loss

Grey day

Posted by

2

I didn’t light his candle today. Not because I forgot. But I just couldn’t be bothered. He left without saying bye. I know it’s silly to bring this up now, after so many years. He needed to do whatever it was he needed to do. He needed to go. I understand. But the missing makes my heart crumble again and yet again. How is it possible to keep going after its smashed so many times? It feels like the old yellow rubber duck in his bath, being stamped heavily upon, by a topless angry Arnold Swarzenegger wearing big black military trousers and boots. What is this thing that pretends to drum in my chest, tattered and torn?

He broke the rule. Saying good-night was our ritual for many years. After settling him in his bed, I religiously kissed him on his chin, both his cheeks, first left and then the right, his closed eyes, first the left and then the right and then, once on his forehead. He put his little arms around my neck and we both held each other for a short while before I switched off the light and went to my room. We loved it and slept peacefully.

He didn’t respect our little rule. Maybe he couldn’t. But, I deserved at least, a proper good bye. But then, can anyone truly know who deserves what?

all my love,

endlessly

black and white portrait.

It changes. And changes again.

Posted by

1

Over and over I asked myself – Now what? Now what? What happens after a severance such as this? How long do one’s bones bleed? Do the tears ever finish? What does ‘recovery’ look like? Is it even possible? How does one keep placing one foot in front of the other? Where is the road? Where does it come from? Where does it go? How long and meandering is it? When does the screaming in my head stop? How long can I keep up the facade? Pretend to be sane? Is this what a new diagnosis of a terminal illness feels like? Is forgiveness possible? Self-forgiveness? Acceptance? Surrender? All these big words! Surrender what? To whom? Who am I now? What do I do?

No answers. Silence. The tilted earth keeps spinning around its imaginary axis. It keeps cradling me. The sun stays at the center of its orbit. My son stays at the center of my being. My breath keeps coming and going. I grow new eyes. My bones carry my weight even though they bleed. The road appears under my feet. It reveals itself one step at a time. Rumi and Khalil Gibran come and hold my hand. The screaming softens. The wall of bricks that was my body, loosens. I come to know the terror and the joy of being insane, catch glimpses of being free. Respect for those who went before and sadly others, who follow. I stop fighting with the big words and keep it simple. Watch. Observe. See. Open. Let the gash in my heart, allow the light in.

A recent talk for The Compassionate Friends, a charity dedicated to supporting bereaved families.

The Order – a short story.

Posted by

1

She didn’t want to feed the monster but after ages, she had time. Time to work her way, one by one, through her long list of ‘Books to Read’.  On top was ‘Rebecca’ by Daphne Du Maurier. She logged on to Amazon and found 23 used copies. One of those would do. After finishing it she would donate it to the local Red Cross Charity shop. This was her formula for keeping a clean, spacious, open home. It’ll be here tomorrow. Magic.

Boredom stayed miles away as her mind landed fancy occupations. Lately she’d been listening to Eva Cassidy’s songs and imitating some of her less well-known paintings on her sketch pad. They were simple and sweet and reminded her of her childhood. She had also attended a poetry workshop on Zoom and was trying her hand at prose-poetry.

She longed for her home-town, Bhopal in India, even though she had chosen to leave fifteen years ago. Traveled thousands of miles in search of some ground beneath her feet and some air to breathe, after a major heartbreak. Now she had left that ruin far behind. Her job as a journalist felt like being with friends creatively. She had found that patch of earth and created a little haven for herself. At 39, she was settled even if her parents worried she was not. A little flat in East Dulwich in London was home.

The tiny package arrived in a massive lorry. She opened the door even before the deliveryman had knocked on it. She pulled at the stiff brown case. It was a fight to set the contents free but finally the book was held in her elegant hands. All eight corners were soft and rounded. Turquoise blue and white decorative pencil-work on a sinister black background. An ornate profile of a young woman with her hair put up anointed the front and back cover. This book was worn. Like her, it had travelled. It was smothered in a familiar dusty odour.

