Presence

As I was preparing to go to sleep, I could get the smell of incence, and I just looked through my windows to the pavement, next to our gate, and I could see a few men and women sitting silently near the senior lady who had lost her husband. Occasionally I could hear the crying of women, but for the most part there was absolute silence. And that was the scene when I woke up too. There were some ten to fifteen men and women around the senior lady, and there was no talking, but only empathetic silence. I was wondering what a wonderful way of expressing their empathy for the bereaved family, which perhaps had nothing to offer to the relatives and well-wishers who might have come from far, not even a cup of tea, but they did not seem to mind it.

Death is a moment when life seems to be taking the cruelest form of revenge on humanity. We cannot resist when death knocks at our doors, but be prepared to open wide the doors and let the angel of death lead our dear ones across the shore. The pain and agony that people go through at the death of a senior person, one who has lived the ripe old age, and was making space for the younger ones, is relatively much less in comparison to the young persons who die at the prime of their life, or still worse children dying a premature death. Whatever be our complaints and allegations against the gods, we have no way of undoing what has been predestined. The best that we could offer is to stand by those who have been robbed of their breadwinners, their main support and their sustenance.

It was hard for me to go through the loss of the dear ones, when a close friend of mine lost her father, just in his early fifties. He had his two unmarried daughters, and a son who was barely 10 years old. No one ever thought that he would leave the world so soon; they were not even prepared to believe that he was no more. My friend had lost her loving father, who had supported her all through, even when her mother would scorn and inflict pains on her. I felt there was very little that I could do, but the next moment I realized for the people who are devastated, any little help given them is great; they did not even have the strength and stamina to organize a vehicle to take the body to Bangalore from Chennai where the death took place in a hospital. I stayed with them for four days to provide the much needed consolation for them.

In a tribal society, death in a family is sequel to death in the whole village; all celebrations are cancelled until the impurity is purged; often it could take about one month to forty days. This is another way of showing solidarity and sympathy for the bereaved family. The village community stands with the family which has lost some one, and everyone gathers to bid the final goodbye for the person. It is a wonderful gesture that the young and old gather round the dead person, and when the bone-drowning ceremony (bhandan) is to take place, the villagers offer the favorites of the dead person, including eatables, beeri, cigarette and anything that could be useful for them. I had seen the same thing happening among the burial ceremony of the mainstream society too. Another way of expressing solidarity.

To get back to the Muslim family which had lost the senior member of the family, there is no cooking in the family and it was quite obvious that all the members had been keeping awake all through the night, and when it was morning, I could see some of the ladies lying near our Church; they were all fatigued and still they kept vigil, with the family of the dead person, and I don’t know how long this will continue. There is very little conversation between them, but all the men and women seem to vibrate with one another. Even in their utmost poverty and privation, they seemed to have plenty to offer to the people very much in need of their silent presence by their side. In a world that is being torn apart on the basis of color, caste and creed, the loving presence of neighbors and relatives is soothing for the heavy hearts.

Mama Mia!

Ever since I began my long journey from Chennai to Kolkata, my mother had been faithfully carrying out one ritual. The day I board the train, she would wake up early in the morning, some days it is as early as half past three, and would prepare food packets for my journey. I do not like the food available at the pantry car in the train, but love to have home-cooked food, and I do not need to remind my mother about this, even before I could tell her, she is prepared to get things ready for me. I really wonder how many people would be prepared to sacrifice sleep and do this for me; I know a couple of others may also do this for me without my asking, but I feel sad to ask my mother to do this for me any longer, due to her health conditions.

I know my mother gets the best of what is available for me, and sometimes my niece had been telling me that more special dishes are prepared at home when I am there, and that she was envious of it. Most often we take for granted the goodness of people around us, who slog to make our lives a little more enjoyable; the hardship, pain and suffering that the parents go through is most often not recognized. I wonder if there is any other way of life or profession which is more unrecognized, unrewarded than that of being parents. In the case of my mother, after sending me with food that she had cooked for my journey, she would make it a point to know if the food was alright on the way… Such is the care that my mother shows towards me.

I have seen the worst happening to my mother, and there were several occasions when she single-handedly shielded the five of us siblings from the onslaught of my uncle, who under the influence of alcohol chased us out of our home. My father being in military service was not available close at hand to take good care of us, but my mother was to play many roles during our young formative years. Herself almost illiterate, she did not know how to express her love for the children, and there were several occasions during my younger days when I had felt that she did not love me sufficiently, and had even shared this with my elder brother once. It took me many years to understand that her love for me was no less.

It is true that I never got a letter written by my mother, because she could not write; she managed to learn to sign her name, and just a few years ago was learning the read the Bible, and therefore it would be unfair to expect a letter written by her. She would dictate a letter to either my brothers or sister and they would write the same. There was not a single time that my mother visited me in the boarding house I spent four years in, and my father visited only at the time of admission. When I would see all the other friends receiving parents and relatives from home on Sundays, I could not think this would happen in my case. I knew for sure I could not expect my mother to find the place, the route for which was quite complicated. And yet I have no regrets for not visiting me even once.

During the holidays this time, on several occasions I had noticed that when my father and I would be resting, she would be in the kitchen preparing some special snacks for me. Given that she has high blood pressure, and sugar, she needed sufficient rest, and yet she was happy to give her best for me. In fact she would do the same for all my other brothers and sister too. Some years ago, I had felt that she was partial towards two of my siblings, but now I know she loves and cares for all of us equally. There is great joy in my mother when offering her best for me and my other brothers and sister, and she would go all the way to do it, if she could. Her own comfort and priorities were only secondary to our well-being. I am thankful to God for such a wonderful mother.