In Memory

I awoke to the sound of my sister's sobs at the other end of the telephone. "Dada died this morning," she said and I could not believe what I had just heard. For both of us, sitting thousands of miles away from home, we feel helpless, overcome with grief and a terrible sense of loss. Till today we had been proud, fortunate, blessed to have all four grandparents, each of who has played such an important role in our upbringing. And then so suddenly, so unexpectedly, without any form of warning or notice, we are forced to come face to face with what we know is inevitable and are yet so ill prepared to deal with. As Dada's last rites are performed in India, I cannot help but think back on all those happy moments we spent together – learning how to putt in his front garden, resisting his "forced" second helping of everything at the dinner table but then just giving up and chowing it all down, trying to understand and share in his pride and love for that good old Fiat, grocery shopping at Jagat Singh and Punjab Stores, making fun of the Johal family sleeping syndrome, hearing "thand pai gayi" everytime we hugged, encroaching on his wardrobe, even trying to get a word in during one of Dadi Dada's infamous bickering sessions… In the midst of all these tears, this pain, and the array of emotions I seem to have no control over, my thoughts are with Dadi who has lost her companion of well over 50 years. Last month, the day before I left India, as we all lunched together on "chana-kulchas" in Dadi's bedroom, Dada looked healthy and happy, his cheeks rosy and his skin glowing in the abundant sunlight that streamed through the room's many windows. He promised to take good care of Dadi and a grand reunion was scheduled for May...when Mannat and I do come home this summer, and for all these months in-between, the memory of Dada will constantly be on our minds, and we will miss his presence deeply. May his soul rest in peace. The only consolation, if any, that we can offer ourselves at this point is that Dada lived a full life, saw his grandchildren quite grown up, and did not suffer on a hospital bed during his final days. He left us just how he would've wanted to – quickly and quietly, following his daily routine, in his own home. But that hardly numbs our pain. This past weekend, my mother's cousin passed away in New Delhi as she was undergoing treatment for a recently diagnosed cancer. Her children are only a couple of years older than me and I can't even begin to imagine how they feel having lost their mother so suddenly, and at such a young age. Her immediate family is in my thoughts too, may God give them the strength to get past this. I'm sitting in my room, watching the snow fall outside; the flakes glide to the ground, enveloping everything in a spotless, white blanket. I want to be buried under this blanket, and when I awaken, I want all this to have been an ugly nightmare that sends shivers down my spine but can be quickly forgotten over the early morning cup of tea. However, I know this is no dream, that an irreversible loss has occurred, and that when I look at the starry sky tonight I will think to myself – "Perhaps they are not stars, but rather openings in heaven where the love of our lost ones pours through and shines down upon us to let us know they are happy."