At the end (almost) of a terrible year

 35 - that’s the number of Saturdays I have woken up on, remembering the moment when I woke up that one fateful Saturday in April.

252 days since Shashank and I wished each other good night, 251 days since I last heard the word Mama from my dear son.

I know it makes no sense to keep a count of such terrible things, but then there isn’t much that is making sense anyway. I am grieving as much today as I was a month ago or 2 months ago or 8 months ago, and the way it is going, it is probably never going to stop. I am surely able to function better, which just means I am able to hold in the grief, to make it a part of me, and take it along with me.

Thankfully, not a single person (either friend or family member) has suggested that I should not have eyes swimming in tears while talking to them, that by now I should have learnt to ‘get on with it’, that I need to ‘move on’.

One change in the past few days is that I am able to do things like baking a carrot cake or making peanut chutney for dosas with pleasure at the thought of how much Shashank would love eating them, rather than with the thought of how Shashank will never eat them again. I am hoping that the one session of Brain Working Recursive Therapy I had with a grief therapist is responsible to some extent for this. I am never going to not be sad at the loss of Shashank (the grief from this has engulfed the grief I had at my mother’s passing even though that was 6 months later), but I have learnt to not let my thoughts spiral downwards into a scary vortex from which I used to have to struggle to claw my way up.

I am listening to the audiobook of Healing after loss by Martha Whitmore Hickman for the second time and so much of it resonates. This was what I heard today - “My hope is found in my love, not in the degree of my grief”. I am hopeful that Shashank is at peace wherever he is, that I will be eternally grateful for the times we have had together, that someday in the future it will be my turn to join him, and till then, I will be able to make everyday count, to make every moment worthwhile.

Being grateful... really?

 Today I am going to try and be grateful as that is what many write-ups by grief experts

(what does this even mean - people who are experts at handling grief or people who are 

experts at feeling grief which automatically means they are not handling it well?) suggest. 

So here goes :

I am super grateful that Shashank chose me: A friend recently said that she had heard children choose the parents they want to be born to. If that’s true, then I must have done something right to have Shashank as my first-born. How much happiness we have had together.

I am very grateful that for 27+ years, I had the pleasure of being the mother of two wonderful sons who kept me entertained thanks to being so different from each other, and still so similar too.

I am grateful that for the last 7.5 months, we have been able to keep Shashank’s dream going, with his team almost fully intact.

I am grateful that my mother outlasted my son by 6 months, ensuring that caring for her made me stick to some kind of a schedule over days when I found it difficult to get into bed, and then get out of it.

I am grateful that at times when I am completely debilitated by my grief, I am able to still remember the happy times we have had as a family.

I am grateful that, while I will be laid low by grief two days hence when Shashank would have celebrated 8 years of marriage, I will still be able to hold on to some amazing memories of the wedding week.

I have been told that I will one day understand why this terrible loss had to happen. I beg to differ. I will never ever believe that there was some method in this madness. I can’t believe that Shashank’s going is good for anyone or anything, and nothing that occurs in the future is going to make me believe otherwise. And I am grateful that I have friends and family who agree with me, and don’t ask me to be grateful for any of it. I am sad, I continue to be sad and do not expect this to change in any way in the future. I am only grateful that I seem to have the strength to cope tolerably, function sensibly and be useful to others, while carrying a huge weight of sadness.

A double whammy on Day 200!

Mourning a mother, and a son

When I would have been mourning about 200 days without my first-born son, I was again at the crematorium with my family, to collect my mother’s ashes. The tears flowed, and continue to flow, incessantly. Now I do not know who I am crying specifically for. I continue to miss Shashank, his laughter, his gentle and very indulgent smile, his glance which always showed me how much I was adored and loved. I hope, and I know, he got the same reassurance every time I looked at him. 

When I would have been mourning about 200 days without my first-born son, I was again at the crematorium with my family, to collect my mother’s ashes. The tears flowed, and continue to flow, incessantly. Now I do not know who I am crying specifically for. I continue to miss Shashank, his laughter, his gentle and very indulgent smile, his glance which always showed me how much I was adored and loved. I hope, and I know, he got the same reassurance every time I looked at him. 

