I remember the day began like any other summer day. 9 July.

We had an early start. My father was bundled into my uncle’s car. I travelled along. We were headed to the hospital, a short distance away. My father, uneasy as hell, perhaps decided that the way out was to reach for the heavens. He didn’t make it to the hospital. He chose to go his own way, never to return. The doctors at the hospital called out to him, pressed on with their machines, thumped his chest, and eventually said goodbye. They had seen the man divide his time equally between home and hospital for five years. They saw him off for the last time. There was just the journey back home with him in deathly silence.

My uncle and I went on to my grandfather’s house, located a half hour away, to break the news. My grandfather on hearing the news became silent for a while. A twitch of the lip was the only giveaway. He picked himself up and proceeded to the car. He had been our anchor in the recent years, our ‘foster parent’, while my father accompanied by my mother spent many months of the year in hospital. 

There were signs of visitors, noticeable, as we got closer to home. Some people were lingering just outside. To a passer-by, from the distance, it must have been hard to tell… festivities perhaps?

My three sisters looked lost. They appeared worried and occasionally in tears. We had come to accept that there was no question of recovery for my father. Over the years, we had seen him shrink to being half the man he once was. But he had carried on gamely, suffering but not complaining, struggling but never giving up. His end was seen as inevitable, but never imminent. And now he was gone forever, though it seemed like every other day when he would have been off to the hospital – lifted out of bed at home in the morning and deposited back in bed by evening.

My mother was inconsolable, alternating between a firm belief that my father will be ‘back’, and the shattered hope of a longer innings. I imagine the dread of all that befalls a widow as per custom had begun to grip her. For her, it was unreal to receive condolences and unbearable to submit to the advice of elders. She had served unflinchingly, prayed fervently, and hoped fiercely, each day of the six years. The best years of her life had been snatched away by responsibilities and the unsparing demands of tending. The cruelty of hopes dashed and prayers unanswered was all too much to take. She wept as if the dam of resolve had been breached, and what sprang forth was a flood of loud grief without end.

My mother reached out to her Guru. He stayed in the neighbourhood. A pious man, he was a regular visitor to our house, offering prayers for my father’s health. He also gave my father a massage every once in a while using medicated oils. My mother too visited him frequently. The Guru’s presence and prayers must have offered her some solace and respite. Over time, she had come to believe in the Guru’s powers to intercede with the Divine on her behalf, a belief that both raised hopes and instilled confidence that the Divine would not betray her devotion, and that the Guru would do good by her when it was time to wrest back her husband from the portals of heaven. For a woman who was tired, desperate and devout, there was never any room for doubt.

The Guru arrived, wife in tow. My father lay on the sofa, inert, surrounded by some twenty or more people, mostly colleagues who had come by, who stayed briefly, and left early to catch a good part of the workday. My mother on hearing of the Guru’s arrival, came screaming, eyes streaming with tears, beseeching him to do something. She reminded him of past conversations and assurances and asked that he invoke the Powers that be and bring her husband back to life.

It was mid-morning, and the stream of visitors was growing. Everyone gathered around, unclear what to expect next. There were attempts to ‘sssh’ my mother, but she was far too into the moment, in anticipation, believing that it was anytime now that her prayers would be answered. The Guru prayed and chanted seeking the Mother’s blessings and intervention. Everyone waited. He continued invoking the Mother’s grace while more joined in and looked on. In time, ‘higher spirits’ visited upon the Guru’s wife and ‘spoke’. A conversation between the two ensued. Such a phenomenon was not new in our parts, and people strained to listen in. I cringed. I cried, angry, hopeless, helpless. I stood some distance away in the hall, embarrassed, ashamed but also silently expectant. I watched the proceedings furtively. I also realised that my mother was fighting one last ditch battle, one final appeal in the court of the last resort, to restore life to one who had relinquished it, to bring back one who had walked away,

After a while when the Guru stood humbly with his wife, telling my mother that the hand of the Divine cannot be forced and that the Divine that causes pain also offers endurance. It was all Her will and the cycle of life and death is the order of things.

My mother felt momentarily abandoned, crushed, and bewildered by the turn of events; her husband’s demise now an irreversible reality. She had had enough. She wanted nothing more of this world, the ceaseless agony of suffering and separation, the sanctions and prohibitions that were to follow her as a widow. 

