That Night When I Watched My Baby Sleep (Like A Weirdo)

"When a new mum crawls into bed, ready to end the day in soft, shallow breaths,
she carries with her a baggage of carefree existence as before, in little chapters and pages.
She has a thousand nudges from every inch of her body, urging her to fall asleep.
But sometimes, in a rare event, maybe on account of caffeine, she forgets the time, she forgets to close the blinds to a tiring day, she's numb to all her physical aches.
And she watches her baby. And the time - it just flies her to dawn in one long, unending gaze."

Image Source: Livescience.com

For the millionth time, I crane my head to the side to look at the clock. I can’t believe it! It’s 4:58 am. It’s what you call the break of dawn, my only references to which come from literature and art and maybe an international flight long ago (even then I only, very drowsily, captured it in a blur before pulling the shutter down to go back to sleep.) I have been up since 1:33 am, when a little life-form breathing softly next to me, self-activated her wailing siren. That abominable noise was reproduced from her tiny, almost invisible, throat cavity that vibrated faster than the speed of sound when she went into her sobbing spasms. The first time I heard it in my sleep, I thought, “Oh God, shut that thing up, whoever is the incompetent mommy!” Only to happy realization that that honourable badge now belongs to me.

Over time, I tried to see that sound more as my alarm clock that could go off at any time during the day, and no matter when, it seemed to rouse me from a state of slumber. But instead of the usual route of slamming the snooze button shut, I was invited for a decoding brain-game to make sense of the cacophony, to use my manipulation skills, to engage in a slow rocking dance, to make equally strange sounds inspired from Animal Planet but in reverse tempo, and finally, to unbutton my shirt. The first few days of it, I realized that I moved annoyingly slow from denial ("But that’s not possible. I just fed her!") to remedial action ("Just whip the damn thing out of your shirt, will you?"). Sometimes, I felt like one of those pretty swiss cows weaning cute little baby calves, frozen in an infomercial about the wholesome goodness of milk. And then I thanked God that I didn’t have multiple little mouths latching on to me. Ouchie!

Every woman I met in that glorious time had some wise words to say about lactation. Oh yes. It was not flattering how the upper anatomy of my body had suddenly gained so much spotlight. I mean, sure it has had its share of unwanted attention but probably not from my own gender and definitely not more than now — now that it was holding milk. The interest in it was of noble proportions. Everything I consumed was directly related to how much it’ll refill my baby’s sippy cups. I was a walking human pacifier and I don’t mean just for my baby. My breasts seemed to have drunken all the old wifey tales wisdom and had gone a tad too far with their emergency preparedness. They were ready to fire at the wail of any baby in audible vicinity. Yea, I learned that the hard way in a crowded cafe. In a crisp white linen shirt.

Of course, breastfeeding is only natural. I didn’t mind waking every other night at erratic hours to feed my baby. It didn’t mean much to me. But every now and then, like that night, after my baby finished devouring her post-midnight snack and was pretty much drifting away to her happy dreams of milk bottles, nipples and cute pink bunny bibs, I found more meaning to our one-one time. The world around was asleep, well except for probably another mum somewhere waking up groggy-eyed to address an eardrum-saving emergency. (Sorry party people and new couples. At that moment, you didn’t count.)

I stared at her face. I have looked at her face a million times before. In the first week, I looked at her in awe and dread, lest she broke into an uninvited tragic opera yet again. As I grew familiar with her, I looked at her to trace her lineage in her face — her grandparents, her aunt, her mum, her dad — they were all there in little scraps of flesh and bone. Her eyes are shut tight but they open every now and then, like they want reaffirmation that the world ( entailing her mother for the moment) is not falling apart. Through the night, her mouth wrinkles up in a sardonic smile, a sour frown, an achingly sad long face, an open-hearted wide grin… Little tufts of curly locks blow across her forehead. I brush my cheek against hers and her scent is enrapturing. I feel a bit sad that I have made no efforts to smell good for her — that she gets the smell of milk, sweat and curry in reciprocation. I tell myself, “Yea, yea enough with the psycho sniffing. Sleep now or spend tomorrow cranky and hormonal.”