Rationally, I know she needed, and wanted, to go, but I am devastated all over again. My mother’s passing is making me relive Shashank’s going. I am trying to not feel sorry for myself, and don’t want others to look at me with pity, but it is difficult, very difficult to go through each day. I just can’t wait for the time when I will be a better version of my current self.

Pastime for the Powers that be?

 

Yawn! I’m bored. Who shall we do today?

You know, there’s a family I’ve been keeping an eye on.

What made you notice them?

The lady constantly sends messages to her friends and family saying she is so content that she couldn’t ask for anything more in life.

Oh! She is really asking for trouble! And why is she so content?

Well – she lives with her husband in a beautiful house with a garden, surrounded by flowers and greenery, waking up to the sound of birds.

That’s not so uncommon.

Her husband is enjoying his retirement after 40 years of hard work. They are friends and share a similar taste in movies, music and books.

Ok, a little less common, but still…

They have two sons – and they brought them up with the freedom to follow their passion, not necessarily become engineers or start earning big sums of money.

Really? And what do the sons do?

Well, one is a passionate environmentalist, cartographer and drone specialist, who loves his work. He set up his own organisation and has a very happy team who adores him. And.. he is married for the past 7 years to a very intelligent young woman. They both love sunsets and cats.

And the younger one?

He’s also a conservationist, and is figuring out how to work in the sports line while increasing awareness about the environment in the community. He loves  all sports, and the outdoors, and is very happy. And… he has a very lovely girlfriend.

Hmmm… My goodness, this is almost cloying. So what do you think we should do? Give her cancer?

I don’t think that would be enough. Her outlook is so positive that she’ll come out of it successfully. And, they have enough money to handle the treatment without it causing a serious dent.

Oh ok… that won’t work then. It’s no fun when they are able to handle things well. Maybe make them feel lonely and un-loved?

We can’t. They have a wonderful loving family, and a huge network of friends who keep in touch constantly. They really do have a too-good-to-be-true life.

Goodness! You should have told me about them earlier. How did we leave them alone for so long?

Well, we did threaten the family with potentially serious illnesses a few times. And they do have her mother with them, and she’s fully dependent and spends her day on a wheelchair.

But..?

But they handled all that quite well.  There is concern about the mother’s quality of life, but they have managed to make her very comfortable.

Ok…. Let me think. You know how people in their late 30s are just dropping dead inexplicably,  with the possible reason being the heart, the lungs or just plain COVID? Let’s go with that. And let’s go with that when they have just had a wonderful day together, filled with laughter. That way, they will feel the absence even more.

And they did. And we do.

6 months or Half a year or 184 days.. + 2 more days

When am I ever going to laugh out loud like this, watched so lovingly by someone who worships me ??

186 days, half a year - this is how long it has been since I have heard my son’s voice call out to me, or laugh out loud or give me a hug or….. Keeping a count of the days is not going to help in any way, nor is making a list of all the things that I do not have any more. I know this during my calmer moments - thankfully these occur more often than before - and I am able to stop my thoughts from spiralling downwards into the What ifs and the Whys and the Hows.

But then the calm moments are only that, short and temporary. The past few days have been really tough, and everything I see or do has been triggering off memories of Shashank and then the waves of grief carry me off on a, by now all too familiar, rollercoaster. By the time I am able to talk/think myself off, I am physically in gut-wrenching pain, my eyes are burning and a splitting headache. Talking is not helping, nor is reading or watching or knitting or crocheting. I am hoping that writing is going to be the remedy for today which has been a really tough one for various reasons.

I have read enough now about bolstering myself with happy memories, but how does one go on doing that while constantly being reminded that there will be no more new memories that are not tinged with sadness, for ever and ever as long as I live? The past week has been so strange. My husband, younger son and I went out for meals together and I had to stop myself from asking for a table for 4 at every restaurant. There was always the fourth chair vacant at our table, reminding me constantly of ‘the presence of an absence, the absence of a presence’. I heard this phrase for the first time in one of the talks on grief handling that I watched, and it resonated. 

I met a stranger during my morning walk, and only while talking to him did I realise how adept I had become at forming my sentences. “My 2 sons moved to Goa 5 years ago. “They both did their Masters in Conservation”. “One of them married”. The gentleman would have gone away with absolutely no idea that only of my two sons was with us. One of the reasons for my strange sentence-formation could be that my grief is my own, and I have no inclination to share it with strangers. However, it is interesting that these sentences are coming out of my mouth without any conscious effort on my part. 

