Another Day, Another Blog
Life, Death, and Pastries?
“Ma, are you going to die too?”
One Saturday afternoon, I woke up to a strange sound. A sound I had never heard before, a sound I pray I never have to, a sound I know I will. I got up, removed the blanket and followed that incessant sound. It led me to another room. Terrified, I slowly pushed the door open. I saw my mother sitting on the bed. She had been fiercely crying. The sound was a child wailing the loss of her mother.
Ring Ring! Ring Ring! My phone rang, bringing me back to my senses. I picked up, “Hello?” “Hello, Dhiraj? It’s me. Listen to me very carefully son.” My aunt spoke from the other side. “Your grandma has passed away, but don’t tell that to your mother, not yet.” She broke down, disconnecting the phone. I gulped. “Why should I not tell my mother about Grandma’s demise? She has got every right to know. In fact more than any of us, she’s her daughter after all.” This question never came to my mind. What I worried about was the fact: how could I not, when she already knew, what everyone was trying to keep her safe from? She looked at me and in her eyes, I could see that she already knew. No one had told her, but she knew it anyway. Call it love, intuition or maybe something else entirely, but the daughter knew, her mother was no more.
I phoned Dad and informed him of the misfortune, he left for home immediately. In that moment, in that brief conversation I had with my father, I felt the gravity of my words weigh me down. How I stammered at the word “died.” Like an unprepared student sweating in his viva, not sure if what he is saying is correct, not sure of the implications it’d have.
I made naïve attempts to console her, all the while holding myself together. There were moments when the crying would stop, but they’d never last long and she would break down all over again. Living in Kolkata, 1629km from where we needed to be, there was only so much we could do, wait! Wait, to arrange for tickets back home. I could barely contemplate how she was feeling in that moment, desperate to meet her mother one last time. I do not remember how long I stood by the door, before my phone rang again. My cousin was trying to reach me via a video call. I connected and he asked to share it with Mom too. The room was crowded with family and neighbors. He went closer. Surrounded by them, where once the sofa sat, was Grandma, shrouded in a bright yellow cloth with red lining, shrouded and prepared for cremation. Her face, with eyes closed and lips swollen, was eerily placid. Not like when you go off to sleep. Without the blood flow, the subtle tremors of the eyelids, the breathing, a face becomes disturbing to look at.
“Ma! Ma! Wake up Ma!” my mother burst into tears. She kept screaming, hoping Grandma would wake up. Somewhere deep inside, I did too. I looked at my Uncle, standing on one side. He wasn’t crying. I believe he wanted to too, just like I did. “When there’s death in the family, you must remain strong. There will be things, people that will need your attention. There will be work to be done.” I believe her mother told her too, just like mine does.
As the sun set, my mother, slowly, started coming to terms with the death of her Grandma, with the fact that she’d been orphaned, an eternal night devoid of parental love. The night was just as slow and painful. We were all seated in the dining room, entirely motionless. There was no talk, no movement except for the occasional use of the loo. I looked at Dad, he looked at me for a moment and then turned his face away. My Mom wasn’t looking anywhere in particular. We were all lost in our own thoughts.
“Ma, are you going to die too?”
Lying on the bed, a five year old me asked. There was silence in the room. She cuddled me close. I stared at the dim, white light near the ceiling. With a heavy breath, she said, “Yes.” I did not reply, could not. The lights slowly became blurry, tears filling up my eyes. I hugged her tight. She looked at me sobbing and wiped the tears trickling down my cheeks.
“Hey! Hey! I am not going anywhere, I am right here with you, okay? Hush now. Shhh. Shhh.” her words did little to calm me down, not after knowing that my mother, my angel, my one best friend, the person I love the most was going to die. Death wasn’t as philosophical a topic for me as it is now, than it was for the five year old me, who spent his days watching Tom and Jerry, and Shin Chan among other things. Comprehending death was easy then, only two words would suffice, “No Ma!”
“Someday, I am going to die son. That’s the truth. But, that’s many, many days away. First I am going to see my son get a good job, I’ll see him marry a beautiful girl. I shall play with his kids too.” she said. I chuckled at the idea of my own kids.
She continued, “Look dear, we are all meant to die. You need to understand it’s just how it is. Instead we focus on the living, however long we are meant to. Remember this, no matter what happens, no matter whether your father or I are there or not, you shall never forget to live.” I kept staring at the blurry light, as my mother lulled me to sleep.
The following day we flew back to our home town. Alas! It was all too late. We didn’t get to see Grandma. She had been already cremated. All we could do was participate in the ceremonies. We returned some twenty days later. Coming back home, I first had a nice, warm bath then headed to the kitchen for some refreshments and as I opened the refrigerator I was awed. There on the second shelf, right in front of me sat some pastries, spoiled by molds. What amazed me was the jarring unpredictability of life. Standing in Monginis, one fine Friday evening, how could Dad have thought how the following day would unfold. Sitting in front of the TV, renting a movie, how could I have predicted that a Saturday evening, carefully planned for some family time, would turn out to be a completely harrowing experience for us. That Friday evening, when Grandma had phoned, busy with her work, Mom said she’d call her back tomorrow. How could she have known that she’d never be able to dial that number again.
Two years have passed since Grandma’s death and although Mom has overcome the grief of her loss, often it seems as though she wishes she could’ve spent more time with her. Life is unpredictable, I don’t need to tell you that. But more often than not, caught in our daily loops, we overlook this obvious yet cardinal truth. I am pretty sure most of you have been there too, when one day you wake up and something has irreversibly changed, when one day you wake up and someone is forever lost. Even more so, in these distressing times. So, if you are here still reading, listening, then I implore you what my mother told me once…
“Look dear, we are all meant to die. You need to understand it’s just how it is. Instead we focus on the living, however long we are meant to.” So live! And live all the moments you want to with your family, friends and everyone you care about. Because one day you will wake up, and only memories shall remain.