I look at her face and I look at the time. It’s sunrise now. I get up to open the curtains ever so slightly, to usher in the sun and to seize it in her sweet face. That moment — it felt like it needed to be on a photo frame somewhere, maybe for a vulnerable place and time when you’re looking for love and you don’t exactly know where to find it.

It’s been nearly four years since that night when I started writing this post. It was left abandoned in a nondescript pile of drafts. But today, when I stumbled upon it, it was as if I had found that feeling of unadulterated love that I felt for her that night, one that has only grown leaps and bounds with every passing day. Ironically, it’s 1:18 am in my clock. My four-year old girl sleeps a sound sleep (with light snoring) next to me. Occasionally, her little hands slyly check if I'm still there by her side and have not left the room to watch TV.

It was as if that strange, hypnotic night — it never really ended.




















au

The Colour Palette Of a Reverie

Photo Credits: Surya Chaturvedi

As I woke up today, shades of grey loomed over me from beneath the pallid sky.
I opened my eyes, dull charcoal irises in pits of splattered red, like an extinguishing wood-fire.
Muddled with bluesy streaks in my soul, I get to the space between the blinds and lock out the morn's cry.
The day, vague, dark, dreary, painted in the color scheme of monotone, isn't much of one, but more of a haze.

I go back to bed; my love gives me my day's offerings, a sunny golden kiss before stepping out for his mundane conquests.
I beseech the turquoise horse in my bedside lamp for a ride to my mercurial date with seven am sleep.
A deep coral vision ensues and I'm flying between wake and sleep, in clean air with the crystal falcon of my dreams abreast.
It takes me floating to a field drenched in light pastel blooms, lilac raindrops glistening among green glades of grass.

I glide alongside my lover who pulls out my favourite patch of blue-green-yellow from the rainbow and swipes it across my gleaming dress.
I catch a glimpse of my murky past as I head on forward, of a lingering black caress of a phantom oh-so-vile.
I shut my eyes tight as we close in on the castle of our dreams, surrounded by violet hills speckled with mountain watercress.
We land next to a silver round fountain with a woman's statue in the middle, her face breathing everlasting life.

In my magical haunt, we pluck ripe oranges out of trees and make juice, fresh and oozing with the rays of the sun.
My cheeks flush hot pink in the sultry heat; you touch them lightly with your hands turned amber with scraping the earth for shiny pebbles.
In the midst of lush grass, tucked between two sombre trees, I find a hammock, all of frail ivory strings homespun.
Back and forth we sway, with our legs and arms tangled; a butterfly hovers over and I see all the way through it in its raging, unmixed colours.

With a start, I wake up to the mellow orange of a fading twilight, sounds of pink jazz in the horizon.
Blinking - once, twice, moving slowly out of bed, I crawl out of the multi-hued carousel overhead.
Reluctantly, I find my way out of that enchanting jade forest, from the forever of my dreams, to  present day oblivion.
In this neverland between yesterday and tomorrow, between you leaving my bed and rolling back into it with true red roses, I live, I breathe - unravelling the trembling colour palette of a reverie.

The Line of Beauty - In Between Waking Up and Stepping Out The Door

Half Make-up Face

I've reached a point in my life where looking at the mirror is just Step 1 of doctoring my best artificial self that make-up can buy. I can't really trace the beginning of it but it's sort of ebbing its way slowly into everything that I can touch my hands upon. Like this morning, as I was getting my daughter Saanvi ready for school, I noticed a prominent red rash on her left cheek. It itched my senses to see my little girl, with her flawless child-like vibrance, to be sporting something as nasty as a huge blotch on her cheek. But the first visual that crossed my mind wasn't really a Sherlock-like mental timeline to backtrack to its source (as with most mommies), but visual flashcards of tools in my make-up kit that'd come in handy to conceal it. I stood there debating if it's too early to dab some wholesome foundation on her pink cheek and then it struck me.