Already an efficient multi-tasker (or so I believe), over the past six months, I have mastered the art of crying silently while going about with my daily routine without agitating the rest of the family.  What other skills am I going to acquire in the next few days, months and years? 

Why did I not make kozhakattais this year for Ganesh Chaturthi

For a while now, I have not believed in a God who watches over us. All my temple visits have been to admire the construction or the beautiful deities, but it has never been to pray. At some point a few years ago, I decided that I did not like the idea of prayer which stemmed from fear or from a need/greed. I did send out prayers into the world, but they were always thankful messages as I was grateful for the life I was fortunate enough to be leading. I knew that the circumstances which provided me with a happy comfortable life were not always in my control, and I had the good sense to know that I was lucky.

Even if I myself did not believe in gods that looked after us, I liked the rituals linked to Krishna Janmashtami and Ganesh Chaturthi, so on the appropriate days, the idols were decked up and the prasad was made. The flowers for the idols came from our own garden, and this was nothing short of a miracle for someone like me who had spent a large part of my life living in apartments. There were always enough parijaat flowers for the archanai/puja and more than enough red hibiscus flowers to thread into garlands. Making kozhakattais (modaks) for Ganesh Chaturthi was a big event in our house, and it was only in the past 4 or 5 years that I was able to make the rice flour- paste shells in the right shape (they had to stand up like teacups on my palm, ready to receive the filling) and of the right consistency (thin enough for light to go through but thick enough so they kept their shape when steamed). They had to be hand-made, of course, with no resorting to readymade moulds which could have made my life easier.

But this year, I am devastated, and still struggling to make sense of the tragedy that struck our family. My very beloved elder son suddenly left us for ever, early in the morning on a Saturday in April, and our lives turned upside down then, to say the least. I had no gods to rant to, or about, and that is another problem that I will have to cope with some other day. I watch people celebrating Ganesh Chaturthi and Janmashtami with fervour and devotion, and have to control the urge to tell them that it is all pointless. I also have to suppress the voice that tells me that such a tragedy befell us because I didn’t believe in gods and/or pray to them, as that can lead to some very dark thoughts. Believe me, in the past 4 months, I know all the different paths that can lead to spiralling rabbit holes of sorrow and confusion and darkness. When I am able to claw away from the edge of these thoughts, thanks to being surrounded by very loving family and friends, I know that one day, I will again learn to be grateful for the good times we did have, and the happiness (even if always tinged with an absence and sadness) that lies ahead. Right now, all I can think of is “How am I going to cope with Diwali?

100 days without Shashank

 30 July - this will be 100 days without Shashank physically present in my life. 

What all have I missed in the past 100 days:

- my son's hug

- my son's loud laugh

- my son's grin as he gently mocks me for something funny or silly that I am doing

- any one calling me Mama

- some in-depth information about some animal, bird, technological or just fun fact

-  the list could go on and on

What have I not missed -

- a single day when I did not cry

- a single day when I did not miss him

- a single day when I can't remember his last breath, his last words - 'mama, I can't breathe'

 - a single day when I can't remember the last ride with him in the car to the hospital

- a single day when I can't remember the last look when they clamped down the iron door of the furnace in the crematorium

- a single day when some bird or insect did not show up to remind me of him

- a single day when some member of the family or a friend has not called to find out how I am 

- a single day when I have not realised how special my family and friends are

- a single day when I have not thought of the senselessness of Shashank's going

- a single day when I have not felt privileged for the time we had together, for the love we shared, and the memories we made as a family

- a single day when I have not been glad that we let Shashank know he was loved

Dreams that came true

 Thought this would be a good place to store this article on Shashank that was printed in 2012 

Maps on his mind 

At first glance,it looks like a rather elaborate algorithm. On closer inspection,the algorithm reveals its true nature its a map of the river network of Uttarakhand. 

Written by Priyanka Kotamraju 

May 13, 2012 02:49 IST 

At first glance,it looks like a rather elaborate algorithm. On closer inspection,t he algorithm reveals its true nature it’s a map of the river network of Uttarakhand. Exact and detailed, this map is surprisingly easy to read. 

