The Delayed Acceptance of Loss
Staying away from family, for work, in a foreign land, I have accepted that I am going to miss out on a few things: listening to the familiar radio stations playing familiar songs while I get ready every morning, hanging out with college and school friends at our often-frequented cafe’s, evening walks with my mother, full with rants and gossip; losing myself in my sister’s hugs, laughing at my dad’s jokes and hi5-ing, seeing my parents age and simply, just being a part of life at home (this is a tricky word with a shifting definition) and all that comes with it.
On October 27th 2018, when I left from Jersey City to visit my folks in Pune, India for a short 2 weeks to prepare for my wedding, shopping, planning etc., I was beaming with excitement and looking forward to celebrating Diwali with my family after 4 years! I hopped onto the flight and 16 hours later, I was at the Mumbai airport, hugging my mother and my fiance`. It was only after I sat in the car (to commute to Pune from Mumbai) was I told by my mother that my granddad was at a nursing home, on oxygen support and in a very serious condition.
Only 3 months ago, my grandma had passed away and my grandad had taken a hard hit after her death. My granddad had also been suffering from Parkinson’s disease for a while and his mental functions were failing him. I was pained to hear about my granddad’s situation and few hours after we reached Pune, I rushed to meet him at the nursing home, where he lay on a bed, wrinkled, his legs curled, his face unrecognizable from the radiant man I had seen 10 months ago, at my sister’s wedding. I had not seen his transition to this state, since I had been in the US, though I was getting updates from my mother about his state all the while.
It came as a rude shock to me, to see him laying on the tiny bed and not even filling the bed completely, his mouth a little open, gasping for breath, even while being on oxygen support, being fed through IV bags. His eyes were glassy and I could understand that he could not see clearly anymore. I went near him, told him that I had flown in from the US and I was in front of him, speaking to him, holding his hand and smiling. He responded after three calls from me, with a faint smile (or so I wanted to think) and raised his eyebrows. I continued speaking to him and helped him with a glass of water, pouring droplets into his mouth as I saw his weak gulps take it down. I cried after I saw him make a desperate effort to mouth my name, all the while still trying to gasp for breath.
Few hours from then, I lost my grandfather. I was fortunate to have met him and said goodbye before he joined my grandma in heaven. I am only able to accept his death now, as I write this, wiping my tears. I was not able to accept the fact that he is no more, not for the last 2 weeks while I was India; maybe I was being strong around my folks, maybe I was trying to move on. But now, tears are streaming down like never before and I am finally able to accept his death.
When I lost my grandfather, I also lost my grandmother. I had not been there when she passed away in India, 3 months ago. I had to somehow stomach the ugly truth that she is gone, 6000 miles away from where she was cremated. Witnessing my grandfather’s cremation and witnessing the immersion of his last remains into the sangam or confluence of three pious rivers, near Alandi, India, gave me closure on the loss of both my grandparents.
Death of my grandfather reminded me of the transient nature of life. My grandad was a beautiful person, an accomplished poet and writer and a compassionate human being. I foolishly assumed he would always be there when I visited India every year. Years passed by and now he is no more. His death made me realize that life is precarious and that there’s nothing more important than the people that we live for.
My grandfather, Govind Kelkar, had a tremendous zeal for life. He used to compose beautiful devotional songs, heart-felt poems and write-ups. I remember, he used to contact various Diwali ank’s, Diwali-special magazines, published in Marathi language, and send them his poems, to publish. Diwali will be incomplete now, without his enthusiasm. He used to self-publish a lot of his work and happily distribute copies of his poetry compilations to family and friends. I have decided to learn to be as enthusiastic about every day of life as he was, to savor every day, to celebrate myself like he celebrated himself and his life everyday.
Thanks, Abu, for living a beautiful life and for teaching us by example, how to celebrate your own being and shine your brightest for yourself and for everyone else around you. Your numerous funny stories, the depth of your poetry and your compassion for the human life will live on.
Love you always.
