The Burial of Grief

Often when I look at unabashed displays of emotion, my facial muscles constrict in an effort to hide the mortified embarrassment that I feel. Public displays were never a part of growing up; perhaps it had to do with the era I grew up in, stiff upper lip and all that.

This year, however, has been a different story altogether. I am yet to, as they say, ‘get over’ the passing away of my father. Maybe because deep down perhaps we, I feel our parents are infallible, and that somehow the passages of time could freeze them in some sort of loop, endlessly repeating and never growing old, leave alone leaving us behind.

In my mind, I knew it was my father’s time to go. He had actually gone a long time ago, his mind lost in the labyrinths of dementia; only his physical presence remained. I had accepted the fact even as I got the news that evening and as I boarded the plane back home. He was gone. I was prepared.

Or so I thought. Two images remain of the day of his funeral. One, seeing him laid on the coffin, so still and so very absent of life, surrounded by a sea of family and friends crowded into the living room. All I could manage was a brief glimpse before I had to be taken away to be suitably attired for the funeral service.

We were already late courtesy an enormous traffic jam on the streets of Imphal due to some crazy construction and a barrage of cars that seemed to have sprung up overnight.

I barely had time to see him, leave alone have a few moments with him before we were herded out into the open grounds of the compound where the service was to be held. What could I have said if I had a few moments alone? Would it have meant anything? I am not sure but the thought remains and lingers on, even today.

The other is of his coffin as it was lowered into the ground. The boys around were laying flat pieces of wood and later large slabs of stone on top of the casket so that it would ‘settle’ better into the ground. Surprising how simple innocent remarks stand out, in moments like these, grotesque, incongruous, suspended in time and indelibly seared in your memory.

I watched all of this grim faced, stoic even as the familiar phrases wrapped itself around me – “Stay strong.” “You’ll get through this.” “You are a brave person, just like your father.”

I returned to work four days later, my heart and my mind convincing themselves not to cry, even though I did, in short bursts, alone, away from the gaze of others, lest they see my folly.

I have been doing so ever since, burying my grief in the daily inanities of life. This past week though has been a haze, my mind wrapped, swathed in a fog of numbness. A week ago, my father in law too passed away – it was sudden, too soon for any of us to be there in his final moments. Barely a few days later, I sat with a friend in the hospital, praying for a miracle that somehow her loved one would wake up one more time.

And as I waited with her, I realize and comfort her as he is gone, that it is all right to grieve. That all the questions she asks, all the whys and what ifs are ok. That the hurt and the pain do not go away and it won’t. Not for a while.

On a day like this, clear, blue skies, a tune from an old forgotten song will rekindle all those memories again. It will hit you like a sharp, searing knife and it will feel like someone is ripping your soul apart.

But it is all right to feel those things. And it is all right to grieve.

#The Burial Of Grief

Why must I feel this?

How do I feel this?

Pain that sears

Yet increasingly numbs.

How must I feel this?

I am yet to cease

This, the relentless

Swathing grief.

‘Tis the hour of lead

And dull, a fog

Encased,

An endless chasm.

And so, though

Still the hour 

 I bury but

My love

I bury not

My heart, my grief..

~ Judith Vaddi