easier, or so I would suggest.
Language is a metaphor. The whole of it. It’s inadequacy , especially in times of loss is telling. It a glib offering of solace. It’s complicity with emotion, isn’t however always a reality. It’s relation with customs, a given. Yet, there isn’t any other way one can think of , to connect and communicate. Becoming, from one person, with all emotional security to another person fending for oneself, isn’t seamless. It’s a pitiless journey. Yet , rewarding in ways, immeasurable. Maybe, just philosophically. But you do become volcanic in your intuition , to protect yourself, your emotion, and the better portions of your heart and mind from outside intrusion. Call it a blessing in disguise, if you may . But name it. Name the reward , and incentivise the loss.
Grief’s tale will never end. It will take shapes everyday. Sometimes , it will be about laughter and laughter alone. While reminiscing happy days. Some days , it will turn a bright sunny day , grey and air. How is it that the world keeps going on? Those bereaved will ask. How is it that the sky, the trees, the birds don’t manifest , what has befallen the inhabitants ? While inside of the bereaved there is perpetual displacement of peace.
There isn’t one answer, and there isn’t one learning from loss. There are many. However, what I have taken from quite a few that I have seen, Is acute awareness of mortality. And yet, distractions of life manage to tone down the comprehension of that awareness , one day at a time.
Moon Didi’s simplicity, wisdom, affection, and patience made her an irreplaceable part of many lives. Mourning her loss first as a complete human, who deserved to live lot longer and then the loss of her as a mother, wife, daughter, sister. I decided to write now, because I have regretted not writing before about how moments of loss have felt. In scattered places , I have recorded the feeling of void and physical pain on dadu’s passing. But never had the courage of compiling it. Today, the regret is overpowering. Writing is the only record of memory . And for me so dear, as it , holds un-spoken strings to my mother’s heart. My best friend , long back told me about medium and it’s now a good idea to scribble here.
There is nothing phenomenal about recovering from loss. It get easy with time. Time again a debatable marker of healing . It ceases and it perpetuates. It agonises and it solaces. As much as I like to keep the impenetrable exteriors intact, I am moved every single day by the feircesness and gentleness of love and care of those around me. I begun to express , because I had to. Saw no point to torque those emotions tight. Thankyou !
I hope for those of our loves ones floating in heaven, find their deserved places above this world’s shallow imagery .