I have turned into a make-up junkie...an f-ing Kardashian so to speak. (Ahem, minus the fan following ofcourse.)

I guess it must've started in college. You see, I have pale complexion and sad eyes. I needed a better college face. In my quest for the perfect outer-world face, over the years, I have devised a morning routine that'll get me through the day without hearing the words, "Oh, are you not well?" "Are you depressed? Your eyes... they're doing that thing." or "OMG, did a cat scratch your head?" This magic routine, although not as hard-hitting on time, takes a bunch of hand-picked products and gadgets. Needless to say, even if one of them is missing, like them dominoes, it all comes crumbling down and I just know I'm heading for disaster. I can recount at least three vacation memories which, although very much intended for a state of nirvana, started with a spike in heart rate and anxiety levels, cos I realized that I don't have my make-up primer or the multi-plug extension cord to my blow dryer. (Read agony aunt.) 

My outer-world face is fairly predictable, like a uniform. I almost never look like I got a make-over (cos they scare the jeepers out of me). Sometimes, you'll see a pretty good crimson pout. On really good days, you'd see no kohl, hair worn off my face, earrings and dewy skin. And on really crappy days, an awful attempt at a winged eye-liner (picture my left eye chasing my right) or a nasty blotch of green all over my eyelids with a trampy lipstick. I mean if you ever look at me and feel tempted to ask me if my four-year old did my make-up for me, take my word for it. DON'T.

Elizabeth Taylor once said, "Pour yourself a drink, put on some lipstick, and throw yourself together." She got that right. Make-up to a woman (well, most women) is therapeutic. For me, the ritual of make-up is what I like to call my me-time, just some good ol' quality time getting my game face on and zoning out of the everyday grinds of an ordinary mum's life. For starters, it's an escape route.  Remember this? You're having a couples' night and you're not really having the wildest of fun, listening to the men go on and on excitedly about "the game". Et voila! One of your other girl friends, a freakin' mind-reader, goes, "I gotta go to the ladies room." And you say, rather too quickly, "Oh, I'll come with! Need to brush my hair." And the men at the table exchange these looks, smirking to themselves, "Oh, there goes an hour unexplained. We'll call you when the food gets here." And one of them makes this casual remark, "You know, you don't need to look pretty for us!" They don't get it. But that remark — it gets you really peeved for some reason. It makes you wonder, "Do I really wear make-up to get the attention of my man, to be noticed, to get first dibs at cocktails from the bartender in a crowd, in other words, to have it my way? Or do I wear make-up to put myself out there among the sea of beautiful young women, unknowingly batting their eyelashes in conformity with vague beauty standards that even a teenage Beauty Youtuber would demonstrate with her shiny, happy Disney beauty box?

I'm not even going to pretend that all those allegations are not partially true for me but mostly, I wear make-up to play with all the possibilities that, at least on the surface, my face can offer. Cos while I find it very hard not to be cynical most of the times, at least my face can help brighten things up for me. And I need not reiterate that it is a super-fun ritual. It has even lowered its mystical quotient, so that an otherwise klutzy woman like me, who cannot sit still for an eye-liner, can now draw a perfectly curvy line on her eyelids. Make-up is for everyone. Or so it seems. Even if you thought you could just go #iwokeuplikethis or #nomakeup on Instagram, there'd be at least two products/hacks you'd be thinking of exploring before you can dare to show your raw, carefully-curated, au naturel self to the world. 

But there are times, especially when you're sitting in a circle playing that self-introspective game, "If you could take only three things to a remote island, what would they be?", you have to ask yourself, "Can I live without making myself up? Can I bloody walk out that door, reacquainting myself to my bare skin in sunlight without having to feel naked? Can I revel in my dishevelled curls, small mouth, pools of under-eye darkness and all the tiny imperfections that make me who I am? Sure, maybe in a post-apocalyptic world, I could get used to the idea. Or when I'm lying down on the beach feeling one with nature, when a waterproof eyeliner just seems a bit much. (Then again, one of those aqua-coloured lines on the lower lids would look very zen-like.)

