Tuesday, February 23, 2010
they tell me you're no more
two deaths in two weeks. and a reminder of another one from almost 25 years ago that i'd never thought too much about. in these were gone a mother, a young employee, a friend.
what's the appropriate response to death?
why are we so oblivious of it? is it defence? is it stupidity?
or is it plain and utter nonunderstanding of this physical phenomenon?
i feel the mother's death through all the feelings of my own mother's. i feel the employee's death because she was so young, so wanting to live, so lovely on that 26 december of 2007 when she came home to give my daughter a christmas gift, her long black hair shiny and healthy, perfume in the air, she was off to a party. five days later, everything changed.
and my friend. dear angela in her boy's clothes with her cigarette, her bright eyes, her loony smile, and that lovely line: hi, i'm angela, but call me bill. she was the first openly gay person i'd met and she was our english honours batch mate. we were five of us. last night i spoke to one i'd not been in touch with for nearly 31 years. somewhere in the middle of telling each other about old husbands and young children she asked, where's angela?
she's no more or so i hear.
no, that's sad. softly, gently.
yes, finally, it struck me. yes, sad. i miss the girl who walked through the floods to get me cigarettes. i miss the girl who wrote me a love letter. i miss the girl who was my class mate, my friend. can't find her anywhere. not even on google.
yes, it is sad about billy.
what's the appropriate response to death?
why are we so oblivious of it? is it defence? is it stupidity?
or is it plain and utter nonunderstanding of this physical phenomenon?
i feel the mother's death through all the feelings of my own mother's. i feel the employee's death because she was so young, so wanting to live, so lovely on that 26 december of 2007 when she came home to give my daughter a christmas gift, her long black hair shiny and healthy, perfume in the air, she was off to a party. five days later, everything changed.
and my friend. dear angela in her boy's clothes with her cigarette, her bright eyes, her loony smile, and that lovely line: hi, i'm angela, but call me bill. she was the first openly gay person i'd met and she was our english honours batch mate. we were five of us. last night i spoke to one i'd not been in touch with for nearly 31 years. somewhere in the middle of telling each other about old husbands and young children she asked, where's angela?
she's no more or so i hear.
no, that's sad. softly, gently.
yes, finally, it struck me. yes, sad. i miss the girl who walked through the floods to get me cigarettes. i miss the girl who wrote me a love letter. i miss the girl who was my class mate, my friend. can't find her anywhere. not even on google.
yes, it is sad about billy.
just behind my eyes
"bhoot amar poot,
shankchunni amar jhee
ram-lokkhon bukey achhen
bhoy ta amar ki!"
"spook is my son,
banshee is my daughter,
ram-lakshman in my heart
what's fear to me!"
as he raced down the long verandah and down the stairs of the "mondir," his temple-turned-residence, towards the line of humble rooms at the other end which included his quiet study room, he muttered this silly little rhyme repeatedly under his breath. to the boy of 11 or 12 it was a potent mantra, sure to ward off the ghouls and gremlins lurking in the crevices of the looming house; stirring trouble in the long uncut grass of the unkempt garden; perhaps lounging menacingly around the cement benches by the pond right in front of the house. evening was on its way in, by the time he'd be ready to leave the study it would be dark, way past most children's bed time. that rhyme was very useful indeed.
nimai loved stealing flowers, playing with his cousins: plenty in their joint family plus all the maternal ones, but most of all, he loved studying. in fact, later in life he could never fathom how and why his children didn't enjoy this particular activity. not enjoy physics, chemistry, biology, mathematics, and spend at least four hours a day pondering their problems at home? Unthinkable. how could anyone pass up on something so wonderful.
our life takes us in strange directions. nimai's childhood years were made not only challenging and meaningful, but bearable by those hours into "pora-shona", studying.
for outside was the din.
the din of a family in decadence. his father bellowed, his uncle chanted prayers, the eldest uncle died leaving his favourite aunt, bomma, in white forever. His two aunts and mother were kept busy planning meals, overseeing household work, feeding ever large numbers of devotees at the temple, being as unseen and unheard as possible; and for his mother the special duty of quietly bearing her husband's constant and clearly audible disrespect.
a truly wise woman told me once that indira, nimai's mother, started walking normally only after her husband of almost 55 years passed away. she was 67 or so at that time, 12 when hemendranath and his wife chose the beautiful, tall daughter of a respectable, educated, though not too wealthy family, to be the bride of their 20-year old second son, hirendranath.
the magnolia skinned beauty with her regal carriage was doted upon by hemendranath, the father-in-law with whom she played and called "chhele," son. well known and established in the upper echelons of calcutta society, celebrated in the legal community - public prosecutor for a period - hemendranath was the noble patriarch. his large framed picture showed a man with a direct, clear gaze. oval face, full cheeks, high forehead, aristrocratic turn of head, no sneer on the lips though, and a well cut gala-bandh jacket. i see it in my mind even as i write my little thoughts: massive, yellowing black and white above the door of my grandfather, hirendranath's "study," essentially a room created by adding walls to a part of that long verandah.
