Goodbye is just a word

Certain is it that there is no kind of affection so purely angelic as of a father to a daughter. In love to our wives there is desire; to our sons, ambition; but to our daughters there is something which there are no words to express. ~ Joseph Addison

Writing after a long time, propelled yet again by love and some ounces of tears, maybe. Those unshed tears that are as essential  and intrinsic to me, as the morning cup of tea. There have been times when I so wished to write something in the last few months, yet I failed to craft the tears into words. So, I decided to wait till I can no longer hold it within. And tonight is such a night, where I must pour some of those tears on this page, to prevent the drizzling from turning into a downpour. Tonight, I shall share with you the story of a little girl and her loving father. A short story with a message that transcends life, time and death.

The only thought that has made me survive since the night my dear husband left, was, I am a mother too. And will have to live for our child. The only truth that drove me was there is no one to look after her if I am gone. No one she can call her parent. No one. And I have to be the good mother. I, for whom the only light that remains amidst all the darkness, is, his angel.

It was the 30^th of November last year, when I took her to meet him at the hospital. The surprise worked, and the moment she entered the room, his face lit up. To sunshine, on a cold windy evening. He looked weak, hardly able to turn to his sides, yet he tried. Tried to turn to his left, to face his daughter. Smiled and waved his palm asking her to come and sit close to him. And as I took a chair to prepare some green tea for him, I saw the two best friends having the warmest chat of their lives. Together. For the very last time.

She was wearing this olive green pullover and he looked at her and said, ‘I bought this for you last winter, remember?’ and smiled again. That grief washing smile. The smile that comes with the thought that he had once been fit enough to go and shop for his baby.

As we were about to leave, he said softly, ‘I will come and see you off’ and struggled to sit up. The joy of having seen his child after so long helped. She held his hand and they walked slowly to the passage wherefrom he could say bye. I followed, watching them from behind, walking hand in hand. Till it was time to leave.

And there he was. Standing alone till his angel got on the car. And waved him bye. He was crying as he waved back. Tears of a father who was destined never to be able to cuddle his angel to sleep. Tears of a papa who had a million plans with and for his daughter, that will never come true. Tears of a father who could not drive her home that winter night.

And I, saw it all. Heard it all. The magical union. The smiles. The little fingers. Helping a frail papa sit up and have his green tea. The jokes they shared. And laughed. The eyes that stared at her without a blink. The eyes that wanted to take papa home that moment. The gush of energy that helped him tread his way to the balcony. The inevitable separation. As the little fingers were set free reluctantly. As the unwilling hand now moved to wipe off those unleashed tears, and smile.

I, the wife and I, the mother, did not cry, that evening either. Undecided as I was, for I did not know whom to cry for. The helpless father who stood there in a blue t-shirt, wiping his tears, or, the silent, star-crossed man who looked on as his world moved away from him. In small, unsteady, hesitant steps.

Now that I look back, I wonder how did I manage to hold back my tears. How did I actually smile and wave back at him. As if all is fine and he will be home soon. He never came home again.

He will never come home again.

One year down, and I continue to relive those final moments he chanced to share with her. On 30^th November evening. I continue to make myself believe that we shall meet again. For where there is so much love, separation must definitely be a matter of time. I continue to tell myself every living moment that you are still there. Standing beside her. With her. Wherever she goes. Just that we can no longer see you.

For all the tears you shed that evening, all the lonely hours you spent crying on that painful iron bed, all the times you told me, ‘You know what, Guria won’t remember how her papa was, and that hurts. I will miss seeing my angel grow’, let me tell you just a few things.

Your angel is a part of you. She is you, actually. For everything she does reminds us all of no one else but you. The way she frowns, the way she sleeps, her gait, her smile, her double chin, the food she loves, her moments before the mirror, even her hug – it is you. The world looks at her and tells me that you live through her. And as I look at her, I never let the tears show.

Your angel will never ever forget her papa. You know now, when she speaks silently to you and asks for your blessings each time she sits for a test. You know now, when she plays her favorite song on your phone and proudly says, ‘Mamma, this is papa’s favorite too’. You know now, when she has come to believe that whenever we need you, you are just a soft, innocent prayer away.

She needs you. To smile and wave at her the way you did a year back.

Be there. We love you.

dfordevapriya: Pherar poth nei

dfordevapriya: Pherar poth nei: Pherar poth nei Tai shunnye bheshe thaka Pherar poth nei Tai haowaay chhobi aaka Pherar poth nei Tai srotey..i boye jaai Phera...

Pherar poth nei

Pherar poth nei

Tai shunnye bheshe thaka

Pherar poth nei

Tai haowaay chhobi aaka

Pherar poth nei

Tai srotey..i boye jaai

Pherar poth nei

Tai praan er khnonje dhaai

Pherar poth nei

Tai tomar dinjaponer daay

Pherar poth nei

Tai brithaa bholbaar cheshtaay

Pherar poth nei

Tai aakash dekhe knadi

Pherar poth nei

Tai upche porchhe nodi

Pherar poth nei

Tai shopno bhije mlaan

Pherar poth nei

Tai shunchhi ek..i gaan

Pherar poth nei

Tai shorir purey chhaai

Pherar poth nei

Tai ondhokaarei thaai

Pherar poth nei

Tai rokto bindu shesh

Pherar poth nei

Tai oshthi-i oboshesh

Pherar poth nei

Tai mohonaai giye mishi

Pherar poth nei

Tobu mon chaay phirey aashi

Pherar poth nei

Daake nishpaap dui chokh

Pherar poth nei

Ontoto ekbaar bhor hok

Pherar poth nei

Tobu icchhe, phirey jaai

Pherar poth nei

Phirtey paarina, shudhui tai…

The Atom

'Kotobar tor aayna bhenge-chure 

ghure taakai ...

