Smells like home

We were posing for pictures in front of Devi Saraswati’s idol at my local Saraswati pujo. My friend leaned towards me and took a deep breath, “Di, did you wear this saree for the first time since you bought it?” I said, “Yes, how did you know? Does it have a new saree smell?” She replied, “No, it smells of Kolkata. It smells of home.”

I remembered this conversation as I brought up and hung my summer clothes today. I wore them all last summer – my kurtis, my salwars, and washed them too. Yet, as I lovingly stroked them and yes, smelled them, I got a whiff of home and of my parents’ love. Baba bought many of those for me. I have written before that he loved going to Dakkhinapan and buying clothes for me, Sean, Sahana, and Ryan. My parents never agreed on anything except the excellent qualities of their grandchildren and baba’s eye for good clothes. Ma grudgingly agreed his choices were good and he could be trusted to buy salwars and sarees. Many of my summer clothes are infused with their love and today I realized that once they tear or get damaged, I will lose that connection. But we won’t get into that yet. The fact is, the clothes are still lovely and I still wear them and remain wrapped in love.

I recently saw a meme that says something about not feeling the need to text when one lands since someone was tracking their flight the entire time. That is love. And that was my baba. I texted them when I boarded my plane from USA. And he sat on his computer tracking my 24 hour journey home. He would shout out often to ma and Gouri that “they are almost to Dubai, 3 more hours”, or “Sumitra, get ready to go to the airport, their plane will be landing in an hour.” They went to the airport way early, hung out, had very sweet, overpriced coffee, and looked up at every traveler coming out from immigration hoping it would be me and the kids.

Baba was a doer. I can’t say I had the closest relationship with him. He worked from dawn till night, had only a day off, when he ate and slept. I cannot imagine a man having any energy left to do anything other than rest. He worked 6 days a week but still couldn’t make enough money to make ends meet. My primary parent was my mother and understandably I was closer to her. As I grew up though, got married, moved far away, and baba retired, I realized that he was a brilliant manager and organizer. He became the manager of the apartment building that they moved into, he organized lavish birthday parties for Sahana every time we went back to India. He made sure everything worked like clockwork when we visited. I remember when all the work was done so that we had everything we needed, he would give a satisfied grunt and call out for a cup of tea. Next morning, he would wake up and ask me, “Aaj ki mach khabi?” (what kind of fish would you eat today?) And like a spoiled brat I would speak my desire, and that wish would be fulfilled. My love language is feeding people. I inherited that from him.

He also found family in strangers and animals. He created this beautiful network of people through social media. They became like family. Some of them tried their best to help me during my time of need when I was desperately trying to keep baba alive. He fed all the animals in our neighborhood, paid to spay and neuter them, grieved when one died.

I find myself often cooking the food that baba liked – lot of postobata, shorshe r jhal. Typical Bengali dishes. He did not enjoy biriyanis or other fancy dishes. Give him Bengali food and he was happy. I learned, late in life, to cook those things.

I went for a walk this morning to a small park with a lovely pond. There is a gazebo where one can sit and look at the water, the birds, the greenery. I could visualize baba sitting there, soaking in the beauty of nature, soaking in the quiet. Born and brought up in Kolkata, the man loved and hunkered for nature. When he visited us in the US, he spent hours sitting in our back deck, looking out into the green, watching the deer who sauntered in, the squirrels, rabbits, and birds. He always said, “I wish I could take this backyard to Kolkata. “

This blog is a stream of consciousness on the day I lost him four years ago. He did not go gently into the night. He fought a good fight. But finally, Covid, and failure of infrastructure won.

Blue eyeliner

Yes, applying a blue eyeliner took me to the depths of sorrow. Don’t be fooled by the innocuous title of the blog. This blog is sad and if you stop reading it, I completely understand.

Grief surfaces unexpectedly. One may be doing the most mundane chore, in this instance applying eye liner, and it hits one from nowhere. I was smiling about what ma would make of me now – this woman who applies blue eyeliner nowadays. The non fashionista daughter of a woman who loved to dress up. My ma had such a joyful energy in her youth. Her zest for life, her laughter, her desire to dress in bright sarees and bold lipsticks. But we didn’t have money so she had to improvise often.

And then I remembered what she used to say in jest about her own funeral. “When I die, make sure I have the best make up on, the best saree on. I want to go in style.” I used to say, “Yeah, yeah, you are not going anywhere.” Death was an abstract idea then. Death comes to all, sure. But not to my ma. What kind of world would it be without her. That world was outside the realm of possibility. A fantasy world. Covid made it real though. The complete failure of infrastructure in India made it real.

