I believe in life after death.
I believe that we come here to do what we are meant to do - what we need to do- for ourselves. I also believe that death, therefore, is the beginning of yet another journey and not the traumatic event we make it to be. Yet even before I questioned & discovered these truths of life, I couldn't cry when someone died. For me, it took an effort.
I'm not heartless. I did cry when my grandma died- but it came later- much much later. Alone I sat in my grief for days at end, filled with doubt- Did I accidentally wish for it? Did I not pray to let her go in peace? She might have recovered...
The dam broke ten days after she died- with my head in my mother's lap- sobbing my guts out, both of us clutching to each other like a lifeline. And when that raw emotion had subsided and what remained in its place was a dull throbbing ache, I realized I didn't know my grandma at all. All I remember is her love and her bhajans and her passion for the ever so grieving soap operas on the telly. And that smile.
That silly little toothless grin that she'd give every time she'd spot me and her Alzheimer's riddled mind would convince her that its her youngest daughter she was talking to - not her grand daughter. I honestly did not think I loved her that much. Our relationship wasn't anything special. Initially, I was too young to care and by the time I grew up, her illness had consumed her. She had five daughters and thirteen grandkids. But she was my only grandma and you know what? I miss her. I miss having her around and for a while I could barely enter that room without thinking of her. I wish I could have known her better but I know that I shall- in another time, in another place.
And today, having lost the man who was the closest to a grandfather I can remember, I still can't bring myself to cry. All around me are grieving relatives- his children, my parents, his sisters and wife. And all I feel is this strange numbness and a sense- that it's all OK. That it is natural.
But nothing- no spiritual insights- absolutely nothing, prepares you for the moment when you realize that the person who was probably a phone call away is no longer there. That you can't reach out and touch them. Embrace them in a crushing hug, or plant a peck on their cheeks.
A part of my mind screams he is still around despite the lack of physical presence but it's hard to take in when he is right there in front of me- lifeless on the ground.
And I feel it- yet again- a sense of loss. For the person, yes, but more so for the missed opportunity- Knowing Him.
Where did time fly? And what was I doing that was so important? When was the last time I let my dad start out with "Humaare zamaane mein toh..."? And why does it not happen anymore? Where did all the stories go?
But you know, the stories are still there. As are the people. All the picture needs- is ME.
And its time to listen.
