Losing my father last year, was the most devastating event in my life. And I have had more than my fair share of run-ins with Unpleasant Experiences, Nasty People and Heart-Attack Inducing Moments in my 30 odd years of existence upon this earth.
The pain and trauma of those 20 days in January 2010 have left an indelible mark upon my psyche and soul, and I know it will never go. Yes, the wound will heal eventually, but the scar will never fade.
Being the Daddy's Girl that I was, am and forever shall be, I confidently believed that nobody was more affected by his passing than I. No. Not even my mother. After all, I was a witness to their marriage and it wasn't particularly pretty.
But then I saw her break. Her life-partner, her companion for the golden years ahead, the man she had two children with, whom she struggles with, made sacrifices with, sang with, lived with, loved, disliked, bickered and fought with, was gone. Is gone. Forever.
Now my mumma is a strong woman. She is our rock. We draw strength from her and count on her to be steady and solid and to never falter on our behalf. Gregarious and generous to a fault, fearless and fun-loving, she is my strength. My daddy was always my weakness.
I couldn't bear to see her crumble and cry. It broke me. Her biggest wail was, "How can I live alone now?"
Yes. Her biggest fear had come true.
Because you see, this strong woman who battled everyone's fears and forged ahead on their behalves, actually did have one fear. I lied. She wasn't totally fearless. She did have one fear. One she was always worried about confronting and succumbing to -- the fear of being alone.
After all, this was the woman who had moved continents just so that she could be near her brothers and sisters. This was the woman who willingly and happily turned her as-it-is-always-open-house into a big rehearsal space in the months preceding Durga Puja. This is the woman who has myriad friend groups to fulfill her different loves and interests: an adda group, a theatre group, a movie-watching group, a spiritual group, a charity group, a travel group...it goes on. This is the woman you call and call but who never answers her land-line, because she's never at home. This is the woman who's always game to go out. This is the woman who never says 'No.' This is the woman who just can't be by herself.
So when daddy died, who was she going to come home to? Who was going to open the door for her? Would she now, finally have to start carrying around a key?
My husband, sons and I went for a holiday to Himachal a couple of weeks ago. We took my mother along. It was there, near the steps of a temple, that I saw my mother looking at the expanse of mountains before us. The look on her face was serene, peaceful, beautiful. Without looking at me she said, "I think I can do. I can carry on. I can live."
This woman, who was once a calendar girl in her Shanti-Niketan-Bosonto-Utsob regalia; who her nephews and nieces still remember as being the most beautiful woman they'd ever seen when she stepped in as a new bride in my grandparent's home; whom I used to look at with awe whenever she dressed up in a Benarasi silk sari, was glowing.
This woman, who was once a calendar girl in her Shanti-Niketan-Bosonto-Utsob regalia; who her nephews and nieces still remember as being the most beautiful woman they'd ever seen when she stepped in as a new bride in my grandparent's home; whom I used to look at with awe whenever she dressed up in a Benarasi silk sari, was glowing.
Those images of the young woman in the calender, the beautiful bride in those black-and-white-photographs, the Benarasi-clad woman just slipped away from the pages of my memory. Before me stood a woman wearing the wrinkles of her life upon her face. The battles she'd fought and won were specks of survival in her eyes.
I saw her wearing her soul that day -- it was an armour of strength; it was a mantle of inner peace; it was a glimpse of real, true, inner beauty.
Lucky, lucky me.
