It is six calendar months since MH370 made news….

Since then, many horrific events across continents have made me wonder about the world we live in. Are we moving towards a better world that will see future generations, or a world bereft of humanity? Worldviews that breed hate and intolerance, self-centredness and greed, power-mongering and domination, and all brands of fundamentalism and violence are ascendent. The space for inquiry and dialogue has shrunk, mutual respect has given way to the valuing of mutual gain, and relationships have progressively reduced to the shorthand of techno-aided ritualistic greeting and voyeuristic tracking. From this wide-angle lens, the outlook is bleak and scary. It is then tempting to bring attention to one’s immediate context, seek relief and refuge, assuming of course that we are more ‘in control’ of our lives than of the world at large.

In my personal context, what comes up is that I have associated normalcy with a certain belief in the uninterrupted certainty of routines and relationships. The disappearance of MH370 has been a rude reminder of the transience of all things and the fickleness of dreams, goals and plans. It has been easier putting these on hold or distancing from them, and harder to find energy and meaning in every day. From being the seeker and wanderer that I thought I was, I have seen myself become a drifter and dodger, allowing myself latitude rather than exhorting myself to ‘move on’.

So where am I stuck? I think it has to do with accepting what seems like an irreversible loss, not being sufficiently pragmatic in responding to an event that continues to defy explanation, and remaining mired in the swirl of possibilities. The other day, after a hard, grinding walk, I was laying flat on my back in my apartment doing my stretches at about the same time and in the same place that Chandrika would as part of her daily routine. Unannounced, a thought entered: ‘What if the phone rang and it was her?’ No sooner had the thought crossed my mind than the phone rang. At that moment, I told myself, ‘This can’t be true.’ Of course, it wasn’t. But those seconds let me see that no matter how far my rational mind had moved on, at some undefinable depth of my being there remain remnants of expectations that cold thought or reason cannot banish.

I have struggled to receive or counter those who helpfully ask me to keep hope, following it up with, ‘Where is the evidence? Without a shred of evidence, why must we believe and accept the worst?’ There isn’t any proof or document from Malaysia Airlines to help us approach banks and other institutions with. I suppose even they are in a quandary about what they can commit to paper without being interrogated. So, much of those concrete things that one does in closing a chapter so a new chapter may be written are in abeyance.

As I take in the news of Abbott and Modi cosying up to each other and doing deals, I wonder if it may have helped for Modi to whisper a word on MH370 and push for the truth. Given the silence in the establishment, it will not surprise many if those in power thought it was a Mumbai cab registration number. And as I read of Malaysia and Australia’s call for an independent investigation into the incident involving MH17, I wonder why the repeated calls for an independent investigation into MH370 have been seen as less deserving. While the difference on the ground (or ocean) realities may be pointed out as basis, the lack of transparency and credibility in both instances stands out as crucial grounds to consider the case for independent investigators.

I have, in the last few weeks, tried to grapple with the idea of loss and mourning. Why do I miss those who I have a shared a slice of life with and today are no more in our midst? Near ones. Friends in distant lands I haven’t stayed in contact with for years. Friends I have met in recent months. Why should the knowledge of ‘physically gone forever’ be such a big deal? Often, the mind shifts to a shared past, suggesting that one part of loving, losing and grieving has less to do with another’s presence in the present. At other times, it moves forward in time to an imagined future that now needs repair. The present has to do with being suddenly incapacitated in small or large measure to fully apprehend and respond to an altered sense of space and the configuration of things.

The void that one experiences suggests a wholeness with ‘my world’ and within myself prior to separation, a wholeness whose quality I don’t have an acute awareness of (or value enough?). Memory then is a companion (or a crutch) that keeps alive the notion of the erstwhile unity or wholeness till I discover a new location to re-anchor myself, a new relationship with memory itself, with all people and things. It is a bit like a glass of water with my finger dipped in, and what happens to the water when I remove my finger. It is just that memory is sticky, heavy and impedes flow.

I am not a mushy sentimentalist. The overgrown stoic in me seldom makes time for such a part. What I miss most in my intimate partner is a friend and a foil, whose expressiveness made up for my lack of it, and whose yen for thoughtful action ensured that life was never frozen, stagnant and lost in a sea of words.

Many years ago, I sought to understand what the process of celebration was all about. Strangely, in the current context, my mind has strayed to that very inquiry. It makes me wonder if celebration and mourning are essentially two sides of the same coin. That in mourning one invokes the memory of a life lived. That much like Robinson Crusoe, who perhaps could not celebrate all by himself and needed a gathering, mourning is a collective process that celebrates the life of one who has gone, and gives a vocabulary to the legacy that lives on. In this process there is sadness, joy and celebration, all in good measure.

Image: Pixabay

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