Nevertheless, I want to be able to teach my daughter, who's also a keen spectator of the art of face-painting, that it is important to accept who you are for every little detail that makes you YOU . I want to be able to teach her about the delicate balance between caring too much and not caring at all. Not sure if I can set a shining example though as I still struggle to come to terms with my real face. Maybe, getting to my mid-thirties, I also wear make-up as a war-paint against time, to be seen as I am, and not by the flaws that would take some wincing when seen on a reflective surface in bright lights. Maybe I wear it to save time from all the faux soul-searching with my mirror reflection, ones that start with, "Well, sure you've lost your natural twenties luminous skin. But look at what you've gained in wisdom."( Don't you hate wisdom?)

I hope one day I can show her, through example, that a face untethered from such worries is usually the most distinct, most breathable, most gleaming. And what we should really be after is finding comfort in our own skin before we go finding 5 dupes for Priyanka Chopra's Oscar lipstick.

And I hope one day, I wake up to that piece of wisdom and take it with me as I step out the door. I can only imagine how liberating that would be.


"If you could take only three things to a remote island, what would they be?"

Have you given this a thought? I'd love to hear from you in your comments...

Winds of Past On the Subway

Image Source: Columbia.edu

She was getting by with just another start of day, assembling small pieces of a busy Monday in her mind, craning her head for the train in impatience.

She’s blinded by the gusting sea of people around, her olfactory sense, as usual, tormented by intermingled odours of sweat, greasy food and cologne.

And right then, from across the subway, she saw him, an old love, spring up from a corner of the concrete jungle, like an unexpected bloom in the midst of an autumn grey and gloom.

At first, she could hardly contain her vision. Is he for real? Is her past, seemingly bleeding into her longing to escape another day of dull prospects, illuminating a long-deserted road?

She looked at him again. All the details….His long black coat that seems oddly familiar, his insipid eyes that lit up at the slightest provocation, his anatomy narrating the passage of time in his evidently larger frame.

It’s as if she couldn’t look away. Far and farther, yet here they were, standing under the same blanketing dispersion of fluorescent. She drinks him in … in his becoming flecks of grey, in his receding hairline, in his frustration of getting somewhere, in his cascading bursts of smoky autumn breath.

And in that very moment, he looks at her, casually in a travelling glance. He looks away. But a blow of nostalgia strikes across his face and his eyes find her again in a raging agony of reconnaissance.

Their eyes meet and hold each other there. Twelve feet away. Strangers pass by in a blur.

The corners of his eyes wrinkle up to seat a warm, half-moon smile. He waves at her. He calls her name.

But she is frozen, unable to close that distance in time. Her mind is teetering to look past this moment into sweet oblivion or to amble through lanes of her past in search of him.

Just then, a wind sweeps across her face…ruffling all her unruly hair to veil her eyes. The train passes by snorting noisily in her ears, a yelping plee to awaken her. To feel this moment.

In its cacophonous haze, she stands there, transfixed by him.

And carried away in a wind of time, she recalls his soothing touch. His ode to her beauty. His careless whispers. Fast Car playing in the background. Drives in the twilight. Walks on a stranded road. Late-night calls that run through the fresh of dawn. Call-waiting. Waiting.
Sharp pangs of isolation. Of indifference. Of belittling words. Of hurried apologies. Of broken promises. Of peachy lies.

She tries to feel him in this moment as she felt him what seemed to her a lifetime ago. There’s a low stirring in her soul, a restlessness to get some place else.The train is now tugging slowly, as its motors brace to come to a stop next to her. Hurried passengers jostle against her in infuriation, in vain attempt to thrust her into motion.

And yet they stand still, in no man’s land, with no intention of closing the distance or going anywhere else. Words fail to fill up a trivial discourse. She looks at him; he’s locked out of the empress of her heart, long-hardened to his ways — a heart that was once all his. She is filled with an inexplicable terror of how vulnerable she used to be to his orchestrated manipulations.

The train pulls to a stop.