“bhoot amar poot” there goes nimai, rushing across my memories, somewhere just behind my eyes. before running down the stairs to his little "porar ghor," study room, he turns back and smiles at me. tears? did i just taste tears?
this year i’ll be fifty. a lot of rambles through memories lately. that’s i guess the gift of time, my big birthday gift.
and there's mamoni of all those stories bomma, indira, geeta were so fond of repeating, mamoni with a lost look in her eyes, settling down on her mahogany bed in the bathroom (yes, that's what i said), pen poised, ready to write her next poem, year circa 1915...
(started 11 nov 09, finished today)
shankchunni amar jhee
ram-lokkhon bukey achhen
bhoy ta amar ki!"
"spook is my son,
banshee is my daughter,
ram-lakshman in my heart
what's fear to me!"
as he raced down the long verandah and down the stairs of the "mondir," his temple-turned-residence, towards the line of humble rooms at the other end which included his quiet study room, he muttered this silly little rhyme repeatedly under his breath. to the boy of 11 or 12 it was a potent mantra, sure to ward off the ghouls and gremlins lurking in the crevices of the looming house; stirring trouble in the long uncut grass of the unkempt garden; perhaps lounging menacingly around the cement benches by the pond right in front of the house. evening was on its way in, by the time he'd be ready to leave the study it would be dark, way past most children's bed time. that rhyme was very useful indeed.
nimai loved stealing flowers, playing with his cousins: plenty in their joint family plus all the maternal ones, but most of all, he loved studying. in fact, later in life he could never fathom how and why his children didn't enjoy this particular activity. not enjoy physics, chemistry, biology, mathematics, and spend at least four hours a day pondering their problems at home? Unthinkable. how could anyone pass up on something so wonderful.
our life takes us in strange directions. nimai's childhood years were made not only challenging and meaningful, but bearable by those hours into "pora-shona", studying.
for outside was the din.
the din of a family in decadence. his father bellowed, his uncle chanted prayers, the eldest uncle died leaving his favourite aunt, bomma, in white forever. His two aunts and mother were kept busy planning meals, overseeing household work, feeding ever large numbers of devotees at the temple, being as unseen and unheard as possible; and for his mother the special duty of quietly bearing her husband's constant and clearly audible disrespect.
a truly wise woman told me once that indira, nimai's mother, started walking normally only after her husband of almost 55 years passed away. she was 67 or so at that time, 12 when hemendranath and his wife chose the beautiful, tall daughter of a respectable, educated, though not too wealthy family, to be the bride of their 20-year old second son, hirendranath.
the magnolia skinned beauty with her regal carriage was doted upon by hemendranath, the father-in-law with whom she played and called "chhele," son. well known and established in the upper echelons of calcutta society, celebrated in the legal community - public prosecutor for a period - hemendranath was the noble patriarch. his large framed picture showed a man with a direct, clear gaze. oval face, full cheeks, high forehead, aristrocratic turn of head, no sneer on the lips though, and a well cut gala-bandh jacket. i see it in my mind even as i write my little thoughts: massive, yellowing black and white above the door of my grandfather, hirendranath's "study," essentially a room created by adding walls to a part of that long verandah.
“bhoot amar poot” there goes nimai, rushing across my memories, somewhere just behind my eyes. before running down the stairs to his little "porar ghor," study room, he turns back and smiles at me. tears? did i just taste tears?
this year i’ll be fifty. a lot of rambles through memories lately. that’s i guess the gift of time, my big birthday gift.
and there's mamoni of all those stories bomma, indira, geeta were so fond of repeating, mamoni with a lost look in her eyes, settling down on her mahogany bed in the bathroom (yes, that's what i said), pen poised, ready to write her next poem, year circa 1915...
(started 11 nov 09, finished today)
