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.  

My dear voice from the past

There is an ancient radio in my house, becoming more ancient by the day as I join the senior citizens’ group. What used to occupy pride of place long ago is now resting in one corner of the house, gathering dust. It still has a little bit of life left, and makes some plaintive sounds when switched on. Logic says I should let it go, but there are so many memories attached to my dear Murphy radio that I cannot imagine our house without it.

I must have been around 5 years old when the radio arrived at our house. All of us gathered around as my father opened the carton and lifted out the radio. The carton had a picture of a very pretty baby with curly hair, one chubby finger touching the side of his/her lip. I must have fallen in love with the radio just at the sight of that lovely baby. My father placed it on the table, plugged it in and then moved some dials and suddenly there was music in the room. My little sister, wearing a pretty frilled frock, swayed instantly to the sound of the music – I can remember the scene as if it was yesterday, rather than over 50 years ago. I also recall being entranced by the back of the radio, waiting to see the singer and the musicians walking out from there at the end of their performance.

The radio was a complicated one – one side was the knob for powering it on or off and the volume control, and the other side had a dial/knob combination. The knob could move to 12 different bands and the dial could be adjusted to choose different stations. There was a tiny green display window and when the tuning was adjusted to make the sound clearer, the display would change to a fine line. How much fun we had moving the dial a bit and watching this thin line undulating! In these times when 2-year-olds are able to swipe and select YouTube videos of their choice, the simple things that entertained us when we were young must feel infantile, but I can still remember the satisfaction I would get as I fiddled with the dial till the thin green light steadied, and the music became crystal clear.

This was of course only after I grew older and was allowed to touch the radio. As the radio became a part of the family, our lives adjusted around the timings of various programmes, and all my memories of my childhood include the radio as a permanent member of our household. One of my earliest memories is of my parents silently crying as they listened to Melville De Mellow’s commentary at Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru’s funeral. We learnt to keep track of schedules so that we did not miss our favourite programmes. We knew the timings for the Cadbury’s Bournvita Quiz contest with Hamid Sayani that all of us listened to, as also the Double or Quit that entertained the entire family.

Our dinner time was after the Binaca Geet Mala on Wednesdays, and I remember sitting and religiously noting down all 18 songs for my friend who was not allowed to listen to the radio as it distracted her from her studies. We listened to the 15 minutes Inspector Eagle play episodes that my father tolerated impatiently, and he would change to a different channel as soon as this quite noisy programme  was followed by Hawa Mahal. Till today, I can recall the screeching sounds that were the background music for Inspector Eagle arriving by car somewhere, and the beginning notes of Hawa Mahal. The National Programme of Music was my parents’ favourite programme and as kids, we groaned when it came on, falling asleep listening to stalwarts of those times. Today, as I enjoy Carnatic and Hindustani music, I am so grateful for those broadcasts that opened up this amazing world to us. 

I can remember listening to the commentary on all 5 days of cricket Test matches, often being assigned the duty of noting down all relevant details when wickets fell – who took the wicket, who was out, at how many runs, in which over and so on, for my brother who sometimes had to miss out on some commentary while running errands or playing with friends. The Srilanka Broadcasting Corporation would play entire soundtracks of Hindi film music. If my mother heard our school bus arrive just while one of our favourite songs was aired, she would increase the volume so that we could hear the song from the gate and then race into the house to listen to either Zeenat Aman being invited on to the stage to sing in Yaadon Ki Baarat, or to drool over Rajesh Khanna saying ‘Gaao’ to Sharmila Tagore in Amar Prem. 

Waiting for our favourite songs was somehow so much more exciting than just browsing and locating the songs of our choice online. My sister and I would always have a notebook handy to jot down the lyrics, leaving gaps wherever the songs went too fast for us, to be filled up the next time the song came on air. BBC and Voice of America were other channels we listened to, and I have spent hours in front of the radio, just changing bands and then fiddling with the tuner to locate other stations in far away places. The sound of the kookaburra for Radio Australia or the announcer saying ‘Radio Moscow’ transported me to other worlds. 

My mother always said that she knew when I awoke because the radio would instantly be turned on. Many years after I was married and had left home, I was thrilled when my parents, while moving to another house, gave the radio to me. One day, I am sure it will be able to capture VoA (as we knew Voice of America) – till then I shall let it sit in one corner as a storehouse of many fond memories.