Arrogance

My father passed away 4,382 days ago. Today is therefore his 12th Death Anniversary. I normally try my best to steer clear of all thoughts and memories of him as they make me incredibly sad. But this time, I wanted to write about what happened that day and see where the process would lead me. It definitely was filled with mixed emotions. One of the many things I noticed after writing this is that I have no recollection whatsoever of things like – what my brother was doing that day, how my mother came home from the hospital and whether or not she was at the cemetery during the burial. I do however remember the colour of the t-shirt I wore and the place where I had breakfast.

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13 June 2009, Guntur

My cousin Kamal woke me up at around 5:30 in the morning. After having dinner at Shankar Vilas Restaurant the previous night with my brother and another cousin, I went to sleep at my aunt’s place. My brother went back to St. Joseph’s Hospital where we had stayed the entire day, to be with my mother. My father was in the ICU, still alive. Kamal told me that we’ve been called to the hospital. We both got ready and left for the hospital in an auto. It was about a 10 minute commute to the hospital. We both sat in silence for those 10 minutes.

We entered the hospital building through a narrow corridor that turned right and opened into a large hall which had staircases, ramps and other pathways to various sections of the hospital. The ICU was on the ground floor attached to a waiting hall for attendants and family members. It was early morning so the hospital was silent without much activity. Soon after entering, I saw my mother lying on a wooden bench weeping, her face covered in her arms. My grandfather (my mother’s father) stood grimly against a pillar near by. I thought I saw tears in his eyes. My cousin Munna was sitting on the stairs to the left. I asked him what the situation was and he told me that they’ve just taken the body from the ICU to the ambulance from a back exit. 

I sat beside Munna on the stairs. I looked at my grandfather and realised that he was crying silently. I wondered what must have been going through his mind. His daughter has just become a widow. My mother seemed exhausted from crying. I think my brother was sitting on that bench with her. I don’t clearly remember. There were other family members too in that hall, but I cannot seem to recall. Few more family members reached the hospital by the time we started back home to Tenali. It was a 45-50 minute drive. I sat in the front seat of some car. I don’t remember who else was in the car with me. I don’t know where my mother and brother were. The ambulance was in front of the car that I was sitting in.

By the time we reached home, the apartment building was buzzing with activity. I remember Victor uncle, our neighbour and my father’s friend, hugging me as soon as he saw me come upstairs. I thought about how Victor uncle used to make fun of how much my father used to pamper me. I went inside my home and changed my shirt. I wore a light yellow t-shirt. After some time I went to have breakfast near the railway station with my brother, Kamal and Munna. I don’t recall what we spoke during that breakfast.

My school friends came to meet me later that day. Some of my friend’s parents, my mother’s friends and my father’s colleagues from work as well. My mother was inconsolable the entire time. She was surrounded by family and friends. I was moving in and out of the house for one reason or the other when an aunt remarked that I was handling the whole situation bravely. I had no idea that I was.

By late afternoon, the coffin, with my father in it, was placed on a table on the ground floor of the building. People sat around it in chairs. A garlanded photo of my father was placed near it. I was eventually made to sit with my mother and my brother beside the coffin. I sat there silently for some time when something inside me broke and I finally started to cry. It went on for some time. Kamal hugged me as I cried. Then an uncle hugged and tried to console me. I don’t remember exactly for how long my crying lasted, but looking back, I wish it had lasted longer.

As evening fell, we were on our way to the cemetery. We stopped near a church for some prayers. After the prayers, my school Principal Suraj sir spoke about my father and his close association with him. Talking about me and my brother, he said that we were good kids and that he is confident that we would have a bright future.

I was walking amidst the crowd as we entered the cemetery. Someone from the crowd insisted that I carry the coffin at least for some distance since I was the son. I did as told. By the time we reached the spot, a pit was already dug up. The hole was neatly cemented and plastered. After some more prayers, the coffin was closed and placed inside. I am half sure that my mother was also there. I was made to throw in some dirt into the pit, and some flowers. The workers then closed the pit using stone slabs, bricks and cement. People started to leave one by one. Close family members stayed until the work was completed. We left the cemetery and went home before it was completely dark. My life, my world and even my identity were never the same after that day.

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When I was at my aunt’s place the night before, the thoughts that kept me occupied were the upcoming semester exams and chatting with my then girl friend. My father died after a 7-8 month battle against cancer. It wasn’t much of a battle really. The unwonted thing about the whole experience for me is that during that entire period, I was not aware that he had cancer and that it was terminal. It seems absolutely bizarre and implausible but even while walking into the hospital that morning, I had no clue that he was in the ICU because he was fighting a losing battle against cancer. Since I was close to him and he loved me dearly and always protected me, everyone thought that it would be best if I was not told about his condition. They wanted to protect me, also perhaps hoping that he would recover.

But the thing about cancer is, it makes itself quite obvious. Especially if you are living with the person in the same house. One should be able to spot a cancer patient without much difficulty, if not initially, definitely in the advanced stages. Even though I was at college during those 7-8 months, I visited home regularly. I saw that he was losing weight, he stopped going to office, he coughed all day, his hair fell. I even went to some chemotherapy sessions with him. I was witness to all of this and yet I was completely blind. I can say for sure that I was not lying to myself and pretending that it was all going to be alright. I just did not know. People did not tell me. I could not see. How is that even possible?

People say that the dead appear as if they’re peacefully asleep. I have no idea how my father looked that day because I could not bring myself to look at him. Not even once. I could not even look in the general direction in which the coffin was placed. I don’t know – what my last conversation with my father was about, when he last kissed me, when we both laughed together or when I just touched him. My brother told me later that even though no one told him what was going on, he went through some of the medical records and after searching online, found out what was happening. Why did I not do the same? Did I not care for him? Was I that stupid? How could I be occupied in trivial things while the person who loved me the most in the world was dying right in front of me? Was it some kind of cognitive bias with the mind seeing only what it wants to see? Was it what they call ‘Maya’? There are so many questions with no answers. So many mistakes with no excuses.

Elaborating on how the whole experience changed my life is too big a task for me now. Simply put, life changed in every possible way. For several months after that day, I kept having nightmares. While I did have close family members and friends to talk to, I did not know what to talk about. Not long after, I broke up with my then girl friend. Needless to say, my relationship with my mother and brother changed significantly. As the years passed, people seemed to have moved on and slowly stopped talking about my father. Even today, we rarely talk about him. There will be some messages in the family WhatsApp group on his birth and death anniversaries. I do not say anything and I try not to respond to any of the messages. Living away from home means that it is easy for me to avoid going home for Good Friday and Easter. I remain silent when people talk about him and I always try to distract myself from thinking about him – present blog entry excluded.

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But is it okay for me to try and grieve now for a person who died 12 years ago? Doesn’t that make me arrogant? I was unable to see what was right in front of me all those years ago and then instead of being ashamed and feeling guilty, I kept trying to distract myself from reality. Is this not arrogance? Considering what had happened due to the pandemic during the past several months and how it had shattered lakhs of families, does my grief even matter now?

On the other hand, I get a feeling that grieving for someone who passed away implies that I am seeing myself as being in possession of life. As if I am going to live forever. The truth however is that death is the only thing certain in this uncertain life of mine. Doesn’t then grieving for someone else automatically make me arrogant? When I started to write this, it was not my desire to complete 14 paragraphs only to end up pondering whether attempting to grieve for my father is just me being arrogant. I am still not entirely sure that it is. It could be arrogance or it could be the inevitable tragedy of human sentience. It could also be both.

Thanks for reading.

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