I don't know what to do.
I opened my 'tear stained' eyes at five past six this morning. There was grief in my heart, and strangely I felt angry too. Staying away from your loved ones can take its toll on your mind. You miss the smallest of things that you once didnt pay attention to. I had a dream. Being in a place full of rooms. The walls were painted a bright white and there was a strong sense of familiarity about this space. I walked around, I was ten years old again. My striped half shirt was half tucked in my shorts, I was lugging my bicycle along. My old tape recorder was dangling from the handle bar and a familiar tune filled the air. I suddenly felt somebody calling me. The all familiar 'Gautamaa! Gutmam!! Hey Gutmam!!!'
I followed the voice approached a flight of stairs, laid my bicycle against the wall and began climbing. The treads had red marble tiles and the landing had a bright window with black bars running across. I ran upstairs and into a vestibule with more doors and two more windows. Familiar; like my home in Mulki, my native place. Sharada. Named after my grandma. I looked out the window to my right and I could see my uncle standing on the terrace looking at the huge mango tree that branched onto it. It was his characteristic pose, his left hand on his waist against his kurta and his fingers holding the loose end of his dhoti. I opened the first door to my right, just past the window and stepped onto the deck.
He started talking about how the mango season this year was going to be, how we'd have a crop of almost a thousand mangoes and all the gifts we'd have to send to our neighbors, baskets of mangoes wrapped in dried grass. The grass would keep the mangoes warm and help in the ripening. His smile was as bright as the sunny morning and his voice was filled with childish excitement. He reached for one of the leaves and showed me how the colors were changing. He picked a raw mango from the branch and pointed how the sap was building up, which meant, a very sweet crop.
I opened my eyes. It was 'today'. Such were my moments with him, trivial at the time. But today, they're not trivial anymore. I can't live them again. I brood and brood more. I can't seem to get over his demise. I talk about it to my aunt sometimes and I end up recalling that cursed evening of November 10th. The way he suffered. The way the ailment took away his ability to walk. This was a man who carried two bags of medicine samples from town to town, met doctors as a representative. The way it made him bleed to death. Trays and trays of blood. He bled from his mouth, from his nose. My aunt, his elder sister sat there and saw him fall apart. In a matter of a few hours. She had performed a lot of prayers, a lot of poojas for him. She even smeared some holy vermellion onto his forehead, that evening. He smiled gently. It consumed him with every passing minute. Everybody was helpless. Even the fucking doctors. She sat there and saw him fall apart, in a matter of few hours. From a conversation to emptiness in a few hours. She recalls how he would follow her around, like her shadow, the kid brother.
It was a similar morning on the 10th of November. I was woken up by a phone call from my maa. Her voice trembled and she broke down as she said, "Your Pabamam is serious. He may not make it through tonight..." , it was 7:00 am in Los Angeles, 8:30 pm in Mumbai, India. A few hours? What? He was recovering well from the chemo therapy until two days back!!!! I asked her several times, who said so, why? How was it possible? She was crying and I couldnt do anything but grip my phone harder. To my mother, he was a father figure. By the time I'd gotten ready and reached office, I was on the phone all the time with my maa and then with my second uncle in Mulki. As I sat at my desk and spoke to him, he heard the other phone ring and answered it. It was 10:10 pm in Mulki, 8:40 am in Los Angeles. A minute later he came back and said, "it's all over.. he's gone." I didn't even get to say good bye or thank you, for making me a responsible human from a total disaster.
I followed the voice approached a flight of stairs, laid my bicycle against the wall and began climbing. The treads had red marble tiles and the landing had a bright window with black bars running across. I ran upstairs and into a vestibule with more doors and two more windows. Familiar; like my home in Mulki, my native place. Sharada. Named after my grandma. I looked out the window to my right and I could see my uncle standing on the terrace looking at the huge mango tree that branched onto it. It was his characteristic pose, his left hand on his waist against his kurta and his fingers holding the loose end of his dhoti. I opened the first door to my right, just past the window and stepped onto the deck.
He started talking about how the mango season this year was going to be, how we'd have a crop of almost a thousand mangoes and all the gifts we'd have to send to our neighbors, baskets of mangoes wrapped in dried grass. The grass would keep the mangoes warm and help in the ripening. His smile was as bright as the sunny morning and his voice was filled with childish excitement. He reached for one of the leaves and showed me how the colors were changing. He picked a raw mango from the branch and pointed how the sap was building up, which meant, a very sweet crop.
I opened my eyes. It was 'today'. Such were my moments with him, trivial at the time. But today, they're not trivial anymore. I can't live them again. I brood and brood more. I can't seem to get over his demise. I talk about it to my aunt sometimes and I end up recalling that cursed evening of November 10th. The way he suffered. The way the ailment took away his ability to walk. This was a man who carried two bags of medicine samples from town to town, met doctors as a representative. The way it made him bleed to death. Trays and trays of blood. He bled from his mouth, from his nose. My aunt, his elder sister sat there and saw him fall apart. In a matter of a few hours. She had performed a lot of prayers, a lot of poojas for him. She even smeared some holy vermellion onto his forehead, that evening. He smiled gently. It consumed him with every passing minute. Everybody was helpless. Even the fucking doctors. She sat there and saw him fall apart, in a matter of few hours. From a conversation to emptiness in a few hours. She recalls how he would follow her around, like her shadow, the kid brother.
It was a similar morning on the 10th of November. I was woken up by a phone call from my maa. Her voice trembled and she broke down as she said, "Your Pabamam is serious. He may not make it through tonight..." , it was 7:00 am in Los Angeles, 8:30 pm in Mumbai, India. A few hours? What? He was recovering well from the chemo therapy until two days back!!!! I asked her several times, who said so, why? How was it possible? She was crying and I couldnt do anything but grip my phone harder. To my mother, he was a father figure. By the time I'd gotten ready and reached office, I was on the phone all the time with my maa and then with my second uncle in Mulki. As I sat at my desk and spoke to him, he heard the other phone ring and answered it. It was 10:10 pm in Mulki, 8:40 am in Los Angeles. A minute later he came back and said, "it's all over.. he's gone." I didn't even get to say good bye or thank you, for making me a responsible human from a total disaster.
posted by Shaking Shenoy at 4/06/2005 12:38:00 PM
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