The phone lay ringing on the bed. I watched it ring, but continued to do what I was doing, because I like to do what I do every moment, with shraddha. Because that gives me the much-sought-after peace. I don't get perturbed so much anymore by the phone ringing and its presence. I just let it ring until I am ready to pick it up and take the call. Life has slowed down considerably, and I am learning to enjoy the slow flow.
I gathered my thoughts and moved myself with awareness, to answer the call. It was not a call that I was expecting. It was sad news. It was my father, sharing the news that a dear family friend of ours had just lost his wife. Our friend was Mr. S. Muthiah (we call him Muthu uncle), the renowned journalist and historian in Chennai, and editor of Madras Musings. His wife, "Valli aunty", as we call her, had suddenly passed away this morning, after complaining of severe and unbearable stomach ache. She died before they admitted her in hospital.
My father sounded lost and wanted to go and be with him immediately. He asked me to go with him. Surprisingly, Raghav agreed to go. Earlier on, I would have hesitated to take him with me on such an occasion. Today, we look at everything afresh, with new eyes, so to speak. So we take everything as it comes and try our best to flow along with whatever course our life takes - the twists, the turns, the ups and downs, and the gentle, straight stretches too.
Death and understanding it is such a crucial part of living itself. So why do we and why should we relegate it to a corner, or brush it aside to be dealt with "later on"? Well, we don't. To us, death is a part and parcel of life, and just another thing to explore and understand in this wonderful journey called life. And so Raghav went along with us, with a couple of toy cars in tow - perhaps symbols of security and certainty in the chaos, perhaps tools for him to process what was going on in his own way. I don't know. There are some things I cannot know and understand. Like Life. Like Death. And yet, when such things happen, we hear these words said so often - "That is Life! " Why do we say that, I wonder?
In the car, I told Raghav how my sister and I grew up with their kids - how we were neighbours and hopped in and out of each others' houses, played at will, shared impromptu meals and were taken care of by adults in one of the houses. My sister was often teased by my family on her first taste of non-veg at their house (which she still denies :) ). I spoke about how they came home to watch TV every week, as a family, as they did not own one, while we had a black and white TV. I remembered how "Valli aunty" used to bring a dabba full of delicious hot "pattani sundal" with cut mango pieces in it, when they came home. We munched sundal, watched some TV together, played and then had dinner together usually. Someone even called her "sundal aunty / mami".
We reached their house and waited to see uncle. He was having lunch. The house was full of people talking in whispers, standing around with sullen faces. People moved in and out like robots, talking with each other with a nod of the head or a shake of the hand. My thoughts pranced along on a tangent....why is death not seen as a celebration of life itself? why does death bring with it a deep and hushed silence? Why do we use words like "passed away", or "left for the heavenly abode" or "is no more"? Why don't we call death by its name? Is it a deep- rooted fear that makes us push death away as far away from us as possible , rather than stop and look at it in its face and embrace it with equanimity? Is death a beginning of an end, the end, or just something that happens along the way?
My thoughts found their way back into the house and to the room we were sitting in. Raghav sat beside me, playing with his toy cars on the sofa, quietly watching everything around him. My eyes came to rest on a striking black and white portrait of their elder daughter (who I had grown up with) with two pigtails, that hung on the wall opposite me. She was beaming, with a naughty glint in her eyes. There was another one close by, of her sister and she, looking at and laughing with each other.
My eyes then moved down a little, to catch a glimpse of uncle shedding and wiping off a tear. He walked towards my dad, held his hands and hugged him tight; his eyes moist with the tender love that he had for his dear wife. I hugged him too and he sobbed a little. Silence was better. Words get in the way. They can be jarring when one is trying to soak in the essence of a feeling. We smiled. We cried. We looked in each others' eyes in silence. We spoke with our being. There was no need for words.
Back in the car, Raghav wanted to know how she had died suddenly, without being unwell. We had heard that her death could have been due to an aneurysm in the stomach. So we told him what we knew. He was not convinced. He wanted to go back home and find out more about how blood vessels burst suddenly. We will keep that in mind and explore that more deeply. But for now, as my insides turned and churned, gripped by the sadness of the moment, I heard the same old refrain echoing from some place deep within...."That is Life!", followed by an equally strong one that said: "That is Death!"
