The nature of grief

Grief is a very complex emotion. It's fragile, yet powerful. Sometimes you feel like you're alright, at other times it leaves you gasping with sharp agony.

For me, grief tastes like leftover sugar tea and salty crackers. Ritz crackers. It smells like the woody, musty smell of my grandfather's room. Its dim lighting offering a glimpse into my lost childhood.

My journey with grief started young. It started when my mother told me to forget my father—he wasn't coming back. It started when my Grandfather placed me on his lap and told me the story of Sita's separation from Rama. My mother's muffled sobs at midnight a mirror to Sita's pain.

Grief was leaving the safe warm embrace of my grandparents and moving to a strange country. But children are quick to forget. So I adapted. I learnt to speak English and forgot Tamil in the process. Losing my mothertongue cemented my separation from my first caregivers. But I didn't grieve that. English empowered me. Tamil was embarrassing in its familiarity and earthy homeliness.

Growing up, I was constantly told never to cry. My mother did all the crying for me. Every time my parents fought, I watched stoically. Sometimes I screamed. But mostly I watched in silence. Crying was not allowed. Only my mother could cry. That too at midnight when I pretended to be asleep. Large heaving sobs. Her eyes are permanently ringed by sorrow marks now. I still can't stand the sound of anyone crying.

I never learnt to cry. The act of crying is such a strange concept. When my university mate told me she just needed to have a good cry to feel better, I couldn't empathize. How weak must you be to cry? The few times I did cry, it came out in staccato bursts. A few tears now and then disgust. Then a few more tears. More disgust. Then I was done.

But grief has little to do with tears or crying. It's just grief. It's always there in the background. Grief at losing my only source of affection. Grief at witnessing a broken family. Grief at having to play the role of a parent to my own parents. Its musty blue-grey essence has oozed into my personality.

When I see myself in the mirror, I can see a person with very little emotion in her eyes. Just a disinterested blankness.

Earlier this year I received news that my grandfather was nearing his end. I can't visit him. We are in the middle of a pandemic, after all. It'd be irresponsible to drop everything and fly to India.

All that grief I've been locking away for another safer day is sneaking out. I try to frantically hold it in. Mostly, I succeed. People can't tell behind the cheery smile. But suddenly it sneaks up on me and makes me gasp in pain.

I can't bear the thought of losing my grandfather. He taught me how to enjoy my tea. He emphasized the importance of education. He taught me how to pray to the Gods. Om Namah Shivaya. Om Namah Shivaya. He took me on long walks while telling stories of all the great epics.

My brilliant, short-tempered thaatha with his eidetic memory of events that happened in 1951. The first person to hold me when I was born. In every childhood photo, he's there. Holding me, chasing after me, walking with me. He proudly displays all my school transcripts and tells anyone who'd listen how his granddaughter taught him about the internet. Of all his grandchildren, I'm his favourite. That's what my grandmother lovingly whispers in my ear.

Now he's going to leave me. Of course this was expected. All those books on Buddhism, all those books on stoicism prepared me for this. Everyone dies. All that arises must cease. But nothing prepared me for this pain.

The Christians say we'll all be reunited some day. I have no such fantasies. I believe he'll be reincarnated into a flower. Or maybe a crow. He was (is?) dark skinned and an infamous hoarder. A crow sounds better than a flower. Less sentimental.

I suppose all these days I didn't need to express grief. I was secure in the knowledge that somewhere in this world there was this person who loved me with all his being. His radiant love sheltered me from having to experience and process grief. Now that he'll be gone, who's there for me? That terrifies me.

Losing that source of unconditional love scares me. As I write this, I can feel the pain of 22 years of constant loss. The tears fall and it's unfamiliar. It comes in stacatto bursts again. Crying in an unfamiliar action. I am unable to associate grieving with crying.

Grief is ritz crackers and sweet tea that just won't taste the same again. It's seeing white veshtis and remembering the imposing form of my grandfather. Grief is going back to my childhood home and not hearing him chant hymns to the Gods at the ungodly hour of 7AM again.

Translations:
Sita & Rama are characters from the great Indian epic Ramayana. 
Thaatha: Tamil word for grandfather
Veshti: white sarong worn by Tamil men.