“And you’ll find everything that reminds you of me, but you won’t find me.”

Have you ever lingered on the silence of a fading breath? Have you ever woken up the next day to find out that someone you’ve cherished with all your life is nothing more but a corpse? See, when someone you love passes, you go through different emotional stages.

 

i. The Depth of Grief

Someone once said, “grief is the worst kind of pain you will ever know. First you chase shadows. But when the light comes, it leaves you bare.”

On the day HE died, heavens broke loose. The storm unleashed its fury, thunderclaps shook the air, rain pounded against the earth. It was past twelve in the night but I couldn’t fall asleep. That was unusual. Thoughts flooded my head as I laid on my back, staring blankly at the ceiling. And then a call came through, it was my mother, and for some weird reason, my chest tightened before I picked up the call. But when I eventually did, her words sliced through me like a knife. I hung up.

The air splitting crashes of the storm made it hard for me to think, to digest the whole situation. I was stunned. How dare he die now? And was he not just fifty-one years old, was he not recently discharged from the hospital?

It’s not that I thought he would never die, but a handsome, hardworking, agile man like him? I cannot recall knowing any human being who walked and talked as gracefully as my father. And now I’d lost him. I tried hard to think otherwise, (maybe there was still a flicker of life in him) but NO. My mother’s haunted voice said it all. Nobody could ever crack a joke about my father’s death.

I got out of my bed but my knees gave away, tears streamed down my face like autumn rain, my body trembled uncontrollably, as my heart struggled to break out of my rib cage. I needed to be with my father at that moment, but I was stuck in the hostel. I became completely overcome with emotion. No, my Baba couldn’t possibly be dead. It was all a nightmare I was going to wake up from, the next day.

“Grief is the price we pay for love” – Queen Elizabeth

 

ii. The Nightmare

A week before HE died, I had a strange dream. My mother had died in the dream. I couldn’t tell her. So, I called and told him about it. He got quiet, I thought he was going to advise me, until he spoke up, “I am the one you had seen dying, not your mother.” I giggled and he had hung up. I should’ve known, I should’ve tried to figure out that my father was a walking corpse. Yes, he was delusional and always liked to talk about death (an obsession) but I never saw that coming.

I had woken up and realized that my father was gone. I would never get to stare at his kind eyes again. I would never get to hear him crack jokes, or advise me again. Never. And since the day he passed away, I’ve been having constant nightmares.

 

iii. The Fear

Before his burial, the deceased’s family members were allowed to hug him for the final time. I didn’t want to do it but my mother urged me to. I saw his beautiful face; even at death, Baba looked fresh and graceful. He looked so alive and I was afraid to hug him, it. But I eventually did, and it was a horrible experience. It was just as if… as if he would come alive and hug me back.

A lot of people came for the funeral, some came to say their condolences, some brought gifts and money with them. Nobody talked ill of Baba, nobody would. He was a good man, a philanthropist in our little community. He would always tell me that, “you do not need to amass wealth before doing charity and acts of service. It’s in the little things. Even a smile is an act of charity.” The little things. An orphanage, a public borehole, an NGO he founded for supplying free writing materials to schools in rural areas. And now, he’d not just left myself and my mother behind, but a larger family.

I became more prayerful after his death. I fasted every Monday and Thursday. I stopped listening to music for some reason. I called to check up on my mother every day, she had become very hollow and empty without his presence in her life, I know she misses him more than I do. She had become a widow. My mother, the orphans and the foundation are all I have now to remind me of him.

That is what the fear of death could do to you. I began to fear the uncertainty of this life and how death can take away the people you love the most and you, yourself. I can’t afford to lose her now; it would wreck me.

 

iv. Guilt Trip

I break down into pieces of glass every single time I think of my late father. And there are things I wish I had done differently. There are feelings of anger, resentment, regret and self-loathing. Sometimes, I’m filled with resentment when I remember the days I had wronged Baba; when I’d walk out on him, talk back to him or hang up on him when he was scolding me. Or on the days I’d deliberately not pick up his calls or reply to his long messages, the days I was being an ingrate. Worst were the days I’d complain to my friend that he wasn’t a good father because I thought he loved the kids at his orphanage more than I, but I was wrong. I know important things now.

My father is forever gone and I can only linger on the beautiful memories I’ve shared with him. The little things. The long drives, the outings, the letters he wrote for me, the advices, the constant “I love you and I’m proud of you.”

I thought he would be there to witness my Call to Bar. I miss him so much, it hurts.

“Baba, I am sorry. One of my biggest regrets is not breaking sunlight to write a book about you; your greatness, selflessness, your kind eyes, your graceful walk. To write about every single moment I’ve shared with you. My biggest regret is that I couldn’t fulfil my dreams before you passed away. I wanted you to see me excel, buy you a mansion, take you on vacations, give you and mom all the good things of this life, watch me become a lawyer. I wanted you to see your grandchildren. And I am sorry. For I can only sit here and pray for you.”

I can only continue on the path he has paved. The little things.

 

v. Acceptance

The last thing my father told me was, “I love you, and I’m so proud of you.” He had come all the way to the university to visit me, two days before his death. I didn’t even know he was bidding me farewell even though his visit was unexpected. We both sat in his car, and he wouldn’t agree to enter my room because he was “in a rush.” He held my hands for a long while in silence. I told him that it was risky for him to drive the distance without his driver. He smiled and said, “when I die, you can remember me for that.” He would do something stubborn, like not taking his drugs on time and always said the same thing. He was always prepared for death.

He told me, “karatun ki shine gatar ki,” you are privileged because of your education. He talked about looking forward to my graduation, and my marriage. We cracked a few jokes. I couldn’t contain my happiness that day because I had a great time with my father.

Baba is in a better place now, and I pray we all reunite as a family in paradise. My father was a great man who lived a great life, even though he left too soon.

They say, “absence makes the heart grow fonder,” and there is a deep void in my heart. I have come to accept that we all shall die one day. Therefore, let us not wait for absence to unveil the worth of those we hold dear, for their value is immeasurable.

“When I’m gone, look for me in the shadows, in the whispers of the wind, and in the warmth of the sun. You will find everything that reminds you of me, but you won’t find me. For I will be everywhere, and nowhere at all.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Arun Anoop on Unsplash