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Mother, writer and daydreamer. Also chocoholic and chick-flick lover. But mainly mommy. To two boys, at that! When not escorting my Elder One (EO) to karate class, I'm trying to get in as many cuddles as possible from my Younger One (YO). And when not doing either, I'm hard-at-work trying to maintain a steady relationship with my laptop. And as for the Man I Married (MIM), well, let’s just put it this way – even though we share a bedroom, our most meaningful conversations are held over the cell-phone!

Sunday, January 16, 2011

Here's the thing.

Here's the thing. Here's the thing.
And the thing is,
is that I am a volcano of rage right now.
I am a mass of rage,
of anger,
of pain
right now.

These were the last few days of my dad's life last year.
I am reliving those moments,
those words,
the looks,
the fears,
the utter
and complete
devastation
all over again.
The last cup of tea
I fed you with my hands.
Your desire to get out of there
and write about your hospital experience.
Do you remember daddy?
You had even thought of the title --
"From Doom to Room."
It turned out to be just the opposite.
How ironic.
How fucking,
FUCKING
ironic.
Except.
I can't laugh about it.
I have no sense of humour about this.
He wanted to get out of there
and write about it.
He thought he was getting out of there.
He believed he was getting out of there.
He wanted to write about it all.
About being stuck in a hospital,
in ICU,
about being shifted around many ICUs,
about having all those painful MRIs
and surviving it all --
except,
he didn't.

He never saw it coming.
And neither did we.

And I ended up doing his last rites.

How hard I tried to shake off
all the shittiness
of last year
with a nervous stray thought of hope
only to start off the first day of this year
with another death,
another farewell,
another funeral.

I walked around my grandmother's home
searching for the ghost of my little girl self
in the peeling paint of the walls,
in the faded black-and-white snaps,
the old hibiscus tree from where you got your flowers to adorn your Gods.
They're undressed now,
the Gods
without Their floral tributes.
The flowers hang loosely
and forlornly on the shrubs,
while in the kitchen,
there are memories
of your hustle and bustle
as a lonely cloud of forgotten aromas and fragrances
hovers about in the corner,
trying to keep alive
the love that you dished out to us,
didu.

That house
was where I felt safe,
loved,
pampered,
adored
and so happy.

The emptiness in that house
is so enormous
and never-ending
that there's no way to escape it
and even then
it can't swallow me whole
for I am bigger than that emptiness;
I am full of red-hot rage
and inky-blue pain.

I am a volcano of rage
right now.
I black hole of grief.
Of sorrow.
Of anguish.



5 comments:

Aneela Z said...

oh yes give it to the universe...there is this saying that on no soul a burden more than it can take, I guess its about time you say no more effing pain

monikamanchanda said...

super tight hugs yes time to give it back

Sue said...

I've never heard you swear before. I just realised.

How is your mother doing?

dipali said...

I feel your pain. Oh boy- this piece brought out all that your father underwent. I'm so sorry. I wish his passing hadn't been such a nightmare:(

Debosmita said...

haunting! and painful!