Death

My daughter's best friend lost her father. Last year. She was in 5^th standard. Ten years old.

She didn't cry. Or rather, I didn’t see her cry. Two weeks later, when she came to our home, I didn’t see her sad or mourning or weeping. I was looking out to catch a tear waiting to roll down. There was none. So normal she was that I was appalled to see it.

But wait! Why was I so desperate to see her sad? Why was I scanning her eyes? Why was I waiting for her to start missing her father any moment now and maybe either start howling in sheer grief or sit in a corner and sob silently?

Is it because it pushed me to think of my own death? It made me wonder how would Tanvi my daughter, react when faced with a similar unfortunate and clearly mentally devastating situation, so early on in life. Will she also be “normal” in two weeks flat? Most importantly, do I WANT her to cry for days on end when I die?

I do. I do!

Oh My God! Did I just say that out loud? Such a vain woman! So vain! So utterly despicably vain!

Thoughts of mortality – are they morbid or actually uplifting and beneficial? Visiting my mortality, time and again, in my thoughts, over the years, has been a see-saw ride for me.

I have said this, to many people, many times, that if I live till 50, that’s all I ask. I don’t want a long life. 50 will do for me. And to think, that’s just another ten years ahead.

Sometimes, this thought of death is accompanied by a sense of urgency and unreasonable bouts of jealousy. Knowing that there are so many places I still have not visited and desperately, (yes, desperately in bold and red), want to see, and so little time to do it all. That makes me wonder if I will be an unhappy soul. An ‘atrapth atma’ (unfulfilled soul) roaming the streets pushing tourists off the cliff or drowning others as they splash in the beach or choking some as they relish their food in a fancy restaurant. Will I be doing that? Will I turn into a vengeful, dissatisfied ex-traveller snuffing out the lives of other seemingly happy travellers? I can very well see myself doing that! What a shame! But I swear, if I die before I have seen all the places I want to see and do all the things I want to do, I will come back and haunt YOU – You who are now onto your next lovely travel adventure.

Then my thoughts turn to my daughter. 11 years old now. How will she manage her life without her mother? The question is almost always followed by a long, thoughtful pause.  And then hits the piercing, stabbing-my-heart-till-it-bleeds-and-wets-the-floor realization. She will do just fine. She is far too practical and far less emotional than I have ever been. And that is both scary and comforting, at the same time.

It is scary because I am a selfish mother. Won’t she shed a few bloody tears bemoaning her great loss? Don’t I deserve a few months, (no, make it years), of sorrow for having given birth to her and raised her and then gone, wooof into thin air, leaving her all alone? I the mother, the creator, the nurturer, the nourisher - forgotten easily and surely – is that my fate?

It is comforting because for a mother there is no greater achievement than knowing that her daughter is confident. That she raised a girl who is self-reliant and can live her life without being a crutch. That all the sweat and sacrifice one endured has resulted in a child who will be just fine, even without you. That’s huge. I know. After all, isn’t that the whole purpose of parenting? To raise a young one such that one day they can set out on their own and not depend on you.

Sigh! I have to make peace with not getting those bucketful of tears.

Damn!

Barkur

Barkur is a group of 3 villages (Hosala, Hanehalli, and Kachoor) in Udupi district of Karnataka (KA) on the banks of the Seeta River. It is the village I grew up in. I lived there from Class 4 to my Post-Graduation. That amounts to 15 years of my life. It is a village I ferociously hate now and never want to go back to – ever.

 Historical records say it was once the capital of the Tulu kingdom that ruled coastal KA. In the 15th and 16th centuries, it was also a thriving port! The Alupa rulers made Barkur their capital.  It was a province under the Vijayanagar Empire in 14th century A.D and an important administrative unit.  It was a sub capital of the Hoysala kings. The city had 365 temples. The King visited a temple every day, and on the last day of the year, he visited the most important Panchalingeshwara Temple. There are also Bhutastanas (spirit worshipping centres). Evidences of Megalithic and Mesolithic ages have been discovered. Nearly 100 stone and copper plate inscriptions have been found here.