Aamar mawte tor moton keu nei,

Kotobar tor kaacha-aaloy bhije 

gaan shonai ...

Aamar mawte tor moton keu nei.'

~ Album ~ 'Hemlock Society'

Sometimes I wish I was never born. I would then be nobody. Nobody would then know me. I would probably be a particle in the infinite. A particle, merely, but with no pain, no suffering, no heartache, no sleepless nights, no despair, no regret, no failure. A particle, in the universe, like million others, flowing in space, spending ages in a state of nothingness, or something close to that.

But, unfortunately, I am no particle. Yes, science would like me to believe I am constituted of atoms and stuff like that, but then this self I see in the mirror, is a thousand times more sensitive than the atoms that make her.

Or else, how could a few lines of Gulzar take me back to all that I am wrestling all day to lock up in the realm of subconsciousness? How is it that whenever I look at my daughter’s face while she is sleeping, I can see that gaping hollow in her heart? How is it that whenever I see Mr Bachchan onscreen, I can simultaneously visualize his biggest fan's face flush with that happy pride from somewhere in the clouds? How is it that each second, amidst all my work, I never ever forget the man who just wanted to live … a few more years?

Because, I am not just an inert particle in the irrevocable scheme of things. I am a wife who loved, tried, prayed, pleaded yet lost her anchor. I am a mother who knows she can never be a father. I am a woman who looks for answers in lemon yellow ceilings, as if they will suddenly appear. And remove all doubts. Restore lost faiths. As if ...

A couple of months before Amitabh moved on, I had taken him to a psychologist for some counseling. The doctor was a pleasant young lady, cheerful, eloquent, and definitely, amiable. She spoke to him for an hour, and then called me in and asked him to wait outside. As I took my chair, the first thing she asked me was, ‘I know this is tough but what did his doctors say? How much ‘time’ does he have?’ I stared at her like a student trying to recall some part of a learnt poem before the teacher and then replied, ‘one year’. She was actually trying to draw a plan on how best she could help him live his life in this ‘one year’.

And then she directed her attention to me, the terminally ill patient’s wife, and mother of a five year old. The first statement she made was, ‘No matter how long he lives, a year, a little more or a little lesser than that, your journey will be tough. You have no choice but to go through it, his pain, his fears, your pain, your own fears, his leaving, and then, with your grieving. You have to bear it all. Because you will live on. When he stops. So your journey will change tracks maybe, but will continue to be difficult.’

I was listening. In my mind, I was trying to picture a life without him. A day without him. I mean, what would the world be like without this man who is sitting outside? Would the earth still wake up at dawn and crash to bed at bedtime? Could things possibly be the same for me without him around? My mind was numb with fear. Petrified at the images this doctor was trying to hold before my eyes, of the future. A future I did not want to be a part of. I simply could not relate to the strength she was trying to build up in me ... for a life without a part of me. After all, he was just around me ... in the waiting lounge that lay outside her chamber. I allowed her to speak and simply nodded to all that she said.

For she knew. Knew the blatant, killing truth. Knew, ‘one year’ was too ambitious a ‘time’ to ask for a man whose deep, sunken eyes could see the devil lurking in its frozen black cloak, every hour.

She was right. He didn’t even have half a year. Rather, we didn’t.

And it is eight months now. Without him. Without seeing him, or speaking to him. Without a call from him to ask if I wished to go out for dinner. Without slogging it in the kitchen to prepare all that he loved to eat. Without him humming his favourite song with his angel at bedtime. Without him, to get the trolley cart each time we went for grocery shopping. Without him ever driving the little one to school again.

Perhaps, he has flown into the rivers and then, merged with the sea. He is now a particle maybe, what you call an atom, or a bunch of them, going up as mist, floating some thousand miles above us. Where aeroplanes hover. And, sighs too. He is now that silent reminder that Guria’s uniform needs to be ironed, when I had forgotten all about it. He is the warmth I feel when at times, Guria, quite unexpectedly asks me to bend down so that she can kiss me on my forehead. He is the love I feel each time my daughter does something nice and then asks her mom, ‘ Mamma, are you happy?’

He is in all these words I write. For without him in my soul, where would the words come from? He is the pain I bear … the smile I attempt … the laughter I hope to accomplish, someday.

He is. 

The atom that glistens at the corner of my eye as I end this post. 

The relief I feel each time I create, a moving space, where you can meet him. 

And he can meet you. 

The hug that startles, every time you tell me, you understand.

He is. And will always be. 

The atom called 'me'. 

21 grams

"Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing 
and rightdoing there is a field.
I'll meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass
the world is too full to talk about." ― Rumi

Seven months today. I continue to live. I continue to exist. I continue to strive for ways to make peace. With the days I live. And the death I died. Seven months back.

Read an article a few days back, where an acclaimed physician in Haverhill, Massachusetts, Dr. MacDougall claims that a human frame loses 21 grams of its total mass at the exact moment of death. Implying that 21 grams is supposed to be the weight of the human soul. Can something intangible like a soul have an accurate measure? You may think. Even I did. But then, you never know when doctors from the most advanced nations vouch for it.

