The Sails of Charon

It is 6.45 am as I type these words. At this time last year, my father was taking his last, ragged, ventilator-aided breaths in an ICU hospital bed. Outside, a few well-wishers held vigil, lost in their own thoughts, murmuring to each other, or stealing occasional, anxious glances at me as I paced the corridors, taking phone calls, making arrangements, my demeanour waxing and waning between stupefaction and frenzy.

Life goes on. Maybe it’s the first, hardest fact to accept; that nothing dramatic actually happens to commemorate the moment. The sun rises, vendors slowly set out their early-morning stalls, vehicles crawl out of narrow by-lanes or wide society gates and everywhere, strangers go about their day.

But my father’s days were done. Never again would he taste the bittersweet first filter coffee, crack a fresh fold of the newspaper, check his messages or plan for the day ahead. His passing left an astonishing number of plans incomplete. Truth be told, I should not have been surprised. My father had thrown himself into vast numbers of goodwill projects, many concerning the education and wellbeing of children, some in his native village, others across Maharashtra.

I struggled with what had occurred. Not his death but the suddenness of it. Not the loss of a parent but the absolute absence of benevolent authority. Not the person but his reassuring presence. Not the silence but the words forever left unsaid.

Death offers no comebacks or second chances. Only regrets and memories.

This year has ticked over with the support of family, friends, many sessions of therapy and my own fortitude. I am learning to accept change, to let go of the disappointment of frayed friendships, to embrace imperfection in people and circumstances, to understand who I am and who I can be, to find equanimity within. That I needn’t be so hard on myself because life is hard enough.

All of these are conceptually fine. I know the ideas and applaud the end goal. But I wrestle with how tough they are to imbibe. I rage at absent friends, at the lack of morals in people my father supported, at my helplessness in situations, at luck or lack thereof. It’s all in my head of course. That part is the hardest to come to terms with - that I don’t feel in control of everything but I can choose how I feel about it. That I can be ruthless, dismissive, indifferent and selfish - for the sake of self-preservation - but I choose to disregard these options in many situations, often to my detriment. Or to my credit as a person.

You can’t always get what you want but you can always choose what to give.

What is ‘adulthood’? Turning 18 or 21? Having sex for the first time? Realising that every-little-thing-of-every-moment is a choice… your choice? Accepting, not that life is unfair, but that the universe is indifferent? Filing tax returns?

At this exact moment - 7.45am - on October 29th 2022, my father laid down his weapons and passed on. I was 39 years old and had no parents or grandparents. My mother's death in 2004 was a punch to the gut, air driven out in an instant. On the other hand, my father's death felt and feels like a long, slow exhalation.

I thought losing both parents was the true end of childhood and the cornerstone of adulthood. It’s something I’m still figuring out.

Song for the moment: White Dove - Scorpions