As you enter Barkur the first thing you see is the Kallu chappara, or roof of stone. A nandi is seated in it. The Kalikamba Temple was built in the 14^th century. Barkur is the holy place for Mogaveera community. The Kula Maha Sthree Amma Temple is visited by Mogaveeras from all over the world. The temples here do not have gopurams, found in the Dravidian style South Indian temples. The Chowlikere Ganapathy Temple was built 900 years back, during the Chola Period.  

Barkur’s largest and oldest temple is the Panchalingeshwara Temple dedicated to Lord Shiva. Katthale Basadi consists Shiva, Vishnu and Jain deities proving the existence of changing kingdoms with different rulers controlling the city - politically and through religion. 

I should be proud of the village. But I am not. I have erased its memory from my mind. After my mother passed away in Oct 2003, I never went back to that village. For 12 long years I refused to set foot on its soil. The house without my mother was not my home anymore!  12 years of not turning back to the place that has a lot of childhood memories is something many cannot comprehend. 

 

It is a village of conservative, narrow-minded people, resentful of other’s success, actively gloating and sneering when someone fails in their educational or employment pursuits, not helping others even when one has the power to do so. It is still a highly caste conscious town where the first look is to ascertain which caste you belong to from the way you dress, speak or the jewellery you wear. Or on good days, brace yourself for direct questions like what is your father’s (full) name which will give away your caste. This then decides how much importance they give you, what type of utensils they use to serve you tea or even think it worthy of serving you at all. It is a place where I have witnessed all kinds of discrimination – rich against poor, high caste against low caste, educated against illiterate, the haves against the have-nots. 

I briefly went there last year, exactly around this time (Oct 2015). I was astonished to see that the village hasn’t progressed or modernised at all. Except for few shops here and there that have renovated themselves, the whole village is caught in a time warp. Many have settled in Middle Eastern countries or in big cities like Bombay and Bangalore earning handsomely, yet the money has not been pumped back into the village. 12 years later I go there and the questions I get asked are how much gold I’ve made in all these years, is the house I live in, in Bangalore our own or rented! 

How do I explain to them that, materially I’ve not accumulated much but life experiences and exposure-wise, I am a treasure house? Do I even make the effort? I don’t. I’ve no energy left. None of them matter to me.
I don’t really care for what they think. I have bid adieu to the place. And in my choice, I have found peace.

A War and A Family

Conversations is hosting its FIRST Guest Post. And can it be anything but special?

Since the time I understood the concept of guest posts, I wanted only 1 person to begin that trend here & that is my high-school friend Suzaan. Her blog - Colors of My Thoughts. She was my first reader & the first person to comment on my posts. For one whole year, this blog got comments only from her (& rare appearances by 1 or 2 other readers mostly my students!)

We read each other's minds through our blogs. She lives in Kuwait & I havent seen her or even heard her voice, after we passed out of 12th Std. Yet I feel close to her. Thanks to blogging.

Read on for her first hand account of the Gulf War.

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A War & A Family

We were a strange little band of characters trudging through life sharing diseases & toothpaste, coveting one another's desserts, hiding shampoo, borrowing money, locking each other out of our rooms, inflicting pain & kissing to heal it in the same instant, loving, laughing, defending, & trying to figure out the common thread that bound us all together.

- Erma Bombeck

When the war broke out in August 1991, I was back in India on a vacation with my mom & siblings for 20 days. We were at my grandma's house when a neighbor walked in & told my mom," Kuwait has just been invaded." My mom didn’t understand. She was blinking as if "WTF" & ran & watched the news. I heard this panic filled scream & watched her run towards the nearest telephone booth. The phone lines didn’t work & then all hell broke loose. In a couple of days, she turned into this bitter, angry woman who didn’t eat & got crazy when any of us laughed & played. I was going to turn 12 & had no idea what was happening. How am I supposed to know what war is? I knew the British had invaded India but wasn’t that through some company?

