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.
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.
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