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My eyes gleamed as I saw the plate loaded with Poori ,sabzi ,raita and the two Boondi ladoos. I popped one of them greedily savoring its taste enquiring from mom about the origin of food which we had just received, she replied that Saroj Bhabhi who lives three houses across sent it. It was her husband’s first death anniversary and suddenly the sweetness disappeared leaving a funny aftertaste. The moment any complex emotion arises even the tastebuds secrets something bizarre.A subtle reminder as I have to prepare for a similar feast exactly five days from now ran a chill down my spine. I frankly don’t want to participate in these “Punyatithi “(death anniversary) for social reasons anymore irrespective of what anyone thinks. I do not like the garlanded photos of my loved ones with incense around to be reminded that they are dead and gone. Thankful my elder sister Alka bid us goodbye just before the world went into lockdown sparing me the trouble to run to hospitals during these times, when one would be forced to reconsider visiting any hospital unless it was an emergency. Even the registrar office wasn’t functioning as punctually and they obviously issued me her death certificate nine months later. It was only then as I held it, I see the word “Mrityu Pramanpatra “(death certificate) mentioned. l scanned fast to check for any mistakes and wondered if she was dead. How could a piece of paper declare that?
I have visited the Ganga on Kartik Poornima and prayed for her peace in the heavenly abode and really tried hard to convince myself after seeing the wobbling earthen lamps float away that she is gone but she refuses to die. The priest who read her astrological charts at marriage had declared her to be of an obstinate unyielding nature and there she is in ether now refusing to fade. She has found a place in my memories every day and every time I visit my house.
Her room still has her crease free bedspread and nothing much has been disturbed. We (mum and me) have managed to dispose of her clothes that cannot fit an ordinary healthy human being pretty fast because both of us are proficient in handling losses, at least of the physical associations which we will need to let go eventually. The clothes, the books, the hair clips, the purse, the medicines, the certificates, bank accounts all which will invite moodiness and heavy hearts as we will tackle them one by one over weeks and months till we feel sorted out.
We want to store very little of her and keep it light for us. I off course have lighted the lamp for thirteen days ceremoniously till the last of most caring relatives left and that’s the time we actually begin to feel and face the emptiness and the damage. I have developed my own nasty style of grieving, having grieved time and again. No wonder I have been more often in a provocative mood ready to attack well-meaning acquaintances who have loads of worldly advice for me. I even failed at informing half my clan about her demise especially when her funeral was a priority and not the head count. For many she did not exist anyway and I definitely crave only for genuine connected people to come sit with me while her death hurts. I preferred not attending phone calls unless I knew who was calling.
Grieving which will invariably choose its own pace as the household will struggle to find meaning and bring back normalcy in living without that person? Getting used to it is tough, staying strong is tough, moving on is tough, finding joy again is even tougher. I, for one wish to assign my grief stages in neat tables with respect to each individual family member I have lost over the years to understand what is that keeps me stuck at times.
When does it normalize because I still ache to reach that point where time would have healed everything? As the date reminders appear, I am still a total mish -mash of confused emotions despite so many years having gone by and somedays I cry for the stupid reasons and laugh over the most stupid ones when I walk down the memory lane. I have tried all kinds of coping mechanisms by engrossed myself in my assignments, getting busier at work, listened to endless melancholies, distracted myself doing fun activities, laughing with close friends, have absolutely avoided going to funerals, cracked jokes around death, tried to appear calm and composed, prayed, meditated and posted motivational quotes in social media but in the end, I realized there is no running away. One day I will have to return to her room and open the doors and windows and dust and have the courage to lie exactly in the same place where she lay still for the last time. The softest and the most subtle announcement which involved no shock came wrapped in three words “Didi nahi rahi” (Didi is no more) and I felt nothing. My denial mode was fully functional.
Thankfully our religious customs allowed me the liberty to discard the objects belonging to the dead and I felt relieved throwing her inhalers, bronchodilators, analgesics, Vicks, cough tablets, steroids and strips of countless medicines she used to take every day only to survive. I knew how taking medicines weighed her. She was heavily dependent on them having been diagnosed a single solitary polycystic kidney and COPD in CRF years ago. She could never get relief from her persistent cough and breathlessness waiting to get worse at any small pretext. She had to pay a heavy price for changing seasons which would gift her illness lasting a fortnight. I knew that little secret that the Doctors kept away from her. She had numbered years declared by three nephrologists in different stages of her treatment and yet she managed to survive till 47 still baffles me and that’s is why I am skeptical when it comes to medical prognosis.
The strength of spirit to survive far outweighs the predictions of science alone. Her manner of living made me understand how we latch on to dear life through any means though we all claim to be not scared of DEATH. With aspirations, expectations and attachments that we acquire in life when we are called to leave the world it is difficult, for those leaving and for those who have to witness the leaving, and for those who will be left behind eventually.
