Grief. A silent visitor that arrives uninvited. It comes unannounced, unbidden, and yet, with a weight that can feel almost palpable. Its arrival is marked not by a grand entrance but by the absence it creates, a void that echoes with memories, yearnings, and the ache of loss. It's like walking through a fog, where everything is blurry except the pain. But even in this fog, there's a glimmer of what was good, memories that twinkle like stars in the dark. Little did I know, I would be visited by grief.
In my childhood home, there were six of us: my father, mother, brother, dadi (grandma), and baba (grandpa). My parents, navigating the early stages of their careers in the demanding field of healthcare, were driven by the need to meet high expectations and establish themselves. During my parents' working hours, it was my baba and dadi who looked after my brother and me. Following my baba's shifts in security, I distinctly recall the warmth of his gesture as he brought us our favorite fast food with our favorite candies. However, not long after, my grandparents made the bittersweet journey back to India in 2020. The last words I spoke to them were: "We'll come to visit soon. Take care, and know that I love you."
We had only visited India a couple of times before they left, the last visit being in 2019. However, after that trip, my parents working in healthcare faced an overwhelming and hectic period due to the onset of COVID-19. Our initial plan was to visit every two years, but the demands of their work made it challenging to align schedules, resulting in failed plans.
In the last year, there was a day when my father sat me down and told me that my baba was very sick. The news didn't immediately affect me. I thought, "He's incredibly strong; he'll come back from this," because my baba always took such great care of me. Some days revealed glimpses of hope, where he seemed relatively well, but other days during our FaceTime calls, his deteriorating health became starkly apparent. His physical condition declined steadily, reaching a point where even basic mobility became a challenge, leading to the necessity of spine surgery. Despite his incredible resilience and enduring fight, his body eventually succumbed to the prolonged battle. December 14, 2023.
My father hesitated to break the news for a couple of days, as he was reluctant to disrupt my focus during finals week. However, I felt that something was off because I noticed we had been calling my baba less and less. On the last day of finals, I had a flight that night with my mother and brother to meet my family in Texas before the holidays. We arrived at our Airbnb for the trip and were greeted by our family. After playing games with my uncles and aunts, my mom told me that she had news to share and she said it was important. As I took a seat, her solemn expression made me uneasy, and I braced myself to hear what she had to share.
“Your baba passed away.”
My mind froze for a moment as I struggled to comprehend her words. In a matter of seconds, tears welled up, and I found myself breaking down in front of my family. My heart shattered and my world suddenly dimmed. I felt sick to my stomach. The shock was overwhelming; I hadn't anticipated hearing those words so soon, and I wasn’t ready. I would never have been ready. The remainder of the trip felt like a haze—I was physically present but emotionally distant, lost in a world of my own. Days were spent immersed in a reel of childhood memories, each moment with my baba playing on a loop in my mind.
I spent the rest of my break in India with my father and brother. In my religion, when someone passes away, we hold a cremation ceremony with days of prayer. Before that, there's a day designated for us to bid our final farewells. We all gathered outside, waiting for my baba's body to arrive. When it finally did, I couldn't contain my emotions and broke down more. The enormity of losing him was too overwhelming to comprehend, I struggled to even catch my breath. While everyone paid their respects, I sat by his side. Whenever someone lifted the covers to see his face, I made sure it was placed back properly—it was my way of providing a sense of protection, even in that somber moment. On the day of the cremation, I accompanied my father and brother to the temple where my baba was to be. Traditionally, women in our family aren't present directly at the site; they're meant to return home upon hearing a warcry. But I couldn't bring myself to leave. I stayed behind until everyone, except my father and brother, left. I couldn’t be there for him during his illness; I needed to be there then.
As I made my way back to the gurdwara, where prayers were being held, the women of my family greeted me with hugs, their tears mirroring my grief. They called me brave for staying, but to me, it felt like the only thing I could do to honor him. My dadi, my baba's wife, shared with me the haunting yet comforting words: in his final moments, he expressed a wish for his grandchildren to be by his side. “ਉਸ ਨੇ ਸਿ ਰਫ਼ ਤੁਹਾਡੇਲਈ ਹੀ ਪੱੁਛਿ ਆ” or “Usane siraf tuhade lai hi puchia”, translate to, “He only asked for you.” I will never forget those words.
Grief, especially during the holidays, felt like living two lives. One life where you pretend everything is okay and are surrounded by other’s joy and festivities. The other life where your heart misses what once was. I lost my baba, and right before, I lost my uncle, two deaths in less than one month. Amidst this pain, I've realized that grief and love are intertwined—they coexist, two sides of the same coin. These recent weeks have reshaped my outlook on life. I’ve learned to treasure every moment and to cherish time with loved ones because we never know what will happen at any second. Ultimately, time takes no time to change.
The day you died, it felt like my smile eternally dimmed. I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there to hold your hand in your last moments. I will make sure to make you a part of my story in every step I take. I will have conversations with you in my dreams after looking at you through the nature and beauty of the world.
Till we meet again, baba.
No comments:
Post a Comment