For a brief moment, the space between them is shrunken small as the passengers empty the subway to embark on their mundane life expeditions.

The lull of that moment fills her with an anguish of silence withheld for years. She’s standing on the edge. She can’t see the ground below.

And finally she awakens. She catches her breath as she amps up her feet, in backward motion, with a rising urge to break free. She sprints away from him, running as fast as she can; so fast that she sets the path between them ablaze. Tears stream down her face but she runs headlong through her daze.

Is she running away from him? Is she running towards a new dawn? Is she setting herself free?

I cannot say.

Woman Thy Name is Whatever You Want It to Be

Image Source: Etsy

Five years ago, when I was working in Deloitte, there used to be a WIN program (Women's Initiative) to help women cope with any kind of changes they go through their personal/professional life. I remember how I, along with a bunch of female colleagues, had a heated discussion about how ridiculous and condescending the existence of such a program was. That we have reached a time of unprecedented change where we want men and women to be held on an equal pedestal and women ought not to be defined by their perceived limitations, whether be it in familial relationships, body image, health, or social expectations. We thought that program, in a way, subscribed to all the run-of-the-mill generalisations one is tempted to make about women at work - that work comes second place to personal changes in their lives. That work for a woman should not come in the way of building a family. And if it does, here are your less-appetizing, slow- professional growth options for the time being.

At that time, that discussion seemed so profoundly true for us. But today, when I look back at it, I just read a lot of dissonance. You see, I didn't quite know at that time that I was expecting a baby. I continued to work through the term of my pregnancy with a view of balancing my professional and personal life later. But when my daughter arrived, she took over everything in my world. And I, against all laid-out plans, decided to quit my job and give her my undivided time and attention. I had all the opportunities and challenges to make strides as a woman at work. But I chose to be a stay-at-home. So with all preconceived ideas and notions that I  had already made about a woman who chooses her family over work, I became a stay-at-home mom. 

Would I say now that I let myself be defined by my limitation of not being able to have a career for raising a baby? The answer is no. Cos, I know now, that being a woman means also being a wonderful melange of so many different things - a combination of who we are as an individual and of the choices we make in various social contexts and circumstances in our lives. The point is, I made that choice out of free will and it gave me unending happiness. 

It brings me to the other side of the discussion. Are men and women equal? We'd like to believe that we live in a world and a time where men and women are equal. I'd like to raise my daughter as an unconditioned, wild-spirited being, free of societal prejudices, unapologetic about her length of skirt or choice of career, true to herself and compassionate to the world around her. I want her to grow up to be a woman who stands up for her choices without having to add a clause, "I am allowed to..." But then, quite unremarkably so, there's not a woman I know who hasn't been stalked, labelled, lecherously stared at, limited, abused, threatened, patronized, whatever her life choices may have been. I still switch on the news to witness cases of horrific crimes against women, followed up by an utterly invasive biography of the victim to ascertain whether or not she lived by the rules of the society. On occasion, I have seen my house help sport a bruise on her arm or a black eye that she explains with a casual shrug, "I had an argument with my sister's husband." I have witnessed smart, educated, independent women live through abusive relationships for they couldn't envision a life for themselves unattached from a man. I have also seen other women be abusive to their own kind simply for trying to live life on their terms or for breaking stereotypes.

But on the other side of the spectrum, from the ashes of self-hatred and years of being repressed, I also see an emergence of self-aware, strong women, channelizing all their feminine energy towards a better, free-er tomorrow, to be the person they wish to be and to help others live happily. I am surrounded by such women. In my own home, I have my mother-in-law who is an epitome of a woman who chased all her dreams, who went on to finish her post-graduation after marriage, wrote children's education books, taught children for a good part of her life, while devoting herself equally to her family. Fun fact: She also drives better than most men I know. I have my sister who can hold her ground at a large social event or the family room and who does a kick-ass job of raising smart and confident thirteen-year old twins, working nearly all round the clock, keeping her personal and professional life in complete harmony. And she can literally kick anyone's ass. (Oh yea, she's scary.) I have my yoga teacher, Shammi, who has taught me that we are so much more than the physical, "feeble" confines of our body and the beauty standards dictated by fashion magazines - that we are not just delicate, f-ing flowers but proud warriors, standing tall and strong. I see inspiring women everywhere, in friends who started their own ventures at the age of 24, who stand by their femininity, for what they wear, how much they drink, whom they date, irrespective of whether they want to have a baby or not. I see women crusaders on social media coming forth with their lives, breaking the barriers of silence against naysayers, telling the world that THEY ARE and they believe, be it through a picture, a life transformation story, a battle against repression/abuse or a petition for the life they stand for.