So where does this cloud weighing 21 grams go once it leaves the physical frame? Hover around, fly away, become a star, or simply merge with the air we breathe? 

My search begins. 

Seven months of a life that has taught me so much about the world we live in. About the ones who really care and love, and the rest, for whom my life has turned out to be an interesting soap. Learnt amazing things about how losing a partner can give so-called well-wishers, the liberty to speak shit (sorry for my language, but I couldn’t find a word that would be more apt) about you. Learnt how to handle them alone, learnt how to turn the tables, learnt how to keep a straight face when the same well-wishers sugar-coated fake lines before me. Still learning. For I must.

And then, these seven months have shown me a mother who did almost everything to help me smile. I can see the pain in her eyes when she cooks for me, hear the love when she calls and asks whether I have taken my lunch, feel the emptiness when she hugs her granddaughter each time she says something funny. My mother, wounded, but not ready to give up yet. Because of me and Guria. My mother … the rock I am clinging on to. For the last seven months.

Often in the last few months, I would wake up at odd hours in the night wondering whether I am still alive. It would take me a minute or two to realize that yes clinically, I am still breathing and hence, alive. The following few hours I would spend trying to figure out how this is possible. How is it that after such brutal stabs on my frail bosom, my heart still works? How is it that in spite of all my anger, I am still in place? And then my eyes fall on the one sleeping beside me … the prettiest angel sleeping with hands folded, calm, serene, personifying bliss. And I understand how?

These months stand witness to my search for places to hide during the daytime when most around me were expecting me to get back to normal. Sometimes I even pretended I have reached the acceptance stage of grief, and actually tried to make myself believe so as well. But as night came, I was again a floating log after the wreck, a shadow of the one I was. As night came, all my pretences removed, I felt lighter. Sitting with myself, I could now cry. Till the sun rose again.

Yes, seven months of a life that is both liberating and enslaving. For not only has it brought me closer to the package that comes with the death of a young husband, but also, to the parcel that comes with the life you have been granted to live, from the moment you see him for the very last time.

‘Last time’… that’s the part that brings me back to the deathless 21 grams of the soul. If all subtle consciousness of life, gets concentrated in these transcendent 21 grams before a person dies, then I am sure he is around. And watching. 21 grams of a life not lived fully, of a life cut short by cancer, of a life that was integral for my family to be complete. Now that he is above all basic human emotions, does he know that I have not yet been able to accept that he is not coming back? Does he understand what life has become for us? How we spend our weekends in malls with laughters camouflaging tears? Do those 21 grams of abstract energy allow him to feel and more importantly, do they connect him to what I feel? Or to his child? Do those 21 grams see me while I sleep, or talk about him, or simply stare at nothing?

21 grams. The measure of my husband’s soul. Looming somewhere, but not visible. 21 grams of hope that he might still be there, somewhere. But definitely not too far away from us. 21 grams of higher emotions that will, at some point of eternity, help him know what he means to me. 21 grams of a faith that he shall patiently wait for me till my time comes. 21 grams of blessings for the little angel he has left behind.

I complete seven months today. Of heart-breaking truths. Like I am a single parent. Like Guria’s father is no more. Like penning a ‘late’ before his name. Like sorting things up with photocopies of the official document stating his absence. In human form. Numbing truths that started unfolding seven months back, with a flat, unforgiving ECG, well past midnight.

Truths that will fail to hurt me one day … when I find those lost 21 grams. Of my life.  

Thank you for being with me in my journey.

May peace be with you. For that is all you need.

A Sunday

I closed my mouth and spoke to you in a hundred silent ways.
— Rumi

Of all the nights I spent crying and talking to the ceiling above me, this night is special. Special because after howling for nearly an hour, I suddenly get up, switch on my laptop and start writing. And I have no clue why I am writing this, what I am going to share, or more importantly, where this post will eventually draw the line. Because I am too full tonight – completely shattered for the umpteenth time, disastrously shedding tears and definitely, out of my mind. And not too sure whether I can actually pen something worth reading at such moments of emotional saturation. But I must write. Don’t ask me why. I do not know. All I know is right now, I must write ‘something’.

My last interaction with my husband happened two days before he crossed over. It was his last Sunday on planet earth, and he was in the ICU monitored by an army of machines. Eyes wide open, staring at me like a child, he looked completely lost. He had stopped normal verbal communication, just a couple of words in the last few hours. I asked him whether he wants to see Guria, and he shook his head firmly, frowned and implied ‘no’. I could see him picking on the sheet that covered him, there was too much unrest within, yet he had no energy left to express how he felt. He was going. The closure had begun. I, tried being the rock, and though I could see my world falling like a pack of cards, I continued talking to him. What else could I do? I just wanted him to hold on, and told him so. And he nodded. He wanted to hold on so badly, I know. Remember telling him, ‘how will I live without you. Do you think that I can?’ To this, came his last conscious response. Tilting his head to the right, he blinked his tired eyes and assured me, ‘yes, you will, you can'. 

I stood there like a stone. I should have cried because I realized he was so sure he was leaving, or maybe I should have smiled and told him ‘shut up, you are not going anywhere’. But I couldn’t do any of these. I simply hugged him and said nothing. I couldn’t. I was not thinking anymore. His answer paralyzed all my questions.

In a few hours, he was in deep coma.

But how could I forget that face? Helpless. Those eyes that could not even take the stress of a blink. Those fingers, purple and shriveled. That tilt to his right to confirm he knew, he will never ever go home. He knew, we will never talk again. He knew what ‘never’ meant.

