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Loneliness and belongingness

Half-saree ceremony

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We’re back home, in Sakleshpur, and finally, after more than six months of monsoon, the rain seems to have stopped for now. After making us wait for ages, the sun is finally smiling in all its brilliance. The monsoon arrived one month earlier than expected and stayed a month longer. Many coffee beans were knocked off their branches by sharp rain drops. Moisture laden air meant that fungus started infesting the plants. Months of sogginess in the soil made the roots of the pepper rot. The local farmers were seriously worried, and the return of the sun has brought them and us huge relief.

One of my students reached puberty this month. How do I know? Because her family hosted a celebration, the Half-Saree Ceremony to mark the occasion. The name comes from the brightly coloured silk dress that is worn by the young girl at the centre of it all. A long skirt with a matching blouse and an unstitched piece of silk draped elegantly around her. She wears beautiful jewellery, adorns her hair with flowers and sits on a throne like a precocious princess. The maroon lipstick looks terribly out of place on her cherubic face.

In South India this ceremony symbolizes the communal acceptance of a girl’s transformation into a young woman. It is sacred and hence accompanied by elaborate rituals and fragrant prayers using sandalwood, roses, jasmine and a hundred other things. It is an occasion to formally introduce the young lady to her extended family and community, as well as to reinforce her traditional roles. Generations up and down gather, fostering a sense of identity and belonging, celebrating both, her individual milestone and the timeless traditions that define her heritage. 

I wonder what it’s like for her to have the entire village know this very personal thing about her. Maybe it’s so normal here that there’s nothing strange about it. A healthy normalisation of a potential taboo. I wonder if this is a hidden invitation for marriage proposals not so far in the future. I wonder if she feels the pressure of expectations of her family and community change overnight. I wonder how she sees herself now. She is only 12.

Comings and goings.

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As usual, I sit here at my table by the window of my study, admiring the autumnal trees standing in the park across the road, looking for inspiration to write. They have been my encouraging companions for years. The difference is that today might be the last time I write sitting here.

Early autumn has cycled back again. The fullness of the moon has synchronized with the one eleven years ago. The comings and goings of the seasons, of the world carry on as usual. Moving away from this home to live elsewhere was unthinkable at one time. But now, the heart has settled. It knows things it did not before. It carries a treasure of love and memories. Saagar lives in this heart now. He cannot be left behind. He is with me everywhere.

This, our home is ‘under offer’ now. A young couple wants to buy it for the same reasons we did twenty years ago. A quiet street. A diverse neighborhood. A garden. Parks and good schools nearby. Last few days of packing up have been intense. Things that have surfaced from deep recesses – a handheld Nintendo Gameboy carefully wrapped in its purple case, a proper Canon camera, one black sock with TUESDAY on it in yellow bunched together with another with SATURDAY printed on it in green.

I know not to trust my memory. It often fails me. It misremembers things, puts them in the wrong order. Omits some entirely. It plays tricks, causes confusion. Forgets what I want to hold on to and remembers what I’d rather forget. Luckily, the job of the heart does not include remembering but feeling – how it feels to sit here looking out the window and then at a blank page, to fold a much-loved photo in silk and cover it in more soft clothing, to look at an empty room and see it filled with light, to know it’s okay. I can trust this thing in the center of my chest. It’s all okay.

Bad mother.

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She had been admitted to a separate room in the Birth Center because of her special circumstances. The thing was written all over her notes.

“Congratulations Vicky! You have a beautiful baby boy. Do you have other kids?” the doctor’s voice boomed from behind the drapes covering Vicky’s legs. She was grieving her first born, Oliver. Only six weeks prior, his brain tumour had ended his sweet little life. He was three. The doctor should’ve known but he didn’t. Did he not read her notes? Did no one tell him?

She kept quiet and so did her midwife, who knew. She let go of Vicky’s hand and walked south to whisper something in the doctor’s ear. His question remained suspended on top of her head like a heavy cold fog.

Vicky lay there, admonishing herself for the time Oliver had asked her for a cuddle. She was so tired, she was unable to stand up. The last few weeks of her second pregnancy and the last few weeks of Oliver’s life had mercilessly clashed and she was trapped in the middle. She wished for more strength. She wished Oliver had been home to receive his little brother. His sweet round face with blue google eyes danced in front of her eyes. The new baby had been cleaned and weighed. He lay in the cot while she danced with Oliver in her dreams.

Back in her room, the midwife fished out a smiley portrait of Oliver and set it on Vicky’s bedside table so she could see his face. Susan, her friend from the Lamaze classes came with a bunch of red roses. In those days that was allowed. “You have the perfect replacement.” she leaned down to kiss Vicky on the cheek, holding her own belly with her right hand.

