From the vortex of grief: The minefield of normalcy

A month has made way to a month and a half, and many people have urged me to try and get back to 'normal'. By this, different people mean different things. For some, it means getting back to work fully. For others, it means going out to social gatherings. For many, it means going back to the exact same life I used to lead, and pretending that everything is the same. I, too, logically, have agreed with them, to various extents on these various definitions of normalcy. There is no point in wallowing in the depths of my grief. Crying over what is my sordid reality for the billionth time. I'd rather be doing something useful, something productive, something that cheers me up. And so I have tried, to the best of my ability, to reach this utopian state called normalcy. Walk with me, Reader, on this road of words, as I take you through my journey.

It was my birthday a few days ago. My first instinct was to curl up into a ball and not open my eyes. I didn't want a celebration, I didn't want anyone wishing me. Just the thought of speaking to a friend was scary. This event in my life was like an island being severed in two, and most people who I knew before ended up on the other one. I didn't want to tell them my sob story, I didn't want their pity. I didn't want yet another 'how are you?' which I couldn't answer in sincerity without the other person flinching. I simply wanted to be left alone. But after a while, I came to a middle ground. Text was okay, calls weren't. And so, I responded to everyone who wished me, I handled conversations with as much grace as I could muster. 

I also decided to do the "something cheerful" part, and went to a concert. The first sound from the violin, and the auditorium vanished. At the next, my eyes were wet, tears flowing into my mask. Music was one of those friends who ended up on my island, but I was meeting her for the first time after the storm, and I had only tears and no words. She listened, and cried with me, in the haunting tunes of the violin. She raged with me against the world, in the fast paced strums of the veena. She walked with me down memory lane, taking me to places I had completely forgotten about. She taught me to dream about the future. She taught me about the pauses of silence in the music--“This is one moment, / But know that another / Shall pierce you with a sudden painful joy.” And finally, she bade goodbye, and I emerged out into the auditorium again. I felt a little lighter that night.

Another day last week, I decided to go get a coffee with a couple of colleagues. It didn't seem like such a big thing, and yet, I balked a little, because covid and all, it had been almost two years since I'd done this. I enjoyed the conversation and the food, and for a while I forgot. Then, one of them uttered the word "home", and I came crashing down from the sky. Home has always had an association with my parents. I did not have their home anymore. Sure, the house was still there, but going in there just made me feel empty. I could not drop in there for a hot meal, and be transported to my childhood by the taste of my Mom's food. I have the last of her tomato gojju and lemonade in my apartment's fridge, and I have left those last two spoons untouched. I am scared to finish them, because then I will have nothing. 

After this mention of home, I drifted in and out of the conversation, my thoughts elsewhere. And then I got back to work, and got some stuff done. Again focus enveloped me in its powerful embrace, and I was lost to the world. But then I stepped on another minefield. This time it was the words flight simulator. My dad was a polymath...is a polymath. (I say so many things in the past tense, and then correct myself. Maybe it's because how he is now is so hard for me to reconcile with the person I knew and adored?) He loved learning new things, and his breadth of knowledge was as awe inspiring as his depth. In childhood, he'd tell me about all the things he'd tried, and I'd listen in awe, because it was ten lifetimes rolled into one. He'd told me about how he loved acting, and had been part of a theatre group and performed in public plays. To my astonishment, he said he'd considered it seriously as a career and had even played a small part in a Hindi movie. Then, he told me about how he loved writing, and considered for a long time a career as an author. I think this part of him was always there, and in later life he was invited by many newspapers to author a column. He also loved shooting, and was a great marksman. 

His professional life was the amalgamation of multiple career paths. He started off with a bachelors in physics, and worked in a government lab. Then he discovered his passion for numbers, and went off to do a bachelors in commerce. Soon, he was working in a bank. Then, he became a chartered accountant, and shifted gears yet again. He spent several years in the finance departments of various companies, and was very passionate about his work. Thereafter, he decided that he wanted to learn law. He took the bar exam and cleared it, and an LLB got added to his list of degrees. He knew so much, and this gave him a very unique perspective. One day, to my further surprise, he told me that'd he'd enrolled at an evening college for engineering and completed five semesters of coursework. Learning was so fundamental to who he was, and this trend always continued. After he retired, he worked as a freelance consultant, and did many different things. Seven years ago, when he was 65, he told me he'd signed up for a course on Information Systems Audit. I looked askance at him. Why? Because it's something new, and I want to learn it and do it. He cleared the exam as always, and yet another degree got added to the never ending list. He happily printed out new business cards. This is just the tip of the iceberg. None of these were easy for him. He never gave up working to study, he studied after hours and late into the nights. Living with him was so exciting for me. I'd look at him and ask What next? never knowing what to expect. It was such an adventure.

Two years ago, I'd asked him, What next? He said I want to fly a plane. He'd always been obsessed about aircrafts, and he'd watched countless landing and takeoff maneuvers. I invited him to one of those microlight flights that people could fly in Bangalore, and he said Maybe some other time. Maybe a flight simulator. I just want to experience this once. Fast forward to today, my Mom tells me that they had made him sit upright for physiotherapy and that caused his BP and pulse to plummet down, and the doctors had feared the worst. No more physio, they said. How can life do this to him? He'd wanted to fly a plane, and now he's not even able to sit up. I wept for hours, celebrating the person I had known, mourning everything I had lost.

Normalcy feels like walking on a minefield. I take a step, and out of nowhere, grief explodes. I can never see it coming. Sometimes it's a word. A photo. His favorite books. A song. A place. An anecdote. So much of my life is tied to him, and it is impossible to walk without stepping on these triggers. Yet, I take that next step, because I have to walk on this path. I have to step on each of those minefields, feel the pain, breathe through it, and then take the next step. Perhaps this is my 'new normal'.