Meet Shashank Srinivasan map-maker, ecologist, photographer, wildlife enthusiast and part-time cycle tour guide of Delhi. When plotted, his life would make a very engrossing map. Brought up in Kolkata, studied in Bangalore and England, he works in Delhi and dwells in mountains as the About me section on his website puts it: 

While I am currently based in India,I do most of my work remotely.  Now a freelance cartographer,Srinivasan has worked with various outfits, both non- profit and government-run, such as the WWF, NTCA, Sanjay Gandhi National Park and the Ministry of Environment on projects dealing with climate change, conservation and urban planning. 

Speaking enthusiastically on the Tso Kar Basin project he was involved with, he explains how maps helped effectively and easily predict the times of conflict between migratory patterns of birds and movements of nomadic tribes of Ladakh, shedding much-needed light on a fragile eco-system. Its a project he hopes to revive. 

Cartographer and ecologist by design, he is, however,an accidental cycle tour guide. This cycling evangelist, as he likes to call himself, stumbled upon Delhi by Cycle, a see-Delhi-on-wheels initiative started in 2009 by a Dutchman. The routine of conducting these tours gives him a sense of going to work, a feeling otherwise absent in his nomadic map-making existence. 

Srinivasan brims over with plans on unusual ways of looking at Delhi’s cityscape, maps he intends to draw of second-hand bookstores, seeing Delhi through older eyes of the seven cities that flourished before. 

Plans for setting up a non-profit outfit specialising in spatial design are afoot, he says. And while that dream unfolds, he continues to make meaning of land, eco- systems and communities through the tools he knows best maps. 

First published on: 13-05-2012 at 02:49 IST  https://indianexpress.com/article/cities/delhi/maps-on-his-mind/

https://indianexpress.com/article/cities/delhi/maps-on-his-mind/ 1/12 

7/27/23, 7:56 PM Maps on his mind | Delhi News - The Indian Express 

Financials after a departure

I was devastated a few minutes ago as my joint account with Shashank changed to become my single one. I can recall the day I went with him to open this minor account when he was probably around 7 years old. Just a month before he left us ( is that how one will forever describe his demise?) I was telling him to close the joint account with me as he already had one with Supriya. His response was so quick! "Why should I? This was my first bank account. I'll never close it!". And he didn't. But I did. Bit by tiny bit, he's being erased from our future. 

He's already not a Director in the Company and the Foundation he started, and soon, Ravi and I will be the signatories for the bank accounts linked to these organisations. I have also just finished the horrifying task of dismissing him as an employee so that the insurance premium is not deducted against his name. 

My dear considerate son had so thoughtfully added nominees for all his investments that his wife, brother, father and I have become benefactors without ever ever wanting this to happen. What else am I going to have the strength to face? 

Thinking back on discussions we had about the need for life insurance, I recall how he would keep talking about it as a useless investment. All I can think of now is, thank goodness he didn't believe in it. Else one or some of us would possibly be benefitting from his demise, and that would surely be too much! 

We took our time to process all this financial stuff, but also agreed that it was essential. This was Shashank's hard-earned money and had to be taken care of as per his wishes. But shouldn't it have been the reverse? Isn't he the one who should have been processing Ravi's and my finances?

We will surely figure out how to best benefit some other organisations or people in Shashank's name, and that will hopefully be less debilitating and ensure the postponement of the gradual erasure of one wonderful human's giant footprint on this Earth that he loved.   

Description of my grief

For a while I am ok. Suddenly one thought about Shashank creeps up, wiping away whatever thoughts were flooding my brain before that. For a while this tiny thought makes me smile  because it's always accompanied by his beautiful wide grin or his gently mocking 'mamma...'. Then there's the sudden realisation yet again that he's gone, that smile and that tone are gone forever from my life.  And then the pain starts. It's like my womb clenches first, and then the memory of the loss spreads to the stomach and the back.  My chest feels like it is going to explode - how can any physical being hold so much of grief and not burst into fragments! The tears are streaming from my eyes, my nose, my mouth is the shape of  one nefer-ending wail - loud in my head but silent to others. I've learnt to cry without a sound so that I don't disturb either my mother or Ravi. Finally at some point, the tears stop flowing, leaving behind a splitting headache, a tense back, a completely gutted stomach, and a message - enough for now, go be happy for a while till we are back again and again and again, for as long as you live.  

Celebrating Shashank ...