Forty-five years later, Vicky still says “Bad mother” to herself for not having given Oliver more cuddles, especially the one he had asked for. She has not forgotten his smile or his suffering. She still believes her doctor was callous. She wishes Susan had not said what she said.

The kindness of that nameless midwife still brings a smile to her face and a tear to her eye.

*** *** ***

(On Unresolved parental grief , research says that parents who have not worked through their grief are at increased risk of long-term mental and physical illnesses. Core helps parents grieve and grow together.)

Love endures.

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As you walk through the intense fire that follows the death of your child, your heart burns for those walking behind you. You turn around and look at their tear-drenched faces – parents whose child just died . Despite the unbearable heat of your own loss, you can’t help but reach out to them. Their predicament as unbearable to you as your own. In trying to ease their pain, you believe you diminish your own.

This poem is offered by one of the CORe members for those carrying the heavy load of love and loss. It deeply respects the brokenness while also tracing the quiet light that remains, reminding us that even in grief’s shadow, love whispers through.

I feel your grieving, heart laid bare,
pieces scattered, our lot unfair.
Yet each fragment, though fragile, shines,
resilience stitched by love’s designs.

Your angel child, though gone from sight,
does dwell in memory, a quiet light.
In laughter caught, in whispers faint,
in all the love your heart can paint.

Each tear a bridge, each sigh a thread,
connecting worlds where you are led.
The joins of grief, so tender, true,
are etched with courage in all you do.

Though nights are long and shadows deep,
their presence lingers—it does not sleep.
In dreams, in stars, in softest air,
your dearest whispers: “I am there.”

Your love endures beyond the pain,
a sacred flame that shall remain.
Though broken, your heart bears a light,
turning grief’s darkness into sight.

So let each memory softly bloom,
a garden bright within the gloom.
Even in sorrow, love will find
its way to warm the grieving mind.

Now fragments found, arranged anew,

Love, hope, and courage form the glue.

Your heart, though changed, beats strong and true,

A living flame that carries you.

Whispered Reflection:

Each fracture, each delicate seam, carries a quiet, hidden light. Through love, courage, and the passing of time, these pieces are held together, forming a heart that is not the same as before—but more radiant for all it has endured. The very places of repair shine with their own gentle beauty, a reminder that even in loss, love endures and is able to recreate beauty.

Everywhere.

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A year or so after Saagar, one Saturday morning we were driving on the M4 to see Simon’s mum. As we tuned into BBC Radio 4, my ears were assaulted by the prefix, ’committed’. Neither the BBC, nor the psychiatrists knew better. They hadn’t learnt that crimes are ‘committed’. Not suicides. Suicides came from a desire to end insufferable emotional pain. Either these people didn’t know or they didn’t care enough to modify the words that habitually barfed out of their mouths. That prefix is so firmly embedded in the English language that it thoughtlessly rolls off our tongues. Suicide was a crime in the UK before 1961. It is still a ‘sin’ according to some good men and women of God. Hence, the default prefix, “committed”. That has to change. Like people who sadly die of cancer, people die of Depression and Schizophrenia and the like. They do not “commit” a crime.
Part of me was grateful they were talking about it, even if their language was wrong. I tried not to get too put off by that. I had not heard so many conversations about it before. Had something changed or had I not been listening all this time?
My mind could no longer handle long complicated, rambling books. It forgot names, lost plot lines and wandered off, out the window within minutes. Short and gentle texts, it could deal with but nothing that puts too much cognitive load. I asked a helpful librarian to recommend a couple of small books. She pulled out ‘The sense of an Ending’ by Julian Barnes and ‘The French Exit’ by Patrick deWitt. Both the stories had suicide at the center of it. I have read many books but couldn’t remember this theme arising so often.
I joined a short-story writing course at the Himalayan Writing Retreat. The award-winning author, Kritika Pandey, our teacher asked us to read ‘Why I decide to kill myself and other jokes’ by Douglas Glover beforehand. My heart pounded right through those sixteen pages. I was asked to pay attention to the technical details – the elliptical way in which the word ‘blue’ appears at periodic intervals, the sub-plot involving the dogs, the side-story of Hugo’s mum, the symbolism of the car – all of these were lost on me. I was inside the protagonist’s head, feeling her dread, her quandary and her hopelessness. It was in my face again.
The e-mail from the V&A was advertising an Alexander McQueen exhibition.
The film on TV tonight was ‘The Hours’.
The book that fell off the shelf and broke its spine today was ‘The First Forty-Nine stories’ by Earnest Hemingway.
This blasted thing that came out of nowhere, is now, everywhere.
Had my eyes and ears been shut for all these years?

Or, I wonder if, like many others I was not aware of my belief – this kind of thing only happens to others?

PS: The author, Earnest Hemingway and the fashion designer Alexander McQueen, both ended their own lives. ‘The Hours’ is a film based on a book by Michael Cunnigham with Virginia Woolf’s suicide at the center of it.