Dida

Grief can affect people in different ways.

You can be all practical, deciding to prioritise an official visit over rushing to Kolkata on hearing the news of Dida’s passing away, knowing that she is gone already. Knowing that all there will be to see, is her bloated, dead body, surrounded by aging relatives and neighbours, some talking about how they had just come to see her the other day, others, about how she had suffered greatly, and would now finally be at peace. Some others attributing their usual Bengali affliction of heartburns and acid reflux to premonitions of ill-tidings, yet others, talking about the steps that should have been taken to prevent her untimely death.

You can be all practical, knowing that you have been grieving for the last five years already – that death is only a culmination of a long period of wasting away. When every next photo, showed her progressive emaciation; when every next conversation with her meant more lost threads, and longer spells of hallucinatory observations; when the phone conversations stopped; when every next visit meant lower chances of her recognizing you, responding to your coaxing or your touch.

But then, what is this impulse to weep, this inopportune onslaught of tears? When browsing books, but not being able to read a preface by a behavioural economist, because he wants to discuss Tversky’s period of illness and death. When sitting alone at the airport, sipping coffee, and thinking of the last office trip, when you made a detour to Kolkata, and saw Dida for the last time. When travelling long distances in rural UP, in a dark car, with a government employee talking about being over-looked for a promotion by a corrupt boss and imagining Dida’s indignation at this injustice. Or when a friend sends you a photo reminding you of the life you used to have (even though that life had nothing to do with Dida), and days which have deserted you forever. Or even when sitting for the pujo, at her kaaj, resolutely refusing to repeat the Sanskrit prayers being spoken aloud by the priest, because Dida didn’t like us to say things we didn’t understand – not because she was irreligious (she wasn’t), but because she didn’t want us to inadvertently ask the Gods for something wrong (sons, for instance).

Or when writing a blog-post about her but finding a single post to be inadequate to explain what she meant for you.