Which one does your heart want to listen to?
I gathered my thoughts and moved myself with awareness, to answer the call. It was not a call that I was expecting. It was sad news. It was my father, sharing the news that a dear family friend of ours had just lost his wife. Our friend was Mr. S. Muthiah (we call him Muthu uncle), the renowned journalist and historian in Chennai, and editor of Madras Musings. His wife, "Valli aunty", as we call her, had suddenly passed away this morning, after complaining of severe and unbearable stomach ache. She died before they admitted her in hospital.
My father sounded lost and wanted to go and be with him immediately. He asked me to go with him. Surprisingly, Raghav agreed to go. Earlier on, I would have hesitated to take him with me on such an occasion. Today, we look at everything afresh, with new eyes, so to speak. So we take everything as it comes and try our best to flow along with whatever course our life takes - the twists, the turns, the ups and downs, and the gentle, straight stretches too.
Death and understanding it is such a crucial part of living itself. So why do we and why should we relegate it to a corner, or brush it aside to be dealt with "later on"? Well, we don't. To us, death is a part and parcel of life, and just another thing to explore and understand in this wonderful journey called life. And so Raghav went along with us, with a couple of toy cars in tow - perhaps symbols of security and certainty in the chaos, perhaps tools for him to process what was going on in his own way. I don't know. There are some things I cannot know and understand. Like Life. Like Death. And yet, when such things happen, we hear these words said so often - "That is Life! " Why do we say that, I wonder?
In the car, I told Raghav how my sister and I grew up with their kids - how we were neighbours and hopped in and out of each others' houses, played at will, shared impromptu meals and were taken care of by adults in one of the houses. My sister was often teased by my family on her first taste of non-veg at their house (which she still denies :) ). I spoke about how they came home to watch TV every week, as a family, as they did not own one, while we had a black and white TV. I remembered how "Valli aunty" used to bring a dabba full of delicious hot "pattani sundal" with cut mango pieces in it, when they came home. We munched sundal, watched some TV together, played and then had dinner together usually. Someone even called her "sundal aunty / mami".
We reached their house and waited to see uncle. He was having lunch. The house was full of people talking in whispers, standing around with sullen faces. People moved in and out like robots, talking with each other with a nod of the head or a shake of the hand. My thoughts pranced along on a tangent....why is death not seen as a celebration of life itself? why does death bring with it a deep and hushed silence? Why do we use words like "passed away", or "left for the heavenly abode" or "is no more"? Why don't we call death by its name? Is it a deep- rooted fear that makes us push death away as far away from us as possible , rather than stop and look at it in its face and embrace it with equanimity? Is death a beginning of an end, the end, or just something that happens along the way?
My thoughts found their way back into the house and to the room we were sitting in. Raghav sat beside me, playing with his toy cars on the sofa, quietly watching everything around him. My eyes came to rest on a striking black and white portrait of their elder daughter (who I had grown up with) with two pigtails, that hung on the wall opposite me. She was beaming, with a naughty glint in her eyes. There was another one close by, of her sister and she, looking at and laughing with each other.
My eyes then moved down a little, to catch a glimpse of uncle shedding and wiping off a tear. He walked towards my dad, held his hands and hugged him tight; his eyes moist with the tender love that he had for his dear wife. I hugged him too and he sobbed a little. Silence was better. Words get in the way. They can be jarring when one is trying to soak in the essence of a feeling. We smiled. We cried. We looked in each others' eyes in silence. We spoke with our being. There was no need for words.
Back in the car, Raghav wanted to know how she had died suddenly, without being unwell. We had heard that her death could have been due to an aneurysm in the stomach. So we told him what we knew. He was not convinced. He wanted to go back home and find out more about how blood vessels burst suddenly. We will keep that in mind and explore that more deeply. But for now, as my insides turned and churned, gripped by the sadness of the moment, I heard the same old refrain echoing from some place deep within...."That is Life!", followed by an equally strong one that said: "That is Death!"
Which one does your heart want to listen to?
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