She opened it to the first page. In a sparkly green feminine font, it read:

“For my darling husband Atul.

Happy 4th Anniversary!

Sometimes I feel like Caroline de Winter.

Love you,

Sonali.

4th March 1999”

In that second, it was not her book. It was his. Once again, he had appeared out of nowhere and snatched her calm. The last time he did this was when she was a college student, happy with her books and music. He was two years her senior. He had subtly got her to look up at him and at life, invited her to parties, long bike rides and picnics. Before she knew she was his girl-friend and surprisingly she enjoyed the role. He made her laugh. He was a preening peacock and she, a simple sparrow. But it worked. They would sing and laugh but after 3 years of that, he made her cry. A lot.

Lost and lonely, she had roamed various cities and continents for years and finally made peace with her solitude. Now, the reins of the past had loosened their hold on her. She could breathe.

She had avoided acknowledging the existence of those two names all these years. Now they were lighting a fire in her eyes. One name of her one and only boy-friend and the other of her one and only best friend. May be this book had absolutely nothing to do with them. There must be thousands of people with those ordinary names.

The book sat innocently on her coffee table. She looked at it as she would an unwanted guest. She looked away, wondering what to do next. She turned on  the kettle as if in automatic mode. As two cups of near-boiling water were being infused with Darjeeling tea leaves, she prepared herself for the turbulence ahead. She poured the tea into her Frieda Kahlo mug and sat down again.

Her delicate hands reached out for the book again and casually unfurled the pages like a pack of cards. It sounded like a bird taking flight. A book mark fell to the ground with a soft flick. She fished it out from under the sofa. A pale blue and white visiting card:

Mr Atul Tyagi.

Tyagi and Lal Associates

First Floor. Office number: 133

NKS Plaza. Char Street.

Bangalore. 200 006

Phone: Office:  +44 221 63939

             Mobile: +44 976146022

e-mail: amtyagi@tala.net

Oh no! After years of laboriously moulting out of his skin, here was an invitation back into the darkness of it. An invisible chord lay between them. She knew of it. He did not. Did she have to do anything with it? No. Did she want to do anything with it? Not yet. There was no point blasting an exhaust fan over the dust that had taken eons to settle. The smooth glossy card reminded her of his forehead that she had kissed a thousand times. She held its corner between the thumb and index finger of her left hand and rested her head on the right palm.

Sadness – yes. Regrets – no. Excitement – a little bit. Flummoxed – a lot. Cat-like-curious – oh yes! Was this a psychological mind-game? Were there hidden cameras in her apartment, like the Big Brother House to record her reactions to this? Was this a sheer co-incidence? There were 22 other used books to choose from. How did this one land up in her lap? Destiny? Randomness? Serendipity?

For old time sake, she had to say hello. They were grown-ups now. They had to let the past sit in the past. Should she call him or send an e-mail? She could always hang-up like a truant teenager if the voice at the other end sounded dodgy. An e-mail might never be answered. She could send him a formal text and arrange a time for a phone call. Less intrusive. Also, it gave him a choice to chicken out. She did not want him to have that choice. Not this time.

Hello. Tyagi and Lal Associates.

Hello

How can I help you?

Hi. I am Kavita. Is that Atul?

Sorry. I am Manish Lal, his associate.

It’s ok. I’ll call back later.

Can I convey a message?

It’s okay. Nothing important.

Are you Kavita … Saini? From his college?

Yes.  

Oh. I’ve heard so much about you. Don’t worry. All good. He’d be delighted to hear from you. He’s traveling right now but I can put you in touch with him.

Where is he traveling to?  

London. He’s on a business trip. All the work is on me now. That’s how I’m in the office so late. Finishing up. Where are you calling from?

It doesn’t matter. I don’t have any message for him. Sorry to bother you. Bye.

Wait. Please. There is something you must know. I am his husband. Yes. It took him years to admit it to himself. Please forgive him. It wasn’t easy. Sorry.

Click.