That particular Sunday is, and will remain etched in my soul, as long as I live here. Without him. There is no escape for me. None. For I have seen his body closing, cell by cell, with each passing hour. I have seen his pulse reach as low as ten per minute. I have witnessed his final closure when the flat ECG declared I have lost him. I will have to live with these images. That’s where it hurts. Too much.

At times, I ask the skies, where is he now. Is it all over for him? Or, is he somewhere? Around us, or at some other level of consciousness? When I cry, does he see me? I don’t want him to. Or maybe, a part of me, does. Is he aware of all the letters that Guria writes to him, and hopes he will come when she sleeps and find them under her pillow? Is he watching his girl grow into this amazingly sensitive daughter who pens her mind and believes he is reading? Where is he? Is he listening? All questions of a wounded bosom.

I think we all have some quota of pain assigned to us, which we must bear in this life. So, the next question that stabs my mind often on weaker days is, is this all that was kept for me? I hope my share of pain is over. You know why? Not because I hope to spend the rest of my life in merriment. I do not dare to hope for something so rosy and smooth anymore. But because, I feel any other misery or pain will make me forget what I am going through right at this moment. 

For me, forgetting all his struggle for a normal healthy life means, forgetting him. And I do not trust myself on surviving a moment without remembering how he fought. How he nodded on his last Sunday each time I pleaded, ‘please hold on’.

This is the seventh month of my new ‘life’. A life where I stumble too often… walk, rarely… run, wish I could. Nearly seven months into an existence that is as new to me as life is to a newborn. And just like it needs weeks, months, years to learn new things one by one, I am hoping I will too. Learn to live this new life gradually. Maybe start walking in a few months, and then perhaps someday, as I grow up, I will learn to laugh with all the dormant muscles of my heart contributing to that laughter. Yes, one night, I shall have the best sleep. One day, I will spend hours by the sea and not shed a tear. One day, I will smile at the birds as they fly over me. To new shores. One fine Sunday, I will find him, amidst polite strangers in a park, greeting me with a warm ‘hello’.  

One day, I will live. Rather, start living.

If you have read this far, I must thank you. For being so patient with me and my tears that never stop drizzling these days. Incessant, they shower on rooftops on cloudy, lonely nights. Take shape as words and compel me to pen them before you, baring it all, endlessly, again and again. If you have read this far, I am indebted to you for life. For being one of those very few who will pause for a while, and think of the man who continues to live through my pen.

Thank you. For being one of those very few who, on having reached the end of my post, would wish, I had written some more.

Stay well. Always.

The Angel without Wings

আমার সকল দুখের প্রদীপ জ্বেলে দিবস গেলে করব নিবেদন--
         আমার   ব্যথার পূজা হয় নি সমাপন ॥
যখন বেলা-শেষের ছায়ায় পাখিরা যায় আপন কুলায়-মাঝে,
         সন্ধ্যাপূজার ঘণ্টা যখন বাজে,
তখন আপন শেষ শিখাটি জ্বালবে এ জীবন--
         আমার   ব্যথার পূজা হবে সমাপন ॥

I was scribbling my mind with random thoughts and emotions for the last few days. Gathering those momentary mood-offs, unshed tears, choked bosom to sculpt something readable. Something that moves a few hearts, touches a few chords here and there, maybe. So here I go, sculpting once again, to create something new out of the oft recycled emotions of my life, at present.

Some close ones tell me that I am a very strong woman. They feel after all that I have been through and am still facing everyday, keeping your chin up is a feat in itself. Is it so? I doubt. As I wonder, did I really have much of an option but to hang on? Did I really have the luxury (if I may call it so) to sit and cry? No, not when you know there is another life depending on you, totally, for everything. In fact, in the last six months, (yes it is nearly six months since he left my visual plane) I have waited for my daughter to sleep so that I can lighten the terrible storm that ran havoc within. I still do. Wait for her to sleep so that she doesn’t  see me crying. Do not want her to feel helpless.

There have been moments when I failed to stop my tears in her presence. But then, I always try to be the strong ‘mamma’ she would love to see me as. As it is, she too has a lot to handle. A lot seems an understatement. At an age, when a child’s world is all about her mom and dad, my baby has to adjust to the ‘only-mamma-and-no-papa’ idea. She must. And she strives not to let me have the faintest idea of her longing, her confusions on why she couldn't see him in the last six months. Yes, my six year old tries to hide everything beneath her mischiefs, her jokes, her cartoon shows, and her laughters, that pour on me like sunshine with an effort to wipe off every muddled streak of gloom from my eyes, even if for a while.

In the last two years, she has seen her papa in and out of her universe a bit too often. She seemed to understand everything even before I explained. Understood why we couldn’t give her the time she needed, why she had to stay away from both mom and papa for months, why she was supposed to sit quietly and watch cartoons while the ambulance waited for her papa to leave her space again and again, why her mamma would be so busy with things that never allowed her to tell her princess a story at bedtime… she fathomed it all. And with what effortlessness!

She could have cried, yelled. She could have stopped me from running to the hospital everyday, fought with me when I returned late, or simply brood over her mamma not chatting her to sleep. She could have simply refused to do her home work with her mamma not around. She could have, as is expected from a four year old. But she didn’t. She never complained. Never. As if she knew, how serious things were, how tough each day was becoming, for her dad and mom. And she simply, complied. What would you call that? Strength? No. Something much beyond that.