My heart is so full just now. While my tea was brewing, I went and sat in the inner courtyard with my eyes closed, and the bulbuls came back. For almost 10 minutes I sat still while they inspected the lamps and then went from branch to branch of the Champa. We will all feel a bit better if they start making a nest again in the same lamp. The remnants of the previous nest are still there inside, so I'm keeping my hopes up. 

Yesterday, a friend of Shashank's said that during a chat about death and after, he mentioned that he'd like to be in our garden always. I cannot imagine why young people in their 30s would even have such a discussion, but then these are strange times, and Shashank had lived through the loss of a friend at 20. All I know is that we never had such a discussion with each other, though everyone who matters knows that I'd like my body to be donated. 

When Ravi walked into the house with the ashes, there was never any doubt in our minds that a part of Shashank would always be with us in our home. And he is, after a heartbreaking dignified ceremony in the beloved inner courtyard.  

It gives me goosebumps to know that this was exactly what Shashank had desired. I wish the need to follow his instructions had come many years later, preferably when we, his parents, were not around to be a part of the proceedings, but then these are strange times. Mad times, as Shashank would say.  

It's funny to have a heart that's feeling so heavy and so light at the same time. 

Celebrating Shashank forever

 Shashank, my son.

He'll be here with me

every time I see a spider working on its web,

or a sunbird doing a balancing act on a hibiscus flower,

or a slug making its way slowly across the paving stones.

He'll be here with me

every time a cat pauses at our doorstep

or yawns gracefully

as she stretches languidly in the sunshine.

He'll be here with me

when the dark clouds start gathering,

when the smell of petrichor wafts across the terrace,

the harbinger of the rains to come.

He will be here

when I am planning a pattern for the loom

or thinking up the colours for a new quilt,

never the World map quilt that he wanted.

He will be here every time I pick up my crochet hook,

looking over my shoulder,

making sure that my spider has 3 or more eyes,

that my owl does not have ears - even if they are cute,

that the dugong i am making has a longer snout (or is that a manatee?),

that I don't call my tortoise a turtle.

He will be here every time one of us is leaving on a journey

and we pose for the selfie-taker who has to record the moment,

much to the amusement of the waiting cab driver.

He will be here every time we sit

in front of a beautifully plated dish

or a particularly attractive dessert (the creamier the better)

that just begs to be photographed.

He will be here every time I make a dosa

or a carrot cake

or a mango lassi

or a biscuit pudding

or. ....the list just goes on and on

He will be here all the time.

I just wish he wasn't gone.

Celebrating Shashank - my son

My son is gone. I am the unfortunate mother who saw her son shout out "Mamma, I can't breathe", take a gasp and then just go. Things were done to him to get him back to us, but I knew he was gone, and was not coming back. 

Over the past few days, we have been showered with love by friends and family, and I wish that was enough.  At least that has proved to be enough for me to take the next step, the next breath.

I've been told that he was so special that God wanted him back soon. I don't believe in God, but even I can't believe that God could be so selfish.

A friend once told me Shashank was born with a piece of sunshine inside him. That is what shone through in his brilliant smile. Did he spread too much sunshine too quickly? Did he smile too much? Is that why he only had 37 years on Earth?

If this death was to teach me to  appreciate my son more, I didn't need it... I didn't need it. I already thought he was one of the best human beings who walked this earth - brilliant, loving, spreading joy every time he smiled. And it's not just me saying this. I'm being told the same things by everyone who meets me. 

So then, why did he have to go? Does this Earth, which has so much going wrong with it, not need more people like him to heal it? 

Was I too proud of him? Did I take too much credit for the way he turned out? Does that warrant this kind of a loss in my life?

And does this mean I should be careful about how much I worship my wonderful younger son

Appa would have been 90 years old today

 Today is March 20. The first thought that I woke up with was that it was the day my father was born, 90 years ago. If he had not left us in 2011, this would have been a day of grand celebrations.Family members, who rarely get time to meet, would have come together to felicitate him on this achievement of having stayed alive for so long. The last few years of his life were relatively peaceful, and given the family’s improved financial condition, he could have been happy, enjoying some luxuries that bypassed him all his life. A gentle soul, who never ever wished anyone harm, we would all have benefitted from his presence, even if his stubbornness would have occasionally irritated us.  I miss him every day, and wish he was with us.