Handling death

One lives through many life-changing events in a single lifetime. It is immaterial whether they are good or bad, what is all-important is the way you handle them. I did not handle my father’s death very well. I did not handle living very well either. No one is equipped by birth to handle trauma such as death with a calm demeanour and spirit and yet I was more devastated than I thought possible. It was an expected death not the kind that takes you by surprise like a flash of lightning. And yet I ended up missing the chance to say farewell to a much-loved father.

He was a six foot tall, unrelentingly cheerful figure who weighed a hundred kilos before he was diagnosed with terminal prostate cancer. Prostate cancer by itself is one of the most successfully treatable forms of cancer but in his case it had spread to the spinal cord by the time he was diagnosed and he was already partially paralyzed. The first emergency procedure offered some relief and the tumours were on the wane for a while. He had limited mobility and looked like a shadow of his former self. Mortality was a constant threat to the man who believed in living life to the fullest. Yet he was happy enough in the company of his daughters, son and the grandchildren who had no inkling of the sombre feelings that lay just below a brittle veneer of cheer.

A few months later however the cancer hit back with a vengeance and a second and more serious operation did not help. He lay paralyzed totally from the waist down and was brought to Bangalore where I lived so I could take care of him. Initially I had hopes that he would recover at least partial mobility but as the days passed and he himself realized that there was no possible progress to be made, the house became like a funeral home. I had a one year old son whose colic kept me up every single day from 12 to 3 in the morning. I had to cope with watching the strongest figure in my life, the one who made lifting any burden look easy, struggle with pain and the shame and indignity of dependence on the rest of us for his most personal tasks.

I regret beyond words not being able to support him mentally during that time. I had visibly given up hope. After six months of taking care of him, I was a wreck myself. My elder sister lived abroad and my younger brother was still in college. My mother would sit and cry most of the time. I had no emotional reserves left and yet I could’ve been softer towards the gaunt figure who lay on his bed, turning partially so he could look out the window as the world went by without a second thought.

I cannot turn back time and make his last days relatively happy. He was very proud of me and kept insisting that of all his children only I could face difficult situations head-on and yet deep inside I knew I had let him down by losing faith. For more than my father’s death, what changed my life was the complete loss of the faith I felt in God whom I had been brought up since infancy to believe in. My father was an ardent devotee of our Ashram and guru and he took solace from the fact that his faith would protect him. I, who till then had the faith to close my eyes and agree to marry a guy I had never seen just because of my guru’s assurance had completely changed into a cynic who refused to think that any God could justify inflicting so much pain on a good human being.

I have never fully regained the faith I lost when my father passed away back in his own house in Kerala three days after he left my house and before I could say goodbye. Death takes its toll and the accompanying grief itself is difficult to bear but to completely lose faith in the way of life that I was brought up with was perhaps the bigger loss. All the years since my father’s death, I have lived with eroded faith and no belief that things will turn out well – a fear has since then found its way to my heart – that anything could at any moment be snatched away from me and I will yet again not have a chance to say goodbye.

Unhappy minds...

I woke up feeling inexplicably sad today. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why. True, the last few days have been somewhat difficult but I generally bounce back quickly and therefore found it hard to believe that a few more kicks when I am down would actually get me feeling that low. Somehow I don’t think that was the reason for the overwhelming feeling of sorrow that seemed to have pervaded my being. The sorrow was not invasive though – it seemed to presage some inevitability that I had no control over but must grieve for nevertheless.

Is man’s mind while at rest, happy? Mine never is – it tends to sit quiet and pensive thinking over the nature of things instead of simply relaxing. Can any thinking being be truly happy? I somehow doubt that – one is so busy ruminating on consequences and second-guesses that the moment of living is past before one knows it and one has neither relaxed nor enjoyed the present moment before it has moved on to the past. Maybe the key is to set a goal of making your mind live in the present for just that one moment and no more – gradually it will find itself not bogged down by too many thoughts perhaps.

I have never actively tried it since I am used to the buzz and traffic of too many thoughts in an overheated brain. I also wonder whether being quiet and happy for the most part will be conducive for a writer’s imagination anyway. I mean the periods when I am relatively content, I have no urge to write whatsoever. However when I am sad, angry, frustrated or ridiculously irritated, then the words seem to flow effortlessly. Am I like the oyster that needs to be uncomfortable and in pain to be creative? I don’t imagine satisfied, eternally happy, irritation-free oysters are capable of producing pearls.

So there may be a role for the forever-restless minded like myself to play in the vast production that is day to day life in the universe. It may be that some of the finest inventions were born of restless inquiry and not of content contemplation. It may be that intense feelings of sorrow can prompt an outpouring of creativity that boggles the mind. I don’t know for sure but I am certain of one thing – unhappy minds need to be celebrated too...

Bring it on...

I understand repeated hammerings can do beautiful things to metal giving it a texture, feel and appearance that is drastically different from the original and supposedly more alluring as well. That may work for metal. How does it work for human beings I wonder?

I am not writing a despondent note. Once ceases to be despondent after years of hammering anyway. I do remember vaguely the years long ago when I really did not have a care in the world and the hammering of fate was a distant nightmare. Such a happy girl I was in comparison to today. And yet today I have learnt to be happy with the smallest of things. Someone thinking of me and sending me an affectionate message. A compliment on my looks even when I feel like something the cat dragged in. A cup of tea someone actually makes for me. A little hand drawn card my daughter makes saying “you are the world’s best Amma” even if I have been hard on her that day. Hammering at least makes you seek joy wherever you can find it.

I have stopped asking the pointless question of why I seem to get all sorts of difficult situations dumped on me. I feel like I am specially marked out for all the wrong reasons sometimes. I rant and rail at fate. I break down many a time. I steel myself with a stiff upper lip at other times. Whatever mode I use to tackle the continuing stream of fate’s blows, I cope. My one saving grace is that given a little time, I can find some humour in any dire situation. That has saved me from losing my sanity over the years.

A few of my friends are somewhat surprised that there is so much going on in my life and I still pull through. It explains my basic negativity though. I get to a point where I feel somewhat content and on the cusp of happiness and wham! , there’s another blow with the cosmic baseball bat. I am wary of happiness. I am wary of letting go. I am really wary of relaxing. And yet with all this wariness I cope. It is truly amazing how much inner strength we each have that even we are completely unaware of.

Nobility does not lie in an accident of birth – it is a part of one’s character that you earn by being in difficult situations and not backing down or taking no for an answer. It is taking the more difficult path when there are many easier options available. It is looking at a belligerent fate and facing it with the courage born of anger, determination or even plain helplessness. Hammering does tend to impart that strength of character – being folded a thousand ways and beaten repeatedly ensures you never crack and though it leaves permanent scars, they are not necessarily disfiguring ones – in a certain light, they even possess an uncanny beauty.

It has also taught me one more thing - to be grateful at least occasionally for what I have – the strength to take what comes my way, a loving family that views me as some sort of superwoman, unexpected love that comes my way like a miracle, friends who believe in me way more than I have ever believed in myself and a sense of humour to laugh at it all in the very end for if you cannot laugh, you might as well give up now.