High tides of melancholy & nostalgia — 5 years after losing Baba
"बिछड़ा कुछ इस अदा से कि रुत ही बदल गई
इक शख़्स सारे शहर को वीरान कर गया..."
On a gloomy winter morning, I sat down with my phone, sipping hot water I looked outside the window…a thick layer of fog had engulfed my city.
After endless scrolling on Twitter, I stumbled upon a photo. In big letters It read - "what frightens you the most"?
I sat there,
Quietly,
Gasping for air,
Taking deep breaths,
I kept staring at the screen.
A voice in my head said — "losing the memories of loved ones who are no longer with us."
The voice slowly faded and I got reminded of Baba.
I was 20 when Baba passed away. He was 91.
I was still too young to have understood him. Still too young to have understood life and death.
5 years down the lane, I understand that death is inevitable and grief is heart-wrenchingly painful.
In her writings on love, loss and grief, American journalist Elizabeth Gilbert says —
"Grief is a force of energy that cannot be controlled or predicted. It comes and goes on its own schedule. Grief does not obey your plans, or your wishes. Grief will do whatever it wants to you, whenever it wants to. In that regard, Grief has a lot in common with Love."
Gilbert adds: "It’s an honor to be in grief. It's an honor to feel that much, to have loved that much."
In pitch silence, I tried recollecting the details of how Baba looked.
When I remember Baba, I think of his warm hands. Wrinkled, rough, skinny yet warm.
Baba's eyes reflected history. It spoke of courage, grit and determination.
His eyes had witnessed traumatic upheavals — British rule in India, partition post-independence, military wars while he served in the army, his wife’s early demise and the loneliness that followed.
Those eyes saw too little joys and too many defeats and yet he chose to be joyful.
A pillar of strength, he was far more than just my loving grandfather.
As I grow older and I decode the nitty-gritty of 'who I am as a person', I draw similarities between us and see a part of him in me.
Missing you is an understatement, Baba. Now that I think of you, I imagine you in a white dhoti, reading the newspaper peacefully in an aangan. I hope you are being served kadak chai up there.