Every time we fought amongst ourselves, my mom would beat me up. She was frustrated; she had 3 kids here & the love of her life, maybe dead out there or God alone knew what had happened! Days passed into weeks & she made me watch every piece of English news & translate it 10 times a day. I was sick & tired of watching bombs go off, refineries on fire, tanks running down the streets & armies moving in the country. I wanted to play, to have fun.

People around started wondering if our good times had come to an end. Our relatives shied away from us fearing they’d be approached for money or help. Some would laugh at us coz now we weren’t NRIs anymore & we kids were constantly told by others," you guys will have to learn to live life like us...no more expensive chocolates & nakhras okay." Some form of indifference was being formed & that’s when my mom decided she had to move to Mumbai with her sister. The news channels were informing that every country was sending their planes to Kuwait to pick up their citizens from the war zone. Camps were being organized for every nationality & people were moving out of Kuwait into camps at Iran, Jordan, & Saudi.

Once we came to Mumbai, things got a little better. My aunt calmed my mom. My mom would catch me by my shoulders & ask," can you even imagine what must have happened to your dad out there? I’m worried here & all you can think of is food & play. What kind of a daughter are you?" My immediate response to that was," Mom, you worry too much. Dad is fine & so are our aunties. They are doing well & will be coming home on my birthday. Who else would bring me my cake huh?" And my mom would scream, "Ohhh" & ask me to get lost.

End of August we received a phone call from Tehran. It was my dad. While my mom couldn’t utter a single syllable, my dad explained to her that he was doing well & the sisters were great. They were taken care of & will be coming to India in the next available flight. When my mom hung up, she had this serenity written all over & the first thing she did was hug & kiss me nonstop. She asked me how was I so sure & I told her, from the very first day an angel told me that everything was okay & my dad was going to be home for my 13th birthday.

She relaxed after that. She cooked meals with my aunt & never shouted at us. On 4th September morning, I woke up & saw my aunt preparing breakfast. She asked me, “I thought you said your daddy would be here” to which I replied," He will be”. I walked into the sitting room & I felt this tingling feeling. I ran outside & there my dad & his sisters were coming out of a taxi. I ran out, straight into his arms screaming daddy. It was a reunion to remember. I kept screaming," I knew you’d never miss my birthday, I love you daddy." I ran in & told my mom dad was here. She dropped the pan on the floor & ran into the living room. She stood by the door, shocked. She didn’t say anything while my brother & sister were hugging him. She stood by the door, tears flowing & said nothing. I thought about all that screaming & beating & for what! To stand glued to the door without a word to utter!

I now know the hell she went through & how difficult it had all been. We were shunned by some relatives & experienced poverty even. I remember pining for a piece of chocolate toffee but couldn’t afford it. I remember wearing hand me downs of neighbors’ & living off people's generosity for a few years. I remember not being able to celebrate Christmas coz even buying a kg of meat was a big deal. I remember not putting up Christmas trees & decorations coz we didn’t have any. I remember my parents crying over how thin we kids had become. My dad felt awful each time my brother asked him, “Can’t we even buy a small cake for a birthday.” Mom would make us sweet rice balls instead to have as sweets. Life was difficult. For someone who hadn’t used the stone to wash clothes for over 15 years had to wash on those granite slabs. To use detergent soaps as less as possible coz we couldn’t buy soap cakes every now & then. How we had to switch to lifebuoy soap for body & hair.

When my parents came back to Gulf, they promised themselves & us, they’d make a good saving & make life better for us & that none of us would experience poverty again. It made us the people we are today. It made us realize the value of everything - not taking things for granted, being respectful, honest, hard working & helpful. Money isn’t everything & relationships between family & friends are just as important. No matter what happens, family unites in times of grief, poverty & happiness. Gulf war has been one of the most humbling experiences for me. It taught us many things & now since we all are married; we know more than ever, what an epic struggle it had been for our parents to rebuild a future for both of them & for us.

In truth a family is what you make it. It is made strong, not by number of heads counted at the dinner table, but by the rituals you help family members create, by the memories you share, by the commitment of time, caring, & love you show to one another, & by the hopes for the future you have as individuals & as a unit.

- Marge Kennedy