Loss in the Time of Dussehra
(and Diwali)
There is a household in every cul-de-sac — one that reassures remaining households in the area of their own normalcy. Screaming matches often emanate from its vicinity; crashes made by things breaking all too frequent. If things get too quiet, a domestic disturbance would make a visit from the cops imminent. I mean, your family has problems — lord knows it’s time your son stopped being snappy and got to work for a change, that ungrateful slob — but, goodness, at least your problems are handled in a civilized manner.
My mother was a difficult person. In keeping with familial tradition I, too, proceeded to become a difficult person. This complicated matters quite often. The din that the presence of two similarly difficult persons in the same house makes is a legend in its own right.
They say that the opposite of love isn’t hate, but indifference, for hate lays but on the same spectrum. Our twisted bond only made us heavily co-dependent, each fight hurling us closer to one another than before. She made manipulative threats that drove me right up the wall, just as she slaved away for hours getting her biryani just right for me. There is something to be said about how healthy, or otherwise, our dynamic was. For now, however, it is sufficient to state that in spite of the many troubling implications of her behaviour — maybe even because of them, worryingly enough— I fucking loved her.
On occasion, the two most polar Wahi women would put their differences aside and band together, and it would be a sight. More often than not, this would be during the festive season. Neither of us was religious, but we did set a lot of stock by rituals. When life does not play by the rules, some people simulate control by making up the rules. Rituals helped.
Every Diwali, we put on our flashiest garb, sat my nephew and niece down, and held a little puja. There would be dessert, dried fruit, and token fireworks- a tradition later phased out when both of us agreed that it wasn’t worth the fallout, pollution-wise. Sometimes there would be a drunken ditty or two. Always there would be raucous laughter.
It’s here again, the festive season, but Wahi senior is not. Almost exactly three years ago, she — without so much as a goodbye — upped and died. Well, it was more laid down and passed on in her sleep, but it was still very rude.
Sorry, that was midly tasteless. It’s clear I am still using humour as a coping mechanism. It is not going very well, but I will keep you posted on its progress.
She is no longer here for me to pick a fight with, which really puts a spanner in the works re: my aggression issues. She has also left a giant biryani-sized hole in my life, for which I will never forgive her. If there is a beyond (which there isn’t), and potential for meeting loved ones in the afterlife (which there isn’t), she will have a lot to answer for, vis-à-vis not giving her biryani recipe up to me. She is also not here to look out for me, even when I am not looking out for me.
There are too many of us out there, living with this quiet burden of loss. The unrelenting pull of grief at the thread of our emotional well-being, no matter how hard you resist its tug, always fucking makes you come apart at the seams in the end.
For some, like me, this is more pronounced during times of festivity. The barrenness in corners of your life previously populated by these persons stands in sharp relief against the glitz and noise of Dussehra through Diwali. You are a vampire, sucking in all the glee and turning it into a black mass of empty loss. Some try a numbing stake of alcohol through their aching heart to try to skip all the days when it is impossible for them to wholeheartedly participate in the most basic social engagement without making a mess of themselves, and regenerate safely on other side- when the world has gone back to celebrating nothing and cursing everything.
If this is where you are, I really don’t know what to tell you. It has been three years and I am still caught off guard by an all-consuming sorrow that makes my insides feel like they are running away from each other to hide from the pain. My rudimentary research indicates that it doesn’t change much as decades pass either.
It feels too cruel, being denied more time. Perhaps more time wouldn’t change a whole lot , but that doesn’t make it hurt any less either. Logic dictates that death is inevitable and, really, even a relief, yet the thought of it makes me mad enough to drive my fist through a wall- or through my own slobbery face.
You owe no one an explanation for your unwillingness to be celebratory, but you do owe yourself peace. So there is no such thing as life after death, but there is life in memory. Memory is more real than a lot of other made-up concepts, like government or time. The heaviness of your heart is justified, but your constant refusal to shed some of it is an absolute disservice to memory.
If you are afraid of judgement, there is no need to share with others that you are undergoing therapy. If you do not have adequate resources to pay for therapy, there are zonal programs sponsored by state goverments — yes, even in India — that provide free or subsidized psychotherapy or counseling. If you wish to put your faith in only private institutions, you will be pleasantly surprised by how many therapists are willing to negotiate payment plans for those pressed for funds.
The weight of your grief needs to hit the air in order to lighten up. Happy Diwali.
