छोटी बाते, छोटी, छोटी बातों की हैं यादे बड़ी...
When I was still a casement tunic-ed,
long-plaited, school-girl, Bua, Papa’s only sister passed away during the
festival of Diwali. I don’t remember if it was on the same day or before. A
kind of silence fell over the household for the short while that my parents
must have reminisced or planned things. Then, Papa asked me to come along to the
market to buy some things. Just as we
were starting back, I saw my best friend with her cousins having ice creams
standing in the colonnaded New Market, laughing and enjoying themselves. On
seeing me, she called out cheerily and when I hesitated, Papa waved back to her
equally cheerily. I was awkward. I rushed to tell her that my Bua had passed
away. She tried to change her expression of merriment into something more appropriate.
Just as we left, very gently, Papa said, “You needn't have told them. They were
so happy.”
That Diwali evening, I was tentative. I had been so looking forward to wearing
my new clothes, I still remember the soft, white muslin of the gypsy skirt, each
of its layers lace-trimmed and the pink flower-print top. I don’t know how it was
conveyed but it was conveyed to us that we could wear the new clothes and go
out with friends, only, there would be no fire crackers or lighting at home.
All evening I saw Papa receiving guests, accepting their wishes, wishing them
back. I saw him sitting on that chair in the yellow light of the drawing room
of a dark house with no Diwali diyas or fairy lights. Bua was his only sister.
How he must have wrestled with his grief so it did not mar the joy of others.
It was an invaluable lesson.
Why should we wear our sorrow like a veil that must not slip from our heads? It is two months since Mummy passed on. And I have not mourned her as the world would wish me to. Life has to go on. For her sake. For everything that made her happy, and proud. I have celebrated her in my own way. Keeping the kitchen fires burning, for one. Till two days before she went to hospital, Mummy was, as usual, animatedly discussing recipes, watching Food-Food as on a loop all day. I have made more pastas, pulaos, cakes and curries in the last two months than in two years. It has been therapeutic.
It was an invaluable lesson.
Why should we wear our sorrow like a veil that must not slip from our heads? It is two months since Mummy passed on. And I have not mourned her as the world would wish me to. Life has to go on. For her sake. For everything that made her happy, and proud. I have celebrated her in my own way. Keeping the kitchen fires burning, for one. Till two days before she went to hospital, Mummy was, as usual, animatedly discussing recipes, watching Food-Food as on a loop all day. I have made more pastas, pulaos, cakes and curries in the last two months than in two years. It has been therapeutic.
We've remembered all the wonderful things she
did and was and we’ve had haircuts, shopped, eaten out, watched movies, had
people over, visited friends, facebooked, liked and lol-ed. I still reach out
for the phone several times a day to call her. Mornings feel strange without
her familiar voice on phone – everything from what was had for breakfast to
what some friend wore or did not, was discussed (for mum clothes shopping came
a close second, after cooking). My greatest champion, Mummy was always there
for me as for all of us, in sickness and in our littlest accomplishments.
Whenever the going gets tough, magically, a friend or relative calls or
visits. They have us in their thoughts. Feels wonderful and I am grateful for
this support. Yet why do I hold it against those that did not call/visit/
write? This, I still have to learn. Then I see Papa, squinting an eye and tilting
his head in a ‘let it go’. I’ll try.