I wish people had seen Alka up close and personal in the years when she lived the days of “Sky Is pink”! We watched the movie together and I caught a glimpse of her face change colors at many places. She had lived pretty much of it herself. She laid with high fever for days together because of repeated infections, poor immunity, allergies unable to eat, move and function but she would pull herself out every time and, in a few days, she would be in her favorite place in the kitchen ready to pelt dishes for us. Her culinary skills were excellent, having been mentored under a brilliant cook in my mother and when she would put her heart into, we felt it in our mouth. Painstakingly she would stir for hours even if her shoulder ached just to get that perfect taste of Kheer better than my mother. She waited for me to come home on specific days and was ready with her delicious Kadi with the softest gram flour balls, Dal Maharani , Chole Bhature and egg curry though she never had it. Perhaps her cooking was a healing modality in her otherwise dull divorced and our praise and appreciation kept her going. She hated when we employed cooks to relieve her off her kitchen duties and regularly saw to it that they left by making their lives hell. All she wanted was that right for herself.
Being a layman, she pestered every known medical acquaintance in our family circles with her never-ending physical symptoms looking for remedies. We had exhausted most of our options anyway over the years and we all got used to her disease and distress. She wasted slowly, eating less and lesser as her appetite failed along with her kidney and by November 2019, her achy swollen joints gave me enough indication of what was to be sooner than later. I could not tell her directly and instead took her again to another specialist to suggest something better and all he reiterated were five diagnosis and more medicines. I remember drawing a table for her to understand and she ended up looking more confused. She cried in helplessness as she swallowed those pills and at some point, of time eventually prayed for death and started cracking jokes about it. She was morbidly scared inside and she often talked about seeing people who had exited earlier making regular visits to her in dreams. When she saw me tensed, she would lift her arm and keep her non-existent biceps next to mine for comparison and laugh claiming “Tujse zyada to main hi strong hoon.” (I am stronger than you). I had to break the news rather bluntly to a usual complaint she had a month before her death. She had discontinued her essential medicines without telling me because she felt more drained with them and that angered me more. It felt like she was giving up and that was not acceptable to me. Selfishly I wanted her to exist and could never fathom the pain that she had to bear only to live. She had lost as much as me and more. She had lost two dads as she was born to one raised by another, along with a husband who deserted her and a daughter she could not have. She was a sister I ached to have but she could not be. I had missed growing up with her in the same household as a kid and at twenty-six when she showed up, she felt like a total stranger. Brought up differently, she struggled to fit in as we struggled to accept her in our household and now that we had become pretty good at navigating our huge differences and grown to tolerate and perhaps even acknowledge that we loved each other by being there for each other she was giving up. I was very furious with her. She could not fail me now. The dying should listen to advice they seek yet she was only declaring subtly by choosing otherwise. She mocked me saying I was going to miss her and I laughed saying no I won’t! Here I was a balanced human being and doctor on top of that helping countless in similar scenarios and she thought she was going to matter! That day while she had finished crying over my blunt statement, she touched my palm like a child would stoke first time in all of her forty-seven years that she needed me just as much. I am grateful for that moment in my life.
She was very clear she did not want to be die in an ICU connected to a ventilator or the dialysis machine because she had read and heard enough stories of futile struggles and she wanted to make a peaceful exit. Her body had shrunken enough in the years to live with a mere 60-70 % percent of oxygen saturation which was the value two days before she died and she hoped that the people whom she loved were with her by her bedside. I had to inform my extended family relations to respect her last wish. That day she made her last phone call to them pleading for them to see her. She never needed much except for the love she so wanted to give and receive. Their reciprocation pumped more of life into her day by day while she wished them good mornings without fail and their birthdays. All I could do in her last months with us was to offer her prayers of relief and peace instead of long life. She passed away on Valentine’s day on the day when the whole world feels love.
The house hasn’t been the same without her. I need to open windows to allow sunlight in her room and learn to put on the lights by myself. I am getting used to seeing her favorite corner at the sofa empty and maintaining appetite for the same food she cooked. I have begun to find faults with it somehow looking for Alka perfection and sometimes the cook wonders what is that I really want and that is when I eat quietly. I listen to my children talking about her with twinkle in their eyes and sometimes tears over Mausi and humming her favorite tunes. They understand that would not be returning as they are the ones who bathed you for the last time and saw you going to the flames. I am still trying to be the big heroine while I have to handle much more with her gone and supporting mum who had grown fond of you for the way you served her with obedience never asking much back. She had her knees give up on her and I knew it wasn’t her arthritis rather another loss crippling her spirit.
The bittersweet conversations take us back to her and my sister still remains my shining example how a person never gives up even if the body is weak and I share her story with those who visit my clinical chamber wanting quick relief and escape. I am enlarging only a single photograph to keep it light as I said and I am still practicing to forgive myself for things that I could have done better. I am missing those arguments and silly fights which somehow kept the household lively. There is too much of peace and silence sometimes far more than I can bear. I have not heard anyone coughing in a year except my own. Mom sees her in dreams where she now has a strong luminous complete body with a golden aura and this time, she held her unborn baby girl in her lap instead of everyone else’s and was smiling.
I can only be thankful that Alka has shown me that some journeys with souls will be very trying but they will eventually be beautiful tales. I am not punishing myself by giving up on my favorite items she used to cook rather savor it every time consciously in my taste. It cannot be a coincidence that when I returned late night from the Deepdaan at the ghat the Dhaba owner served me a bowl of Kadi additionally apart from the Thali that I had ordered. He made some extra late at night claiming more people may arrive despite police restrictions to bid adieu to the departed ones . He said as a matter of fact that they will always give a sign even if they are gone. I didn’t even call her except remembering her tearfully yet she was there that night and they want me to believe she is dead. Just a year without you my darling that’s all.
