She had been lying in bed, crippled and motionless for nearly five years. Even getting up to use the restroom had become a tedious job. Her words, once strong, clear and inspiring were today an incoherent stream of garbled speech. Frail and flaccid, her withering body would lay in the same position for hours. Her hair, once a thick, lustrous auburn crown had been reduced to a few stray strands plastered to her tear stained face, as she dipped in and out of consciousness.
For five long years her withering words and tortured grunts tickled my pinna, but went unnoticed...unacknowledged. I could hear her faintly murmuring my name; see her trying to lift her outstretched hand, her eyes barely leaving their slit position.
As soon as this disease set in, I gravitated towardevery other curricular. It was as if a part of me wasn’t ready to accept reality. Wasn’t ready to accept change.
Excuses replaced my once childish voice asking her to spin me more fables and fairytales. Her lap, which was once my safe haven, now fostered my distance.
I was too immature to understand the value of someone’s time, and how quickly that time goes. The superficial world we teenagers develop had engulfed me. I fed my conscience with a false belief, telling myself I’d make up for the growing distance when I had more time in the future.
I wasn’t there to witness the moment when the last ounce of oxygen escaped her tired nostrils or to support and accompany the rest of my crumbling family, sprawled out at her feet. Neither was I there to hold my mother’s shaking hands or hug my father’s rigid stance as he set fire to her lifeless body. I didn’t get to hear her last words, nor do I remember the last thing she said to me.
At her funeral, even though I was only a few feet away from the congregation, I’d never felt so alone. Death separated me from my grandmother and the people who had gathered could barely fill the void. The fire, which according to Hindus is an entity that ends all, swallowed the remnants of my last chance at an apology.
In that one moment everything changed. In that moment you realize you’ll never hear their voice again, touch their skin or even say a mere goodbye. In that moment you realize the value of a second chance and the regret of wasting away your first.
To look at the reflection of someone who failed the woman who loved her most, is another experience in itself. Failing something leaves you with a hope of ‘doing better next time’. But, failing a dying deity, a presence who has been your guiding light and protecting force, leaves no room for condolences, forgiveness, second chances or even a mere apology.
She had spent forty years, if not all sixty, teaching every child that crossed her path the value of sharing, empathy, equality and justice. Her favorite dialogue still haunts me, “The problem with today’s world is that there’re too many people, and too less human beings”.
Creeping into a desolate and detached state and contemplating one’s actions can sometimes result in a miracle. I spent many a nights drying my face, remembering, reminiscing and reliving.
Was it the home videos and photographs or her lingering scent throughout the house, I don’t know? But, whatever it was, it helped me realize the value of life and existence; the value of suffering and time.
It’s been several months, perhaps even more than a year, since I’ve been visiting her favorite home for the old, regularly. Them and me, both having been left behind by someone we love, we complete each other. Every time I’m surrounded by the smell of tea and wool, a symphony of laughter, stories of the past and the scent of abundant emotions, I feel forgiveness. I feel the void becoming smaller.
Respecting the value of every second, every breath and every word can change every ending. And I hope, when I’m facing my end, I can say I haven’t failed myself.