Inventory of Loss

Posted by

0

Just like old trinkets, losses sit about in our being for years, forming layers upon layers, rusting us on the inside. Most of the world walks around with a thin film of red rust of unresolved grief just under their skin. A long list of losses dressed up as something else hides behind this film.

When Russell was 6, he went for a basketball game with his dad one Saturday. He lost his little blue jacket there. His dad gave him a good hiding for that. For Russell, it meant loss of safety. Did anyone recognise this as a loss? Nope.

When Saagar moved from India to Northern Ireland, he didn’t know English very well. He was one of three coloured kids in his Primary school. Something as fundamental as his name was alien to all around him. One day he came home from school and asked, “Can we change my name to Alan or something?” For him, this move meant loss of a sense of place and a sense of self. Was it acknowledged as such? Nope.

When the Tsunami washed away thousands of villages on 2004, Saagar was stunned. Until then he had faith in God but after watching the devastation caused by it on TV, it was all over for him. He said, “If there was a God, He would not allow such a horrible  thing to happen.” It meant a profound loss of faith for him. Did we know how to deal with it? Nope.

When I was diagnosed with Rheumatoid Arthritis, I was 42. It mainly affected the small joints in both my hands. I worried about my ability to work in the future. With correct diagnosis and medication, I was back to normal in a short time, but for a while I lost my confidence, my sense of security. Was it expressed and addressed? Nope.

Yes. We accumulate losses without knowing it and our inventories continue to add on more items when we’re not looking.

I am learning to look at and validate all my losses. I am learning to be complete with them.  As Christmas is approaching, I am aware that that empty chair at my dinner table will hurt. But I am grateful that Saagar once sat there. I am already grateful for all those who will be in their chairs that day. I am also determined to make them feel special and wonderful, loved and cherished, like I would Saagar, if he were here.

PS: In Jan/Feb 2019 I hope to start a series of 8 weekly Grief Recovery workshops, 2 hours each. Up to 9 participants can be accommodated. It will most likely be on Tuesday evenings in South London. If you think you would like to work with me and take small actions towards healing, please do let me know. Thank you.

How did I get here?

Posted by

1

17John W James was a young man in America who had his heart broken by the death of his son in 1977. He found that there was no help available for his heart. He was mostly asked to process the pain through his brain. This did not work for him. His pain continued to worsen and invade other parts of his life, such as his marriage and his work. At one point his suffering and isolation was so great that he couldn’t bear to continue living. He was on the brink of ending his life when he asked himself, “How did I get here?”

He sat down and took a closer look at his life. He found many losses in his past that had been claiming parts of his soul like land-mines along the way. For example, friends lost in the Vietnam war.  He had never addressed or resolved any of his previous painful experiences and they had been layering up, one on top of the other, on top of him, to the point he was being smothered by them. He unpicked each of these layers one by one. He dealt with every one of them in a particular way. He found a method by which he could reach his heart and reduce his pain. Slowly, he started to feel much better. He shared this method with other grieving families and it helped them too. He called it “Grief Recovery Method”.

This afternoon I completed my Grief Recovery Method workshops and I can see why they have helped thousands of people across the globe over the last 30 years.

PS: E-book request form : https://www.griefrecoverymethod.co.uk/ebookrequestform/

Hope

Posted by

0

The concert had just finished and the hall was semi-lit. A dance recital entitled ‘Hope’ had coaxed everyone’s feelings up from deep within to just under the surface, like fish in an aquarium hovering at the top for specks of food. The main supporter of the show was the Patel family who had recently lost one of its eminent members. He was survived by his young wife and three kids. The soft thuds of seats folding up, the hiss of people whispering in gentle tones and trudging in small steps towards the exit filled the warm air.

I approached the 17 years old Patel boy, one of the sons. He appeared shrunken. Contracted, like an empty plastic water bottle, after a flight.

“How’re you doing?”
‘Not bad. Thanks’ he stated, unconvinced, looking downwards and sideways.
“Did you enjoy that?”
‘Yes. T’was nice.’ Still expressionless.
“How’s mum doing?”
‘We went for a safari to Kenya. That was good’ he looked up a little.
“I am sorry for your loss. I hope you’re taking good care of yourself.”
‘Yes. Thanks’. Mortified.
“Can I give you a hug?”