I was thinking about her desire to dress in her finest when she went on her last journey. Not only did she not get her wish, in reality, I didn’t even know which crematorium the hospital took her after her death. She died but baba was still alive. I did not even have time to properly grieve her because I was trying to arrange oxygen cylinders to keep baba breathing. Her last journey was not marked with honor or ritual or best saree and make up. She was a number, a statistic among all the other dead bodies that were piling up four years ago in Kolkata and all over India (and world). I was far away. But even those who were in the city could not say goodbye to their loved ones. Their mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, wives, husbands, children – all became mere statistics in death count.

Culturally I am Hindu. Hinduism talks about reincarnation. But it is hard for me to think I will never see my ma and baba again. That they will be born in different lives where they will not know me. I don’t think of my own mortality with any fear because I like to think they are waiting for me in a different realm. Once I cross over, we will be reunited.

I saw a beautiful sunset today. And some young buds which are ready to bloom. I always think the sunsets are more vibrant because they have ma and baba’s indestructible energy. The buds hold the promise of breathtaking beauty because my parents spread their essence in them. The peony that my friend gifted me after they died four years ago has come back to life this spring. I take comfort in the idea of renewal. But I hope they are waiting for me. One day my energy will meet theirs.

Skunk days

I read somewhere that aging is not the issue, it’s side effects are. One of the side effects of aging is losing vibrancy (at least for me). The edges that were sharp become somewhat blunt and lines that were prominent become blurry – like the jawline. As my face becomes invisible each day, I turn to kajol to accentuate my eyes and lipstick to color my lips and fight a losing battle against fading. Why? Because I like to look at my kohl lined eyes and dark lips in the mirror when I get ready for work.

This poses a problem for me in the month of May. T.S Eliot picked on the month of April and reviled it as being the cruelest month. I disagree, sir. May is the cruelest month. It turned my world upside down and left me changed forever. As the month of May approaches, I find a tightness in my heart and brace for intense hurt. Ma died on May 9th, 2021 and baba followed her 10 days later. After 3 years, I have come to accept the deaths, but the trauma of Covid, helplessness, not being there, imagining their fear still keep me up some nights. All those traumatizing moments come back at odd times causing skunk days. What is that you ask? When the tears flow freely as I drive to work and I have to hastily clean up my kajol before I enter the library, when a simple word brings forth tears that I furiously blink away, when I often take deep breaths and gulp down the hurt and show a face which says, ‘nothing to see here. Just another usual day, folks.’

In the month of May, I am hyper aware of black streaks that threaten to run down my face (or blue streaks since I am in love with my blue eyeliner that matches with my blue frame) and I have my skunk days. May 9th was a skunk day, May 19th, most likely will be another skunk day with semi skunk days in between.

Why did I write this blog? Not to garner sympathy. I am in a better place – a place of acceptance and living my life to the best of my ability. But I wrote this blog because I know there are millions of you out there who lost your loved ones to Covid or to sickness or accident. I know we will continue to have these days when the tightness in our hearts will make it difficult to breathe sometimes, when well meaning folks around us will not be able to comprehend the depth of our pain because grieving is a solitary act, but we will breathe, and smile, and get through till the tightness eases and our sounds of laughter rings true again.

A day of deep breaths and blinking away tears

I woke up with a soft kiss on my cheeks as Sean said goodbye before he headed to the airport. I tried my best to fall asleep but sleep eluded me. I was dreading the day. It is ironical that I dread March 2nd since it was a day of excitement and happiness in my life for many years. It is baba’s birthday.

Today was a day of deep breaths and a lot of blinking. As I drove to the gym, I felt my chest constrict with pain. I tried to breathe in, hold it and exhale slowly. No matter how much I tried to focus on the happy memories, all I could think about was the last few days of his struggle and my utter helplessness.

A few friends still remembered him. They wrote on his Facebook page. Khushi wrote too. She said she missed him so much. She hopes both of them are blessing her from heaven. I also read a passage from A.A Milne’s Winnie the Pooh where Pooh is having a very Difficult day and Piglet asks him if he wants to talk about it. Pooh doesn’t want to talk. So Piglet just sits with him. When someone is having a very Difficult day, it is wonderful to just sit with them. Perhaps that is what friendship is all about. I needed a Piglet.

I had a very Difficult day but I went about my life – gym, work, dinner, without Piglet. I got through it. Today brought back glimpses of the very painful place I was in. I am certainly getting out of it and I am sure tomorrow will be better and as years go by birthdays will hurt less. Grief is like the waves – it ebbs and flows.

Do I want them or not?

