Skip to main content

Walk on (some more)

Someone very dear to me passed away in March leaving behind an emptiness I'm still struggling to come to terms with. She was 84 and a part of me tries to use that as a modicum of comfort. Another reminds me of the many tragedies, trials and tribulations she experienced, suggesting I be inspired by her courage and strength of mind. While yet another reminds me that I will never again taste the dishes that formed the bedrock of my childhood and epitomise comfort food.

The arc of my life and memories are dotted and sometimes defined by her. A 1-RK house with speckled tiles, me lying in a lap that is covered by a cotton sari softened by repeated washes, the fragrance of 501 soap permanently embroidered into the fabric. A hand roughened by work, caressing my forehead and teasing my hair into different patterns. The same hand patiently pouring a karandi of vettal koyambu into the center of a pat of cold curd rice in my palm. The feet I would be asked to massage the weariness and pain away from for more than 30 years. A toothless smile that radiated love and understanding.

We shared a love of cold juices on long train journeys. We bonded over the pain of migraines. She regaled me with snippets of her childhood and enjoyed with pride, my telling of mythological tales from the epics. Together, we struggled with the permanence of loss, of a daughter and a mother. And, together we drank endless cups of coffee, savouring the flavour and strength of our favourite brew.

It's ridiculous to try and describe a life, her life and what she meant to me, in a blog post. It gets reduced to the somewhat mundane words you've read above... or, if I choose to describe more, become shallow bits and pieces which only allow you to skim over who she was to me but never understand her as a person. Then again, this post is not supposed to because she was remarkable enough to have a series of posts dedicated to her. Every one of us experiences people in our lives differently. Heck, even our interactions with the ones still around have changed with time and not necessarily for the better. So, this is all you get.

In a way, I am writing this because I failed to do so in 2015, when her husband passed away. Alzheimer's disease had wrecked him, reducing a taciturn, disciplined and brilliant man into a pale, frightened, uncertain shell. Like most people of his generation, he struggled to express love and affection and these feelings manifested in charming little ways. Even today, when I see an Amul Fruit & Nut bar, I think only of him because that was his present to me from out-of-town work trips. When I play Rummy, I am transported back to summer holidays and the hours we would spend playing the game, always competitively because he did not believe in treating a child with kid gloves in these matters. With a velvet fist in an iron glove, he ruled the house and our hearts and even today, his legendary personality is referenced with a smile and a sigh by 3 generations of my family. After watching his life come apart steadily, his death was almost a mercy and that feeling camouflaged the grief of losing a person I subconsciously may have moulded myself after. When I wrote this in 2011, it was something of a homage, but once again, I think about how it may have said more about me than him.

Death isn't fair. Loss isn't fair. Being left behind, desperately holding on to the slivers of the past, isn't fair. Especially because the ones going away are amongst the minuscule handful of people who love you unconditionally. But these are all on one face of the coin and sometimes you don't win that toss. Just keep flipping it in the hope that the universe ignores you for a bit, probability takes an extended lunch break and the coin lands in your favour more often.

Almost 10 years ago, I also wrote Love and Happiness. Right now, I type this hoping that K & A are finally reunited. And happy.

Song for the moment: More than a feeling - Boston 

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Let them talk

There is a school of thought that would quite likely be scandalised by the idea of intellectual discussions being held in a pub / bar. Impropriety and what have you. Folks like us (you know who you are) would counter with the notion that our intellectual pursuits occur only in pubs. That's when the cranial creases are watered... doused actually, & whatever is left of our neurons are firing on all cylinders, ablaze thanks to the tipple of choice. Mind you, I'm not advocating that this is the best way. It's just our way. Or my way, if any reader resents the liberty I've taken of assuming anything. Not to keep tottering around the proverbial mulberry bush (why mulberry, I ask), the latest discussion touched on the dichotomy(?) of loving your work. That is, working the week for the sake of the cheque & engaging in your passion during the weekend OR striving to make your passion, your talent or a synonym of your choice the porker from which your bacon is carved. Ri

Many the miles

Some time ago, I decided to cut down on the whining that seems to be a major theme on this blog. After having written a couple of short story posts and one interesting challenge, I found that more commentary on life, its machinations and assorted tomfoolery just did not interest me. For the moment, at least. That also thankfully means that I can't talk about the Indian cricket team's test saga. Anyway, in recent weeks, a new trend has taken root in that fragment of the 'gang' that lives in Pune. Instead of meeting up and hitting the tipple every now and then, we meet and they discuss trekking to various forts in and around Pune. Notice how I'm not in these councils-of-war. Although I've played sports in school and college, I've never been a fan of physical toil. All these talks conjure up are images of waking up at some ungodly hour before sunrise, scooting to some random hill / fort and huffing, puffing, slipping & scrabbling around in near darkness w

The baying of the hounds

Dear reader, The past few months have been punctuated by sound and fury on account of the renovations around the house. The incessant noise, rubble and dust have often led to frayed tempers and the standard indignant inquiries about the point of this whole exercise. But there's a long way to go, so we must persevere... with gritted teeth. Speaking of dust, the Lenovo laptop running Manjaro OS has been quietly gathering sackfuls of the stuff. Unfortunately (but understandably), my Macbook has become the default instrument of distraction, with the Lenovo coming into play whenever I miss USB ports. All sarcasm aside, the Mac is convenient to use and the apps 'just' work. I've praised the Linux ecosystem for years on this blog, so there's no question of indicting them now. But hear me out. I use a VPN service. In this gilded age of freedom and tolerance, I think everyone should opt for a reliable, paid service. It does not have to matter that the things you do on the in