Much later in the afternoon, I discovered that she had taken numerous sleeping pills and was numb to the world. I wondered how the morning’s spectacle would be broadcast to family, friends, and my father’s colleagues. There was not much time to ponder it or to think about my father who was no longer with us. As the only son, I had to receive the guests, listen to their well-meaning advice that I should stay strong, take charge as the new ‘head of the family’, and take care of my mother. I had no time to locate my sisters, spend some moments and inquire. I gathered much later that they spent time with my mother, keeping her awake, sane and responsive, keeping their own panic from knowing of my mother’s pill-popping under control.

What was left for me was to go through the motions unleashed by the priests, culminating in a funeral procession that passed through my father’s office en route to the cremation grounds. A large number of my father’s colleagues came to pay their respects. I suppose they felt blessed having supported an ailing man get through his workday for years, and even perhaps inspired by his dedication and commitment to work.

It was evening by the time I got home after the cremation. The crowd in the house had thinned somewhat. I sat down to think for the first time that day without having to make conversation and rested a few minutes. I then went to see my mother. She was, by then, more widely awake, but very weak and shaken. On seeing me, she held me and cried, asking why did it all have to come to this. She had many questions as she tried to grapple with her new reality. I told her that trying to find answers is like peeling an onion, each layer opening up to another; that there are layers without end. The facts are what they are. We need to look ahead and make a fresh start. She told me much later that she felt comforted by my words.

Family occasions like marriages and deaths are also occasions for ugly sideshows and unsavoury showdowns. It never is only about the overt bonhomie or visible concern.

It wasn’t long into the evening when the matter of the Guru cropped up. My mother’s uncle was keen that the Guru be kept away from the house. Furthermore, he suggested that my mother not visit him or have anything to do with him. It will needlessly set tongues wagging, he said. My mother was incensed by the innuendo and bluntly told him that people are welcome to their views but she will do as she deems fit. Never one to fight shy, she told him that hunger has many forms, and hell, she doesn’t need his permission to fulfil them. I was present when this exchange happened. I was angry with the uncle for his utter insensitivity and spurious sense of family honour, but said nothing. My mother’s response was as good as a slap on the face.

Soon after, dinner was had. There was silence. The frenzy of the day had settled into a quiet where I could hear a distant dog’s bark and the sound of anyone who spoke, sharp and clear.

With many from the family staying on, I settled down to sleep on a mat on the floor, my cousin next to me. He had been by my side through most of the day, a reliable and comforting presence. There were tears. I let my mind linger on the events of the day. I have done that for many years since.

The year was 1981. I was 17. My mother was 39. My sisters then were 21, 19 and 15.  We have each taken in the day’s events in our own particular ways. I am clueless about my sisters. They have, I suspect, oscillated between passivity and pragmatism, their faith in humanity and God intact. My mother remained devoted to her Guru, her faith in the Divine redoubled. I am not sure how she squared off with the Gods. No burden is hers alone, since she shares it with the Divine, and she thus feels lighter and abundant. I have, since that day, distanced myself from religiosity, ritual and prayer to a God “out there”. I concede that there are facets of existence that are beyond the senses but have been reluctant to give myself fully to a discipline that can help me access them. So, I have been a spiritual wanderer, an exile from my essence at times, a nihilist, and an infrequent man of faith.

I wrote the contents of this post as a note sometime in 2015. So I think. It was a running reel in my head for years that I wanted to commit to words. We had lived with our collective silence about the dramatic events of the day for decades. This dawned on us when I shared the note with my sisters. That they carried a similar imprint of the day came as a relief, a confirmation that I hadn’t imagined the details or amplified it for dramatic effect.

How we individually coped with our sense of loss must have been entirely private or I had no sensing of it at that time or later. I fared rather poorly anyway in expressing feelings or opening up and being responsive to receive the feelings of others ( back then, I am tempted to add). The unforgiving clock was a reminder of daily demands and that life will and must go on.

I recall my father’s smile as he suffered through it – all of those six years. He was a silent hero. But the big hero in this story is my mother who to this day is steadfast in her faith in people and the Divine, and whose indomitable spirit remains a pillar of strength for all who cherish her.

My difficulty with the good men and women acting as God’s ‘chosen’ intermediaries remains. In my world, everyone is ‘the chosen’. No one or no thing is excepted. That is perhaps for another time.