As I did a puja for my parents after their death, the priest explained that I am releasing them from the worries of this world. As a daughter, I am telling their soul that their watch (over me) has ended, the priest explained. Go in peace, I told them as their souls supposedly merged with water. We come from water and we become one with water when the soul leaves the vessel, our body. Whether that is true or not I don’t know but the idea is beautiful. After a lifetime of watching over me, they were released from the responsibility. It will be 2 years in May. I truly spend my every morning with them before I begin my day. When they were alive, my day began with either a message with them or a phone call. A quick message or a quick phone call, but some connection nonetheless. Even today, my days begin with a connection with them. A silent communication or remembrance but a connection nonetheless.

People say they will always watch over you. Or they are blessing you and loving you from far. While I want their blessing and love throughout my lifetime, I don’t want them watching over me. I want them to be free of me. I don’t want them to witness my grief. I don’t want them to see the hollowness or the eyes that remain sad no matter how much I try. Parents don’t live forever, that is the absolute truth. No one lives for ever. More than the deaths, it was the cruelty of it. It was how they went. I could not be there. I did not even know where their bodies were taken to be cremated. They did not receive the last rites. They, along with thousand other Covid patients in India, were deprived of the honor that the dead receive. I am devastated about their death and I am devasted how it happened. The question ‘why’ that I often ask the universe is not necessarily why they died. We will all die. The ‘why’ is more for the way they were taken, without the comfort of them knowing I was with them.

Anyway, I digress. I was saying that I don’t want them watching over me because they should be free now. But when their grandkids achieve something, my first thought is how proud they would have been. I hope, then, that they are watching and beaming like they used to. Sahana graduated from college right after their death. Ryan learnt to drive, Sahana got jobs, she bought a car, Ryan became captain, he got into college. After each achievement I said to them, “Are you watching? Do you see that your grandkids are growing up? Since they were born, you two lived for them. You cherished each phone call, each laughter, each joke. When they came to visit, you bought all the toys from the toy store and all the books from the book store. Do you see how they are growing up and becoming decent human beings? You would have been proud of them. You would pick up the phone and announce to the entire extended family in Kolkata how great your two grandkids are. You would tell your friends and post on your social media. You would shout from the rooftop.”

I don’t want them to be witnesses of my sorrow. I want them to be free from that. I do, however, want them watching their grandchildren as they grow. I don’t want them to miss out on this joy. I feel like they missed out being part of the lives of their most loved people. So I am in two minds – do I want their watch to end or do I want them to watch over us?

An accidental sunrise

The most important part of my morning ritual is sitting quietly in front of the photos of my parents with my cup of coffee and staring at their smiling faces. The world around me is quiet, fast asleep. The only sound that I hear is of the heating unit pumping blessed heat in our house on cold, winter mornings. I do this every day, without fail.

Today, as I got up to put my coffee cup away after my morning ritual with my parents, I happened to glance out of the window. I caught the sun rise, accidentally. Everyday, I wake up early and look inward instead of outside. And while I introspect and look back at memories or wipe away tears or question ‘why’ again and again, the sun rises with resplendent glory. I guess, this is nature’s way of balancing sadness with beauty. I will, perhaps, incorporate looking outwards in my morning ritual. After all, life is about balance.

It is my ma’s birthday.

I thought I would go to the local Kali temple after work to celebrate ma’s birthday. After their death, I did a ‘shanti pujo’ at the temple. I remember experiencing a fleeting sense of peace as the priest explained the path of the soul and me freeing them by saying, “Go in peace. Rest now. You don’t have to take care of me any more.”

I felt peaceful then but ma would have laughed out loud if I suggested a trip to a temple to celebrate her birthday. I simply can not wish this woman “Happy heavenly birthday, ma”. She did not believe in heaven. And if heaven exists, she certainly did not aspire to go there. She was a trouble maker, rabble rouser, a materialistic woman who had a loud laughter and lit up the room with her presence. She teased and laughed and loved despite many, many years of struggle that she had to go through. She was flawed, she was kind and she was my idol. She refused to fit into a mold. She loved me deeply and gave up a lot in life to provide me with the best opportunities that could possibly be provided. She wanted to give, always. She was a giver. My friends from both school and college came home and promptly went to chat with ‘kakima’ because despite all the hardships, ma had joie de vivre that appealed to both young and old.

On this day, every year, a boyal mach er lyaja (a fish) came to our house for her. If you are reading this, if you live in a place where you get boyal mach and if you like that fish, eat a piece in her honor. I don’t get that fish here. Sahana and I plan to hit the mall, watch a movie, eat Chinese food and celebrate her life-long love. The tradition of watching movie with moms continue, as Sahana pointed out to me this morning. I left my friends and adda to go to movie with ma. My friends joked, “Who goes to movies with their moms at this age?” I laughed and said, “I do.”

