The heart aches

Umpteen and one times I've thought of calling up. Picking up the phone and telling him I miss him. Terribly. Hearing his reassuring voice at the other end, the smile in his tone when he would say "Two more years, let me turn my business around and I will come visit you".

The two more years never came. The smile in his voice was becoming more and more forced over the years. But there was no mistaking the kindness - the enveloping kindness that surrounded one with warmth. The unmistakable love in his voice, and the thrill everytime I heard it.

Kamala talks of his voice too - which surprised me. Ever since my father passed away, the child had become really quiet whenever someone talked of her thatha. Then one day suddenly she broke down, and cried saying she wanted to see him - for real, not in a photograph.

"I see him in the clouds everyday, Amma. I imagine he is an angel peering over the clouds. I think of his voice and imagine that the wind is carrying it...from now on, I can only feel him in the wind!", she sobs. "He is the kindest person I know, Amma! Why did he have to die?"

By reflex, my hand stretches to get the telephone, to tell him about his grandchild's latest words. The hand stops short. From now on, I too must learn to hear his voice in the wind.

*-*-*
All these gadgets, and none to communicate with those we most want to. Hear their voice, to have that connection.

I don't have regrets, or thoughts that I may not have communicated my affection. That was always there, unspoken. But my solid base is missing - the special someone who knew the answers, or seemed confident that an answer can be found.

I remember how secure I felt, when I walked with Appa as a child, my hand held firmly in his. Felt like nothing could go wrong that he couldn't fix. He must've been as old as I am now, and I must have been about seven or eight, as old as my Kamala. I realize that consciously or unconsciously, I've tried to be the kind of parent he was.

Did he battle all the uncertainties that I did, have all these self-doubts? Did he have them, yet put up a brave and very convincing front? Appa worked long hours, often traveling several days in a month. Yet when he returned, the house lit up, and seemed somehow fuller. We played cricket with tennis balls, grew flowers and plants, played card games (he was hopeless at these and always lost :). We listened as he told us stories under the sky, as we lay on mats in the open terrace, on hot summer nights, the stars twinkling above us.

Mother ran the house - ensured we had meals, finished our homeworks, and bandaged our nicks and cuts. But I could see her uncertainties, the doubts and the fears. She was a parent - but more like us. She had her vulnerabilities, and times when she was not sure of herself. But Appa was supremely confident, his aura enveloping us like a blanket.

I wonder if I can provide the same kind of security for my child. When Appa was alive, I had felt that no matter what I could or couldn't be, my child had a grandfather. Someone whom I could ask an opinion on anything, and who could be my sounding board. Now I must grapple alone, and find those answers by myself.

Sometimes it feels like a relay race where I landed up by accident. The previous runner just gave me the baton, tapped my shoulder, said "Run!" and vanished into the ether. Now I must run, do my bit to "win" the race, whatever that victory means. And I don't even know what teams are running, in which direction to run, and where I belong.

*-*-*

"Priya, losing a parent does that to you. Feels like a churning of your whole self. Its normal to feel lost - but one day, at the end of all this churning, you will find a peace", says a friend. "Trust me - one day you will be more sure, and find a happiness within yourself. But you must be patient, and let the churning happen."

I am reminded of the story of Dashavataram, Vishnu's ten incarnations. In the first two incarnations, Vishnu had assumed various forms to help churn the oceans, in search of Amrut, the nectar of immortality. In the middle of the churning for Amrut, the ocean throws forth Halahala, a terrible poison that is so deadly that living creatures drop dead in the thousands. The world writhes with pain, gasping for breath - and life. The deadly Halahala finally loses its power when Shiva swallows it, retaining it in his throat, preventing any escape. Further churning, and much effort later, Amrut is discovered.

Perhaps this is one of Hinduism's numerous metaphors. Concepts starting out as fascinating stories one heard as a child - and unfolding slowly to yield deeper meanings as one grows older. Maybe the ocean meant the soul, and the churning, a search for something lasting....A lasting what? Peace? Experiencing the joy of living fully, despite the travails we go through? A deeper understanding of life itself, and the fact that numerous things are out of our control? A concept that says all through the churning, seek divine grace - let the grace swallow up any poisons that come up, and ultimately, you will find Nirvana?

I have no claims of finding my Amrut. I seem to have found Halahala, though. I have felt an unbelievable rage - at everything, and everyone. I could not believe the meanness I was capable of, and the sharp words I could use. Nor the overall apathy I felt. I had stopped caring.

There was an utter sense of hopelessness, the thought that nothing really matters, so why bother? The natural tendency to do my best fought with all this, leaving me guilt-ridden and exhausted. The exhaustion led to impatience, further anger, meanness, and hopelessness....In between, grief came back with a vengeance, and ripped me apart. I could not scream or wail - its an apartment, and I cannot scream at will. But some days I have wanted to let loose, and shout until I can shout no more.

Today marks four months since we lost him, and the heart aches beyond belief.