And the last six months.

Completely without half of her world. Without a single call from her dad. And she is still doing her best. To comply with fate. We all must, you may say. But isn’t it terribly gnawing when your little one keeps talking about the times spent with her dad, but never for once even hints at how she feels about not seeing him anymore? Yes, because she is too little to express what is bothering her. What her loss is. And why life treated her this way. She is just so little, my child.

So that’s it. Talk of stoic acceptance without complaining, and this little one will show you how. And it breaks my heart each time I see her look through the photo albums, stare at her papa for a while, and then move on, as if she has gauged it all. As if she knows pictures are all that remain. Of half of her once, complete world.

On the very bad days, I complain all day. On why this happened, why me, why us, why him, why? I cry a lot when I am alone. I cry when I listen to songs that stab me brutally with memories. I cry when I think of our wedding day. I cry when I look at a shredded me in the mirror. I cry when I read about souls coming down as rain, and then, when it rains. Yes I do. Because I am human; am yet to imbibe her angelic calm. She is exemplary, unique, precious, a gift to everyone who knows her, a treasure for anyone who’s around her. Born with this amazing ability to do things that will make you smile, and finally, laugh.

Another very endearing thing about my little girl is how she can spend hours with herself. Playing, reading books, dressing up as a teacher, then teaching her imaginary set of students, painting and so on. She knows how to keep herself company when mamma is too down to talk. She knows. I wonder how. I wonder why she adjusts to my grief, when she can simply pout and immediately, get my attention. But she never does. As I said, as if she knows. Knows it all. All the lessons life’s been teaching her since she was four. By heart.

You learn as long as you live. At least that is how it should be, I feel. I am learning new chapters everyday - reading faces, reading all that lies over and beneath facades, reading books on healing, reading about death, and about people fighting it and about some, who lost. And some, who are like me, struck cruelly by death, wounded, gasping, but still alive. It is so relieving when you find you are not alone. There are countless out there grieving, and many more who have crossed the grief stage. The reasons may differ, but the very fact that they are still fighting for a better life, helps.  

It is okay to feel like a loser when things go wrong. It is the only normal. It is fine to feel miserable and sad beyond measure when things do not go your way. It is completely natural to break down and cry all night, or all day, trust me. Whatever helps. Because we are simple human beings, vulnerable, scared of failure, scared of losing what we assume, we own. Tears do not define a failure. Holding them back for fear of appearing weak, IS failure. Cause then you deny what you are feeling. Which means you are denying yourself the opulence of your own wealth of emotions. What could be more defeating than fooling your own self with a wall of ‘i-am-always-fine’ masquerade?  

Cry when you must. Minutes, hours, days, nights. I am doing so, for, don’t remember how long. But then, that is how my bleeding core heals. Cell by cell. And someday, I shall have a heart that has no visible wounds, maybe some deep brown scars, here and there. That too, faded.

Take your time. This life is yours - so obviously, the time you get to spend in it, is yours as well. Your tears tell your story, a prolific story that can never be replicated, cause it belongs to you alone. But once the tears are spent, get up, make some tea, cringe your eyebrows as you face the sun, and then tell yourself, ‘this too shall pass’. I do. Treaded six long, dark months promising myself this everyday.

You may wonder why I started off with my daughter’s exceptional fortitude and then gave in to the power of tears in healing. Precisely because I wanted to share with you the story of a little girl who never cries for a papa she sees no more, whom she has seen so little of, just about five years. She has moulded her tears into pristine prayers for her papa to be fine, wherever he is. So what if she can't see him, her only prayer is, he should be fine and happy. 

In spite of all the hurt and tears, I draw strength from her selfless prayers. Everyday.  

And I am sure, you will too.

Life - Are we doing it all?

‘bhebe dekhechho ki

Tara rao joto alok borsho durey,

Aro durey,

Tumi r ami jai krome shorey shorey?’

Something within me unleashes all bottled up tears whenever I listen to this band anthem. Takes me to a place, where I see myself gradually moving away from the ones I love. Forever.

No I do not mean death. I mean, I do not mean just, death. Is it just loss of life that takes our loved ones away from us? I suppose not. I will tell you why I feel this way.

Some lessons in life are grueling, but they guide you forever, in whatever you do. Somewhat like learning the alphabet in nursery. Helps you all your life, doesn’t it?

Misfortune states clearly whom you should trust and whom you must discard, for good. This task of straining may subject you to huge pain during the learning process, but once the avoidables are separated, what you feel is nothing less than richer. For now you know who your real treasures are.Yes, misery is a sieve that sifts out the redundant; filters and keeps the important. Period.

People who love me unconditionally, know how I feel about my life at the moment. They understand why I do, what I do and when I do them. That in itself is so relaxing isn’t it? When you can just be yourself and not pretend that you are the happiest on the planet.

The other day I was speaking to my husband’s distant elderly cousin over the phone. We were speaking about his favourite songs, his favourite dishes, my daughter, my responsibilities, my thoughts on our future etc etc. A very general conversation that made us break in tears, often and then, end on a very beautiful note. Before hanging up I remember telling her, ‘If there is even a single person in my life who knows what is tearing me apart, who understands why it is taking me so long to laugh my heart out, or who tries to feel what lies beyond my silences, bearing this cross will be much easier for me’. Not to mention, she is one of them.

