If I was doing this longhand, the hand may have shivered a bit and the words would be trembly. But this post had to come out. Like a spasm.
I think maybe my age is to blame, which makes my elders of a dying age. Or maybe the present age we all live in, no longer as simple and honest as old-timers are used to.
Either way, the pattern has become unnerving: every year now, there's a couple of those dreaded phone calls or emails telling us about another family elder who has passed away.
I think about my uncle who lovingly decked up a bedroom with balloons and roses, for a first wedding night. Someone with whose blessings Usha and I started our married life. He maybe thinks about his own wedding night too, and countless other wonderful moments since. I think about this uncle, who recently lost his wife.
I think of my granny when I am playing carrom with Aakash. She was an awful shot and Aakash plays better but in common was a thrill of 'thumbing' and illegally pocketing coins. I indulge Aakash like I used to indulge my granny - because she was indulgent too back then, sacrificing her afternoon nap to play carrom after school.
I think of my grandpa when I'm in the grip of reading something. I may have got my love for books from him - after he lost his eyesight in later years, my reading out the newspaper headlines was the highlight of his day.
I think of Usha's uncle who would sit with a pile of fruits, plating healthy dessert for family after every meal. I think of her grandma whose love she can still feel and whose cooking she can still taste, long after she's gone.
It is Hindu belief that elders who pass on join the pantheon of Gods, who then watch over their families. When someone tells you there's a million and one Hindu Gods, they don't realize it but they are only half-joking.
There's usually a framed photograph of the deceased family member just outside the area where the idols are kept. We have one at home of Mom's.
It may be the angle it was taken, but I often get the feeling when I am close to the picture that the eyes are roving, and watching and following me. Its hard to appreciate being watched over when the person is alive, its very comforting after that. I think of her often and not just when I wake up some mornings with a shiver and a renewed sense of loss. I think of her when Aakash is being difficult and am at a loss on how to deal with it. She put up with a boy known to sit by the side of the road after the school bus was gone, refusing to come home till he got his 5-star chocolate bar. She of all people would know how to deal with any tantrum. I think of her when I feel weak from a stupid backache or fever, so small in front of the mountains of physical anguish she climbed. I think of her when Usha wears a saree or necklace, that she lovingly passed on.
I think of dreaded news and calls that are yet to come. I think of my diminutive, darling granny scurrying around at my uncle's home in Chennai; the sadness of outliving her beloved daughter weighing heavily on those little shoulders; but still the 'moru' magician and still doing other kitchen voodoo.
I think of the dead but should think more of the beautiful life that was lived.
I look forward to the new year, while learning not to forget.
I think maybe my age is to blame, which makes my elders of a dying age. Or maybe the present age we all live in, no longer as simple and honest as old-timers are used to.
Either way, the pattern has become unnerving: every year now, there's a couple of those dreaded phone calls or emails telling us about another family elder who has passed away.
I think about my uncle who lovingly decked up a bedroom with balloons and roses, for a first wedding night. Someone with whose blessings Usha and I started our married life. He maybe thinks about his own wedding night too, and countless other wonderful moments since. I think about this uncle, who recently lost his wife.
I think of my granny when I am playing carrom with Aakash. She was an awful shot and Aakash plays better but in common was a thrill of 'thumbing' and illegally pocketing coins. I indulge Aakash like I used to indulge my granny - because she was indulgent too back then, sacrificing her afternoon nap to play carrom after school.
I think of my grandpa when I'm in the grip of reading something. I may have got my love for books from him - after he lost his eyesight in later years, my reading out the newspaper headlines was the highlight of his day.
I think of Usha's uncle who would sit with a pile of fruits, plating healthy dessert for family after every meal. I think of her grandma whose love she can still feel and whose cooking she can still taste, long after she's gone.
It is Hindu belief that elders who pass on join the pantheon of Gods, who then watch over their families. When someone tells you there's a million and one Hindu Gods, they don't realize it but they are only half-joking.
There's usually a framed photograph of the deceased family member just outside the area where the idols are kept. We have one at home of Mom's.
It may be the angle it was taken, but I often get the feeling when I am close to the picture that the eyes are roving, and watching and following me. Its hard to appreciate being watched over when the person is alive, its very comforting after that. I think of her often and not just when I wake up some mornings with a shiver and a renewed sense of loss. I think of her when Aakash is being difficult and am at a loss on how to deal with it. She put up with a boy known to sit by the side of the road after the school bus was gone, refusing to come home till he got his 5-star chocolate bar. She of all people would know how to deal with any tantrum. I think of her when I feel weak from a stupid backache or fever, so small in front of the mountains of physical anguish she climbed. I think of her when Usha wears a saree or necklace, that she lovingly passed on.
I think of dreaded news and calls that are yet to come. I think of my diminutive, darling granny scurrying around at my uncle's home in Chennai; the sadness of outliving her beloved daughter weighing heavily on those little shoulders; but still the 'moru' magician and still doing other kitchen voodoo.
I think of the dead but should think more of the beautiful life that was lived.
I look forward to the new year, while learning not to forget.
