A Bright Soul Left Its Body Today
I miss him. I miss us
My grandfather died today. Passed away, left the world, merged into the universe, or whatever they say nowadays.
It feels weird. Non-comprehensible for some reason. It’s not that I’m not able to accept his death. I’m just not able to …how to put it…not deal with the things going on otherwise. But, as a person uncomfortable with too many emotions floating around, this indeed put me in a weird spot—a spot where I couldn’t talk my thoughts out loud.
I might sound rude and obnoxious. But, the way people flock together, console, cry, and give sympathetic looks irk me. I don’t undermine their support. Nor do I want to diss them off. But everyone somehow feels like they know what I’m going through — when they don’t. And without realizing it, they pass comments like “I’m sorry for your loss. I know what you’re going through,” which pisses me off to the core.
“I don’t want your sorry!!” I wail internally. “You didn’t know him as much as I did!” I scream inside, hating their sympathy.
Of course, the lewd comments never stopped coming. A couple of ladies flocked around my grandmother only to say, “Oh, your husband left you and passed away. You’ll be all alone now without a son!” or “What would you do without your husband now?!”.
To give context, a widow is not respected much in my society. It’s even worse when they don’t have sons, who’re supposed to take care of them in their old age. Once a daughter leaves the house, parents don’t stay in their daughter’s place. Things are changing now, of course. But people with such thoughts still exist — who think sons are better than daughters.
I could see flames coming out of my mom’s and aunt’s ears. “What are we there for??!!” they seemed to exclaim.
Another set of ladies started commenting about how I haven’t had a child yet, even after three years of marriage. They wished my grandfather’s soul was reborn as my child. I was so tongue-tied by the comment that I didn't even know how to respond.
If I could scream “Shut up!” at them, I would have.
I despised everyone in the street staring at my home as though something unholy had happened. I hated it when they called my grandfather “body” and didn’t consider him a person anymore—tied his hands and legs up like a prisoner. Assume that he would not feel. Put him in an ice casket or on the floor like he needs to be boxed up or will not feel the cold.
“Let him be! Don’t touch him!”. My internal cries fell on deaf ears.
The first incident that made me realize he passed away was when I lifted his head to put a chain around his neck. Heavy, unnaturally cold head in my bare hands, lying uncomfortably in an icebox.
That’s when I started touching his skin to get a last feel of the hands that had held me throughout childhood.
His skin was dry as hell — dryer than usual. His feet felt like thick paper since they hadn’t had enough blood circulation for the past fifteen days. His hands were swollen and had blood clots throughout because of the prodding and poking of needles. And his throat was still bandaged since the oxygen was sent through his trachea in his last days. It felt weird to see him lying down like that. Unmoving. Like a statue.
The “bodies” I had witnessed before (my dad’s mom and a couple of relatives) looked like they were in a deep sleep. But not my thatha, as I called him. It felt like he was somewhere in between. He still had that uncomfortable look on his face, as though he was still troubled by the tons of wires attached to him for the past fifteen days in ICU.
And as I stared intently at him to never forget his face, 24 years of memories floated through my brain like a movie. Our daily walks, conversations, his life advice, the feel of his hand, his stories and experiences, our disagreements and fights, the passion for cricket that was common between us, his daily practices, his scent, and body language…everything. They consumed me in a whirlpool of surprisingly happy emotions, and not sad ones. Of time well spent. Of knowledge earned from the wise old man.
He was a prodigy, you see. He was ranked first in the state during school and college and exponentially progressed in his government job. Scholar of literature, Sanskrit, world history, and politics. He was a walking-talking encyclopedia. There was nothing he didn’t know. Every conversation I had with him was mind-boggling. From India-Pakistan tug-of-war to ancient Tamil history, they ranged from Nelson Mandela to Shakespeare. He was one of the main reasons I became a writer.
And thatha was closer to me than my parents. I could have any conversation with him — he was one of the coolest granddads ever, even though he had his limits. I could take pocket money to bunk classes and go to movies during college days, as long as I did not get a letter home. We had this ritual of giving handshakes every time the Indian cricket team scored a 4 or 6 or got a wicket of the opposite team. I could talk to him about my wildest dreams, and he would listen to it patiently, giving his opinion only when necessary. He was a great listener and a great conversationalist.
I learned a ton from him along the way too. When to respond and not respond to criticism, the proper use of the English language, how to be patient with things in life, and just to keep putting in the right effort. Last but not least, how to believe in me.
Even two months back, when I informed him that I was going to leave my 9 to 5 job to become a full-time writer, he was surprised at first. Then there was a minute of silence from his end; then, he asked a couple of questions to ensure that I was going on the right path and gave me his blessings. The whole conversation took two hours, while I had to take eight months to convince my parents.
The end of our conversation went something like this:
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” — Thatha (my grandfather)
“Yes, but I’m scared” — me
“That’s okay. If you’re not petrified, then that’s a problem. Just make sure you stick with your decision come what may, and put you 200% effort. This is a life that you’re choosing. You also have no one to blame” — Thatha
I breathed a sigh of relief. I had prepared so much for the conversation, and his approval was so crucial to me. I never expected him to approve and belive in me more than myself so easily.
While I accept that he’s gone, I will miss him. I will miss us. Our conversations, handshakes, smiles, and laughter.
Thatha was one of the main reasons, I became a writer.
We were glad he left the world. We did not want him to suffer anymore or be in intense pain. He had always been fiercely independent, and he would have needed others’ help on a day-to-day basis if he had survived, even for basic needs. It would have broken his ego and his heart for sure. So we were happy that he went as he wished.
From childhood, I remember him telling this shloka every day. Every single day. And I never realized its importance until the day he passed away.
Athibheeshana katu bhashana yama kinkara patalee,
Krutha thadana pari peedana maranagama samaye,
Umaya saha mama chethasi yama sasana nivasan,
Shiva Shankara, Shiva Shankara Hara may duritham.
Meaning:
This is a prayer on Lord Shiva, the god of destruction. Yama, the god of death, works under His control. At the time of death, it is said that Yama sends his servants, the Yama kingaras, to bring the soul to him for judgment and possible punishments.
According to Vedas, Yama kingaras are fierce-looking, and they speak very harsh words when leading the soul to the court of Yama. During this time, to ease the frightened soul, the prayer requests Lord Shiva to come there along with his wife, Uma Devi, for rescue. At the time of death, on seeing the fierce-looking Yama kingaras, one may not be able to utter Lord Shiva’s name or have any senses to pray Him. Therefore, one speaks this prayer now itself to get rid of the fear of the Yama kingaras.
The whole family started chanting the mantra along with “Hara hara Shiva Shiva” (Hail lord shiva) when he was being picked up for the crematorium from home. It was the one moment, which was so spiritual, that I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.
May he rest in peace.
My grandfather A.G. Amravaneswaran passed away on January 5th at 7:28 am. This was a piece I penned down sitting on the staircase outside my home when writing became my only form of outburst.
You can support my work, and other writers on Medium, by becoming a member here. To read stories about everyday folks like you and me, who have tons of life lessons and experiences behind them, please sign up for my newsletter Through My Lens.