I have seen close ones drift away in the last few years. Ones that I considered indispensable and expected will at least give me a quick hug before they move on with their lives. They didn’t. Some probably misplaced my number. A few must have misplaced me. In their choc-a-bloc daily schedules. Yes, it hurts but I do not blame them. Not one bit.

You know why? Cause they have no idea about what it is like. And I can only pray that they never ever experience anything that gives them an idea. Yes, grief purifies you. Washes ill-feeling away. Makes you a better human being. Asks you to analyze before you criticize. And once you gauge the immense possibilities of why some have chosen to move away, and some, never showed up, you simply feel happy for the smiles in their lives. And it ends there. And you, move on. 

As it is, we are not meant to be with each other for eternity. Our times are set and one may have to leave before the other. And then shall begin a new ‘moving away’. Many thousand light-years away. Our roads might never ever meet again. For who knows whether souls living in separate worlds can ever span the light-years between them.

When I learnt that my husband is no more, the thought that struck me was, ‘Okay, so as long as I live this life from this moment, I shall never get to see you again. Living. For now, you are ‘no more’, and people will, henceforth, refer to you as a soul. Without a human frame. Moving light-years away from the earth. From us’.

THIS life is all we have to stay close to the one we love. Do something nice, say something beautiful, write a poem, spread a smile, share a joke, gift a rose, or simply watch a show together. The idea is just to share what you still have and many don’t – life.

For once we get the ‘no more’ tag stuck on our pulse, there is no coming back. To give that one tight hug, or making that one call to say how much you always cared.

No bridging the light-years between a ‘no more’ and a ‘still there’.

Bridge it. While you're 'still there'. 

God

‘Khelaghar …

baadhtey legechhi

amaar moner bhitorey’

My relation with God is the same as the one I share with my beloved daughter. One moment I am yelling at her for not listening to me, the next, I am totally running after her for a hug. In fact, there have been times, when God and I were living in separation, or so I believed. I often, lost faith in his love for me, completely, and he, true to his nature, chose silence and time to guide me back to him.

Yes, we all share some kind of a relation with our God. I do not believe that God must have a name, an image, a gender, or a religion, but if any of these helps you to stay grounded to faith, there could be nothing more real. Nothing more honest. Nothing more triumphant.

God to me is just that - God. He is the light at the end of the tunnel, the subtle relief when all the tears are spent. A super handy first-aid that’s ready to cure, even before the wound sets in. Yes he does that for all of us, only that we, lesser mortals ‘get it’ much later.  

I have, and I am sure even you must have wondered, if God exists, then why this continual bloodshed, terror, disease, slaughter, rape – why so much pain all around us and even within us? Why is the world shedding tears everyday at incidents and accidents beyond its control? Why do people on a pilgrimage lose their lives? If god is all-loving and all-forgiving, would he subject man to so much?

Questions, that leave us lost, skeptical, spiritually hollow, and above all, shattered. I am not here to propagate the existence of God, just intend to share what I feel, after having faced quite a lot, as you may already know.

In the last two years, I prayed every second for my husband’s life. Every second. I have done things I never really believed would, or could, actually accentuate the quality of my prayers, but nevertheless, did them with all my heart. For him.

For, at that time, all that mattered to me was his life, his relief from physical and emotional suffering. I prayed, begged, cried, howled before my God. In fact, I remember one particular evening, a few days before he left. I was standing at this temple, and pleading God to help him, save him. Remember telling him, ‘You are the only one who can make miracles happen. So please make it happen. Just once.’

I was so sure things will work. Medicines will work. Prayers will work. Faith will work. They didn’t. He left. In a week.

And I was left, godless. Or was I? Well...

I have not yet reached that level of spiritual maturity where I can perfectly justify his leaving. But yes, there is more to what happens, than meets the eye. The mortal eye. The other day I was reading a beautiful article on why we die, when we die? Why do small children lose their lives? Why are children born with terminal illnesses? If they had to leave so early, why did God bring them here? And the answer is, not just life, even death has a purpose. A grander one maybe. One for the ones left behind. One that we will learn as time passes. Or maybe we won’t. But that is irrelevant in the larger, galactic scheme of things. 

Yes, a grander purpose. If we are born as humans, who can think, work, dream, plan, sleep, and then, wake up and face the sunshine, there is a purpose. It can’t all be futile and meaningless. The only difficult part to accept is that, one day, this journey, which we assume is forever, will end. The itinerary is set and has preordained time-limits for each one of us. And once our time is up, we have to say bye. And begin a new journey. I wish to believe.

Not all questions have straight answers. And there are answers that give birth to some more, tougher questions. I, personally feel, he was here to share some dreams with me, some that we fulfilled together, and some more that he left me with, to fulfill on his behalf. And one of them is, to add a drop of life, to each moment. So that, when my time is up and I am all set to leave, I am left with no regrets of not having drunk ‘life to the lees’.

God exists for me. He is the force, the energy, the will, that takes me forward, step by step. He resides in me. He waters the roots of my soul. Helps me soak in the sun, the rain, and all the good things I need, to grow. 

If you are still reading this post, and at any point, have you felt a lump in your throat, or nodded in agreement to my questions on whether he is around, or simply wished you could just give me a hug for still hanging in there, and fighting, be rest assured, God exists. In you.

For me.

Finding my soul

'Amar bhitoro baahire

Ontore ontore

Achho tumi hridoy jure'

My sister has been persuading me to take up blog writing seriously. She feels all that I do must find a place in my writing, for she has immense faith in my sensitivity and power to express. So here I am, writing my first blog after ages.

