Grief

Are you listening?

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‘I was sent away to live with my granny when my youngest sister was to be born. I was three and a half then. I stayed with my grandma till I was 6. When I moved back to my family, I wasn’t quite sure who they were. That time of my life shows up as murky grey when I think about it.’

“Well, everyone has gone through something or another.”

“Those days life was hard. There were no washing machines and dish-washers. So, I can understand how hard it must have been to look after three under-fives.”

“At least you were re-united with your family within a few years and you were safe.”

“I am sure your grand-ma cuddled you and loved you very much.”

“At least you were in the care of your grand-mother and not some random stranger. I was brought up by nannies.”

“It clearly did you no harm. Look at you.”

Wow! Not one person sitting around that table listened.

Did they have any curiosity? Any fascination?

Do we allow our listening to connect us with something fragile, deep within us?

Does it forge understanding and connection with another?

Do we allow ourselves to sit with someone else’s shadow?

Does our listening ease a burden?

Am I listening?

Are you really listening?

(Resource: In CORe community, we listen.)

Working and celebrating together

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She could be my younger sister by two weeks. She’s survived and survived again. She’s been through so much mentally and physically but her spirit remains undefeated. Our children brought us together – Saagar and Stephanie. Both these young people were musically gifted, very compassionate and super-good-looking. This earthly realm proved to be too harsh a place for them both. It turned out their mothers were doctors, feeling betrayed by the very system they had been a part of. They were trying to understand the shortcomings in that system, make them visible and bring about change. They both felt guilty. They felt inadequate as mothers and as doctors. Each of them understood the other, without need for words.

Stephanie’s dad kept putting one step in front of the other, walking and running, cycling and swimming in memory of Stephanie. A strong believer in collaboration, he brought people, their efforts and voices together. He raised thousands of pounds and supported the endevours of individuals and charities to create more hope in the world. A dutiful father and husband, he looked after everything the best he could and continues to do so.

He believes that ‘using our Lived-Experience and working together, we will prevent future deaths.” I salute him and Stephanie’s mum for showing us what is possible when we connect and continue to cherish the memories of Stephanie. I thank them for their friendship which continuously enriches my life and warms my heart, even from across the oceans. I am grateful that together we can manufacture any excuse for a party. I feel blessed to know these two exceptional people with whom we can celebrate our children and our lives.

Happy Belated Birthday Doug! The party is due.

Nights – 3654.

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A hundred and twenty months. Ten years. An outrageous survival.

Each night angry, uncharitable.  Sleep. No sleep. Dreams. No dreams.The death of so many. Dreams.

In my dreams, I plead with you. Please stay, Be’ta.

We’ll find a way. Don’t give up yet. Don’t go away.

Come here. Sit with me.

Tell me what I need to know. Tell me what hurts you so. Tell me how I can make it go.

I could guess when you were hungry, thirsty.

To your amused annoyance, even when you wanted to pee. I just knew. I don’t know how.

But this one I did not see coming.   I couldn’t. I don’t know how.

I am sorry. I had no map. I was lost in the fast lane.

In my dreams, our dark sides are friends.

Together they figure it out, Have a laugh, make it all okay.

In my dreams, we breathe together nice and slow,

As if singing a joyful melody. We hold hands and dance in our kitchen

Crying on each other’s shoulders, secretly.

From the fridge, I pull out a white china bowl

Filled with pomegranate seeds,

Rubies, I harvested earlier in the day. Please stay, my Jaan. I would say.

In my dreams,

through my furious longing

I can momentarily understand.

Your pain, your silence.

I can understand why you had to go.

Like a boat sailing into a new morn,

I must release you.

I must stay.

I must let you be on your way.

In my dreams.



(An ancestor of this poem is Walt Whitman, who said, “We were together. I forget the rest.” )

170,000

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– the number of suicides in India every year. India holds the top position in the world in very few things. This is one of them. Of these deaths, more than 40% are under the age of thirty. Both these facts possibly underestimate the problem due to poor data collection, criminalisation of suicidal attempts, inefficient registration systems, lack of medical certification of deaths and biggest of all, stigma. Every eight minutes a young Indian person dies by suicide. Year on year, the rates are rising by 4-7%.

The incidence of student suicides surpasses population growth rates. Over the last decade, the number of student suicides increased from 7,696 to 13,089.

Source: A report released on Sept 10th 2024: Student Suicides: an epidemic sweeping India.

Today, to mark World Mental Health Day, a brave young lady, Jayeta Biswas, published an article remembering her brother, Jayanta. Aside from revealing some shocking statistics, it lamented the seriously negative societal attitudes towards poor mental health and suicide in India:

“A home that was always filled with visitors when my brother was alive saw no one from his school, college, professional life or network after his departure. None of his friends, including those he had contacted in his last hours – attended his funeral, nor did they visit our house. I am certain that this is because they heard that he died by suicide.”

We have a long way to go as a society but small school initiatives such as SEHER give me hope.

Your suffering is a bridge.

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He described himself not as a revolutionary writer but one born into a revolutionary situation. He was born out of wedlock in the USA a hundred years ago – black, poor, despised by his adoptive father, the eldest of nine siblings and to top it all, a homosexual. His name was James Baldwin. He knew the meaning of suffering and could talk and write about it with striking beauty.

“I can only tell you about yourself, as much as I can face about myself.

As it happens to everybody who’s tried to live. You go through your life for a long time and you think that no one has ever suffered the way I’ve suffered. My God! My God!  Then you read something, you hear something and you realise that your suffering does not isolate you.

Your suffering is your bridge. It tells you that many people have suffered before you, that many people are suffering around you and always will.

All you can do is hopefully bring a little light into that suffering. Enough light so the person who is suffering can begin to comprehend his suffering. Begin to live with it and begin to change it.

We don’t change anything. All we can do is invest people with the morale to change it for themselves.”

Indeed. We can and we do. Thank you for your light, James Baldwin. Happy centenary.

[ CORe: Bringing light to those who have been unfortunate enough to lose a child.]