It was like hugging a coat stand.

Resources:

1. Child Bereavement UK: https://childbereavementuk.org/for-families/support-for-bereaved-children/
2. Winston’s wish (Charity to help young ones cope with grief): https://www.winstonswish.org/
3. Cruse: https://www.cruse.org.uk/children/how-to-help

Day 903

Posted by

2

320px-Almeida_Júnior_-_Saudade_(Longing)_-_Google_Art_Project

2 days since we landed in Portugal and 2 days of feeling like I’ve been hit by a tonne of bricks. Great weather, lovely company, fabulous food and still this strange feeling of heaviness. Maybe it has something to do with the lunar cycle. May be it’s the accumulated tiredness of the past few months finding an outlet. Unsure of what to make of it, I speak to my friend about it and she tells me about ‘saudade’. It’s the Portuguese name for an emotion that lives in this land, its people, music and culture.

It is a wistful longing, drenched in sorrow, for something that can never be had again. It is nostalgia, but melancholic. It is longing, but knowing it cannot be. A type of self-delusion. So, “saudade” is a feeling of lost connection with the most important feeling or thing you ever had, a desire for something that you lost – a country, a grandmother, youth, a son, a lover.

In English, it means ‘to miss’. It is a verb.
In Portuguese, it is a thing. A noun. Saudade.

 

Day 898

Posted by

0

A blank page and me. A bit scary. Not sure what happens next. No distractions of a laptop, a dictionary, a thesaurus, e-mails or facebook messages. Just me and the unruled paper. Both blank.

The click and clap of the cat-flap sounds like a bold red brushstroke on a bleak soundscape. The whirring of the fridge makes for a somber background of magnolia. The crunchy munching of cat food forms clusters of bright yellow daffodils scattered about. The distant low-pitched monotone of an aircraft marks the horizon, half land, half sky. Wonder what the pilot sees and hears at this moment. I look for the word count at the bottom of the page but all there is, is a corner. 

The sweet sound of a smile drips into my ears from the eyes of a black and white picture on the shelf. It’s twinkling and naughty. It’s the life of the canvas. Like a patch of elegant and shy blood red tulips, gently dancing in the wind. Thus I navigate the map of my silence.

“Out of such abysses, from such severe sickness one returns newborn, having shed one’s skin, more ticklish and malicious, with a more delicate taste for joy, with a more tender tongue for all good things, with merrier senses, with a second dangerous innocence in joy, more childhood and yet a hundred times subtler than one has ever seen before.” — Friedrich Nietzsche

Day 663

Posted by

0

It travelled everywhere with me. 
I spent countless hours with it. It was always there for me when I needed it. 

It helped me do my research. It helped me reach out to friends and strangers. It kept me connected with the world when I thought I wanted to be alone. It gently encouraged my creativity and provided me with the required inspiration. It allowed me to express myself and soaked up a lot of my sorrow and angst. 

It lovingly kept all Saagar’s pictures, documents and memories.It entertained me with music and films when I needed a break. It made me laugh and it made me cry. It patiently stored all my pending projects till I came back to them after long gaps. Over time I came to rely heavily on it. The thought that it was destructible crossed my mind a few times but I shoved it aside very very quickly.

Today’s date has been in my mind for the last 3 months as it is the deadline for a 5000 word article I have been working on. I woke up this morning, really excited about sending it in, got myself a cup of tea and started putting some finishing touches on it. The phone went and something had me completely distracted. I found myself trying to open a door, carrying the laptop in one hand a cup of tea in another and before I knew it, the laptop was lying open on the floor with droplets of black tea all over the key board. I did my best to get it dried out asap but first the cursor disappeared and then the screen went dead. 
It’s gone. For now anyway, it’s gone. 
I’ve missed it all day. The deadline has been extended by 1 week but without my laptop I am truly unsure of how I will get anything done. It was more a friend to me than I thought.