Ever since childhood, I have always been an introvert. Always loved to dwell on dreams, and ensured I keep them to myself. But then, you change as life changes and now when I look at myself, I feel there is so much you learn when you express your thoughts with others. The canvas I paint becomes all the more colourful when people respond to it. And that inspires me to step out of the ‘introvert’ shell and pen blogs that speak of life, death, and all that lies between the two.

Honestly, my life right now is very very colourful. In the sense that I meet new challenges every day, meet faces I have known for ages, yet they look differently coloured now, meet myriad colors of my self every second. Yes, colours that define so much in an instant.

A few weeks back, after anti-depressants failed to soothe my strained nerves anymore, my doctor suggested meditation as the only path that could fetch me the much-needed tranquility. Without a single negative side-effect.

Lying wide awake all night for months, I spoke to God often, pleading him for an answer, an acceptable answer. And waited. I have always heard people say, God has a plan, and we dare not doubt what He wills. So be it. I waited. Every second of the day, the believer in me waited for His messenger to knock, and deliver.

And the answer comes, not one fine day. But gradually, as you learn to struggle and swim against a tide called misery. The answer comes. As you crib about all that is going wrong, but suddenly realize that in spite of all the setbacks and trials, you are still sailing strong and none could have been better at this, than you. The answer comes. When you look at the mirror and see that dark circles have not yet over shadowed that determined, tough jaw line. The answer comes. In installments, in moments. Like sporadic rain.

I have never been typically religious, but have always believed in the spirit, something that transcends the body. Something, elusive may be, but definitely, not illusive. And my confusions with my life, finally, helped me tread within. Ever wondered why we hear of spending some solitary time with our 'selves' so often these days? It is important. Very important. Because, we are all so lost.

Peace eludes us. Yes. For we are so busy attending and catering to what lies outside us. We give in, to mediocrity, to the mundane, to all the stimulants that are manipulatively placed to take us farther from that one being who loves us. Takes us miles away from the unleashed spring of love that God has embedded within each one of us.

In the last few months, God has granted me the luxury of devoting myself, to my Self. And thus, began the journey. Of knowing the one I loved but never cared to express it to. I realized how beautiful the soul that wears my body, looks. Unscathed, calm, pristine, full of life. I wondered, why on earth should she inhabit such a battered and devastated garment like me? 

But then again, the answer comes.

She is here to lift me from this dungeon. All these years, she has waited for me, patiently, to look for her, through the boggling mazes of agony and meandering, narrow crevices of experience, and eventually, find her. For unless I reached her, how would I find my answers?

Yes, I have found my soul. Touched her, hugged her, shed my tears and fears with her. She has hand-holded me this far. And has promised to guide me as I walk the miles that lie ahead.

She alone, is my saviour. My soul. The only anti-depressant that can lull me to sleep. In peace. Without side effects.

Cancerless, and free

the last two years of my life have been so different and all-absorbing, that i do not really seem to remember the years prior to them. today, all the cells in my body are soaked in the shock of the time that followed may 2011. yes, i am traumatized, shaken,and my soul, (i believe i have one) confused beyond measure.

there are times when i make efforts to think of my life until two years, by looking at pictures, reflecting on some of the special moments in my life, my first job, my wedding, my months of expecting motherhood, guria's coming, the days that followed, her first birthday etc etc etc, but nothing seems strong enough to take me away from the horrific last two years. these events are all as real, but then, they do not help. period.

taking your husband to the hospital, for a bone marrow test, only to know he has the worst form of leukemia, with a life expectancy of one and a half years, is not easy. yes, more so, when you have this little girl at home waiting for her papa to take her for a long drive in the evening.

and then, starts the fight. the fight to defeat what fate has ordained. all doing their best, the doctors, the nurses, the wife, the daughter, and all who only wished to see him, living. the man was wrestling each day with chemos, throat infections, blurred vision, slurred speech, respiratory distress, swollen limbs, bleeding gums, nausea, not to mention the mental and emotional landslide. he had to fight. he was not given options to choose from. he sure wasn't that lucky.

finally, one thunderous night, as his body was still deciding on whether to relent and release him from the ventilators, successive seizures, hemorrhages, i stepped in to the ICU and stood next to him. placing a palm on his gradually drifting chest, all i could ask for was forgiveness, as i could do nothing to bring him back. To me, to his child. he opened his eyes once. looked at me and then closed them. Never to open them again.

in a few hours, his body surrendered and he lay there, sleeping, not to be disturbed by nurses or doctors with needles and pills, ever again. Yes, no seizures, no pain, no life-saving drugs, no blood, no platelets.

Lifeless, he is no longer begging before God to save him. For now, he is free. Free to fly out of the claustrophobic ICU and visit the places he had always dreamt of, free to cuddle his daughter as she sleeps, free to sit on his favourite couch and watch amitabh bachchan smashing the baddies. free to be.

As for me, I am sure he is doing all of these. Only wish I could see him once. Cancerless, and free.

Questions and Answers

A few years back, I visited a popular temple of Ma Kali in north Kolkata. Thousands of devotees come here to get a glimpse of the Mother almost everyday,and this day was no different.

While strolling around the huge portico of the structure just opposite to the main temple, a rather ordinary looking man caught my eye. He was not very old, maybe in his early forties, tall, strong and most evidently, shattered. He was looking straight at Ma Kali’s idol, rather straight into her eyes. Not once did he blink, as tears trailed down his flustered face and prompted a thousand more to come running down in battered rage.