It is my ma’s birthday. This was a happy day in my life. I will try very hard to remember that this used to be a very happy day in my life.

Sunshiny today

Every morning after I wake up I sit in my reading chair and take a few moments to look at the smiling pictures of both my parents on our coffee table. When they were alive I reached for my phone as soon as my eyes opened. There would be a message from ma in whatsapp. Most of the days the message asked “ki korchish?” (What are you doing?) The woman never really got the time difference right 😀. I would obviously be sleeping during her waking hours. My response would be “ei uthlam.” (just woke up). Most days I would call later to have a longer conversation but some days, that was our only exchange. But we connected everyday. I snooped on baba’s activity on Facebook and when I saw he was active and posting something funny every hour, I would breathe easy – he was well.

These days my whatsapp messenger remains silent. So I commune for a few minutes everyday with them in the morning. At a certain time, the sun hits their smiling faces just right and both of them light up in front of my eyes. I watch the transformation happen. In a strange way, it makes me happy. I took a picture of sunlit ma today. Sometimes this feeling is all I need to carry in my heart to get me through the day.

Grief inequity

It is traumatic to lose a loved one. I don’t even know a strong enough word to evoke the sentiment that one feels when one loses two loved ones within a span of 9 days. It has been over a year that this happened to me and the surge of grief is more of a simmer than a boil. However, certain words, emotions, events often bring the emotion to a boiling point even now. My colleague recently died. The day I heard that I could not stop this overwhelming sense of despair engulfing me. My gentle coworker and I had many conversations over the course of ten years that we worked together, most of which featured the topic of caring for our parents. When I heard the news that she passed away, I was crying for her and I was crying for my own loss. I simply could not control my tears and the deep feeling of heart wrenching sadness.

I play a game with my grief sometimes. That sounds morbid and perhaps game is not the right word for what goes on in my mind either. There are days when I miss my mother too much. I miss her so much that I can not bear the fact that she is gone forever. Then I think in my mind “Oh no, baba would feel left out. I am not missing him enough. That is not right. I need to miss them equally.” I start thinking of his memories. On other days, some words or smell or the beauty of nature bring baba’s smile to my mind. My memories become awash with his words, actions, sense of humor. And suddenly I think, “Yikes, ma would be upset that I am not missing her right now with the same intensity.” I start thinking of her. I don’t allow myself this inequality in grieving.

I scold myself for this silliness, laugh at myself too. They don’t care what goes on in my mind. They are beyond caring.

Stain

I thought I had done thorough examination of ma’s sarees before I chose a few to take to the tailor. I wanted them to be made into dresses and kurtis which I primarily wear during the summer months in US. When I went back home for the first time after ma and baba’s death, I had to deal with banks and fixed deposits, lockers and house deed. One of the tasks, however, was to clear their closets. As I brought out their possessions and stroked them lovingly, both Sahana and I teared up often. Their belongings apart from their clothes, included my entire childhood – pictures of baby me, my report cards since kindergarten, award certificates, all the letters I wrote to them from US. I brought back those memories along with some of ma’s sarees, some of her kurtas, some salwars, some of her costume jewelry. I brought back baba’s sweater, his shawls, some of his kurtas for Sean and Ryan.

A few of ma’s sarees, specially the white ones, had stains on them. Sahana and I laughed and shook our heads as we discovered stains on otherwise gorgeous sarees. She chewed betel leaf and those stained her outfits. Some of the sarees, however, were pristine. I chose those for the tailor to transform them into outfits I will mostly wear in this country. And as I wear them now, the analogy of soul leaving the vessel of a body and being transformed into a new form doesnot escape me. Old sarees finding new forms.

This morning I opened a black and white kurta which was made from one of her sarees and discovered faint stains of turmeric perhaps on the shoulder area. This one should not have passed inspection, but it did. I smiled at it though. Ma became more real because of those stains. I visualized her at the moment when unaware of the turmeric on her hand, she must have wiped it on the saree. She was at some event perhaps, she was perhaps laughing with someone. She was alive. Maybe she saw the stain and exclaimed that the saree was spoiled now. But she washed it, pressed it and saved it in her closet. Perhaps this was a favorite saree and now it is with me. I am wearing it.

I have been wearing her clothes these days. Her jewelry too. I wrap baba’s shawl around me when I am cold. I feel them near me. These touched them and they are now touching me. In my search for benevolence, these feature.

In a few weeks, it will be a year since they both died 9 days apart. These days, I wake up in the mornings and relive those last horrendous days till I have to mindfully remove the memories from my head. I try to distract myself by dressing up, putting make up, posting dolled up photos on social media yet at this time grief orbits very close to my heart, restricting breath, songs, joy.