In Memoriam
Sometimes, what we have always taken for granted or thought to be permanent in our lives suddenly ceases to exist.
Sometimes, one single moment changes the course of every other one to come.
Sometimes, however much one cries, the inner reservoir of dreams, memories, guilt, grief, happiness and pain just doesn't dry up.
Sometimes, a biker in his thirties suddenly grows up to reality - his age, his unfulfilled commitments to family, relatives, the arts and other static things in life - almost overnight.
If all this is sounding a bit disconnected and vague, there is a simple reason. This is as real as it gets. This is me, at this moment, this stage in life.
The hurt is in a sense a bit assuaged now, the memories which used to make me feel helpless with grief now bring a wry smile and in the way most grandsons must have coped with similar losses, my Grandmother is now a part of my private pantheon of Gods.
But then, I still need to write this up. My own dedication and homage to her who brought me up - watching in fear while I used to get onto the slender branches of the Guava Tree, making me eat when I was back from school, leading me through a rendition of "Purjaya Raghavendraya" when I wouldn't sleep, in her own charismatic and widowed way expressing dissaproval of the thousand and one misdemeanours I made in childhood and then late into adulthood.
Mama (that's short for Nanama in Telugu) was there when I rode to Vizag, expressing a child-like amazement about the fact that I had ridden so far, all alone. Mama was there when I called her up from Leh, wanting to know where it is, making me tactfully say that I am somewhere in the Holy Himalayas and near the famous Dhamams. Mama was there when I started my own creative firm, deciding to travel to Hyderabad (maybe to personally take stock of my increasing craziness) even climbed up two flights of stairs to bless my efforts at creativity. And she was also around when I celebrated my last birthday - down with a bad cold that lefet her feverish, but still spry, clear-eyed and smilingly radiant as ever - blessing me the way she has whenever I have been lucky to celebrate a birthday with her around.
Mama is now no longer where I can talk to her or help her with her bed or pull a shawl around her when she gets cold. But she will still be part of everything I ever achieve in my life, every time in my prayers when I pass a temple somewhere on the road, everytime I cope with something beyond my control. Because, she has gone into the hereafter, the eternal, the abode of her Gods. And become a God herself.
I know her soul will rest in peace and with her up above me, I know there will be someone watching me, whenever I decide to ride or do something equally crazy.
And writing this has been true release.
Sometimes, one single moment changes the course of every other one to come.
Sometimes, however much one cries, the inner reservoir of dreams, memories, guilt, grief, happiness and pain just doesn't dry up.
Sometimes, a biker in his thirties suddenly grows up to reality - his age, his unfulfilled commitments to family, relatives, the arts and other static things in life - almost overnight.
If all this is sounding a bit disconnected and vague, there is a simple reason. This is as real as it gets. This is me, at this moment, this stage in life.
The hurt is in a sense a bit assuaged now, the memories which used to make me feel helpless with grief now bring a wry smile and in the way most grandsons must have coped with similar losses, my Grandmother is now a part of my private pantheon of Gods.
But then, I still need to write this up. My own dedication and homage to her who brought me up - watching in fear while I used to get onto the slender branches of the Guava Tree, making me eat when I was back from school, leading me through a rendition of "Purjaya Raghavendraya" when I wouldn't sleep, in her own charismatic and widowed way expressing dissaproval of the thousand and one misdemeanours I made in childhood and then late into adulthood.
Mama (that's short for Nanama in Telugu) was there when I rode to Vizag, expressing a child-like amazement about the fact that I had ridden so far, all alone. Mama was there when I called her up from Leh, wanting to know where it is, making me tactfully say that I am somewhere in the Holy Himalayas and near the famous Dhamams. Mama was there when I started my own creative firm, deciding to travel to Hyderabad (maybe to personally take stock of my increasing craziness) even climbed up two flights of stairs to bless my efforts at creativity. And she was also around when I celebrated my last birthday - down with a bad cold that lefet her feverish, but still spry, clear-eyed and smilingly radiant as ever - blessing me the way she has whenever I have been lucky to celebrate a birthday with her around.
Mama is now no longer where I can talk to her or help her with her bed or pull a shawl around her when she gets cold. But she will still be part of everything I ever achieve in my life, every time in my prayers when I pass a temple somewhere on the road, everytime I cope with something beyond my control. Because, she has gone into the hereafter, the eternal, the abode of her Gods. And become a God herself.
I know her soul will rest in peace and with her up above me, I know there will be someone watching me, whenever I decide to ride or do something equally crazy.
And writing this has been true release.
posted by Anand Vishwanadha at 11:52 AM
1 Comments:
Your post reminded me of grandmother, who was the person closest to me, and since she passed away I almost feel like a stray animal in the street. I don't think anyone can ever love and understand me the way she did.
-Anu
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