Still like a mountain, he stood there, unmoved by the jostling crowd, the loud chanting of the mantras, and the expected cacophony at such rush hours.

He was there for justice, it seemed. As if he believed, that standing face to face with the goddess will compel her to answer all his questions. There was something so magnetic about his tears, his agony, his silent hysteria … I stood there watching him from a distance. I knew he wouldn’t leave till he got his answers,and I wondered who will give him the answers he is looking for? The clay figurine of the Goddess?

His blood red eyes confirmed that every vein in his heart is wounded and his soul, brutally shaken. I dared not ask him, but wondered what sort of grief or loss,can actually make you desperate and illogical enough to stand before a statuette begging for answers?

His tears were hypnotic. His gaze, powerful and he didn’t move an inch.

As I left the temple, he was still there, standing, alone, all his emotions translated bluntly through those volatile oceans of helplessness.

Today,I so wish to meet the stranger once. 

Just want to ask him, ‘Have you found your answers, dear? As for me, I am yet to frame the questions properly.'

The first four months after he left

The day he left me, physically, I realized life will never be the same again. Not only because I lost my husband, but because there will be people deciding on the tenure of my grief at his loss.

People, a collective word for minds that assume they have all the right to direct a young widow’s life because, she has lost her anchor. I know, many of you reading this piece, would find the word ‘widow’ somewhat uncomfortable, when you relate the word to me. But my intention is not to disturb you, rather to show you how, even in this age of so-called modernity, some minds have softly refused to assign me any other identity than that of a widow.

The term widow doesn’t bother me one bit – but these bunch of well-wishers who were nowhere to be seen when the young man was suffering, popping up from various corners, after he crossed over. That is what is so amazing about our society. It does not matter whether you have been dutiful, loving, caring, or most importantly, affected, what matters is how best you can play the role of being affected by following rituals, customs and directives dictated by a set of insensitive feudal minds.

As per Hindu religion, a widow is not supposed to wear colored clothes, especially red, or eat non-vegetarian, or think about her ‘self’. And yes, please do not assume these things are not part of the urban Hindu psyche today. It is, still very much there. 

The most amusing part is they coat these subtle directives with a show of broad outlook and a lot of thought for the soul of the departed  and of course, his young widow.

Let me give you a few examples of what kind of questions my close ones chanced to ask me in the last few months. And yes, not all who asked were elderly. In fact, some are young wives, educated, polished, working and‘broadminded’ as they themselves put it.

‘Are you eating fish these days?’

‘We are very supportive of widows eating fish and meat, you know!’

‘In this life, you will never be able to smile again. All you can do is, live on for you must, for the child. You have no personal wishes to be fulfilled anymore, as you have lost all that you had once achieved. It is all part of your deeds in your past life’.

‘You must wear red, why shouldn’t you? These days widows wear all colors.’

‘I think if you want, you should think of remarrying in two years time. We are very supportive of the thought that you should have a family again.’

And many such more ….

For heaven’s sake, whosoever even asked you for this kind of support that constantly reminds me that I am not one of you, ANYMORE. Was there ever a question from my end on whether I should be doing these things? No. Then why this show of being liberal towards a new young widow? Why?

The least I could have asked for in these days from people around me was some space, some sensitivity and some compassion. But you know what – compassion can come only when you make an effort to feel what exactly the loss is for me, it is not my loss of identity as ‘married’, rather the loss of someone I loved and wanted to see living for the rest of my life. And, I SAW HIM DEAD. That is my loss.

The saddest part is, in an attempt to make things look normal, most of these well-wishers, pushed me further down the abyss of self-pity, helplessness and loneliness. 

It is my loss, so I know how big, how irreparable, how painful it is. And as far as customs go, for me the only custom to pursue is to ensure that his child loves and remembers him, all her life.  The only ritual to abide by is praying for him to be in peace wherever he is. The only directive to follow is asking him to be by our side and guide us as we move on. And letting him know, how much we miss him every second.

And for all those who think it’s been four months and I should be over this grief and party all day to prove I am out of pain, let me ask you one simple question. 

How long would you grieve if you lost a thumb, or maybe a limb that keeps you moving, or maybe your vision? Lifelong right? Because of the importance it held in your life. You would be forced to live without it, but would you stop missing their presence in your life?

Grieving is my personal time spent with him and myself. The world only bothers us, when they draw deadlines.

Don’t just think. Feel. At least try, if you wish well for 'young widows' like me.

Stay well. May peace be with you.

Guria turns 6!

guria turns six ... amidst all the love and silent blessings ... that comes from all ... close and beyond ... i would like to say a few things ... you are the one from whom i learn something new everyday ... you have helped me breathe when i wondered whether at all i am living ... you have given me purpose when i lost the anchor to fate ... you have wiped away my tears with the warmest hug possible ... you have hidden your tears so that i can see a happy you ... you guide me through the worst of my moods ... the saddest days ... the gloomiest nights ... you have shown me how to handle the greatest grief with a smile ... and i know i do not handle it as well as you do ... i love you guria ma ... you are the angel in my life ... you are the best daughter a mother can have ... for all mothers take care of their little ones ... but only a daughter as calm, thoughtful and loving as you can take care of me ... i can see the love in your eyes ... and i know every bit of the void you feel, but never tell me ... i promise to love you ... and love you more with each passing day ... to fill the spaces ... i will try, i promise ... bhalo theko

mammam