It is undoubtedly a time of unprecedented change. We've come a long way. And we still have a long way to go. 

This day is all about revelling in being a woman. So, be your own kind of woman and emanate your inner feminine energy that brings about a spin for the greater good of many. To all you superwomen out there who're doing exactly the same, Happy International Women's Day! 

Finding Beauty in Slowing Down

There's something magical about watching your kids race to the finishing line. When I went to Saanvi's sports day, I was among the fifty-sixty odd parents, hunched at the edge of my seat, shifting uneasily, watching from a vague distance an adorable line-up of tiny kids at the starting line of their big, or rather, only momentous event for the year. But then a ridiculous analogy danced in my head briefly. It was something I'd read in a book earlier about dancing monkeys.

And that made me feel really uneasy.

I'll not deny it. I did, even if for a minute, ask myself this. Am I pushing my kid, really early on in her life, into getting into the winners' stand, just to prove we're exceptional parents? That morning, I did incentivize/bribe her with a visit to the mall and a surprise gift, if she were to win. I mean, what was really keeping me at the edge here? Sure, I want my kid to win and make me proud. But she's just three and half and it's safe to assume that she's pretty much oblivious to the race of life. So then the win is just for me, right? Is it my need to show to the world, "Oh look what a multi-faceted prodigy my kid is! Or "Well, don't make big of it but yea, she's practically the next P.T Usha." Oh, I'd remember to upload her picture with the winning trophy with touchy-feely messages that'd get all the peer parents saying, "Bravo! Great parenting right there!" Or maybe it's the want of a mushy anecdote on her little win to tell at the family dinner table thirty years from now, one which will get me all teary-eyed on the dinner napkin. And what if she doesn't win? What makes me lose my cool, skip a heartbeat, sink back in my chair in dismay when my child doesn't win? What makes me give excuses for her, blame it on the sweltering heat or even her loose strands of hair that may have doused her otherwise Arjuna's resolve to get to her target? What makes me blatantly call out the cruelty of competitions at such a tender age if my child loses the first three spots on the winners' stand by a small margin?

There was something calming in these largely cynical reflections on children that barged in through my unsuspecting mind, one after the other. You may wonder why I let myself get swayed into such pessimistic thoughts moments before my little girl, in the midst of all the buzzing excitement and ceaseless laughters, ran to the finishing line. Of course, as parents we want to inspire and encourage our children to find their potential, give everything their best shot and hope (and cheer violently) for them to succeed. And the inherent goal of being in a race is to taste the glory of coming first (or atleast in the first three spots) at the finishing line, right?

But something took over me that morning and the uncomfortable bolts of anxiety that ran through my body gradually died down. The atmosphere became a little too subdued for a racing event. The little kids stood in the heat, squinting at the sun, their attention directed to every little thing but the race. Some even did this little jiggy to the popular runner ballad that was playing at the time. And then it all began. The shrill whistle woke me up from my meditations.

But the rush to the finishing line was only a haze.

Instead, I slowed down. I watched the kids sprint as fast as their little feet could take them. They kept looking out for each other on the way. When they reached the mid-line, they had to pick oars made out of cardboard, hang them around their neck and sprint forward. They were so determined to do it right that some double-checked to see if it was hanging right. They looked out for each other yet again. Some dropped it on the way as they sped through the track again, but they went back coolly to pick it up. While these little unfortunate mishaps paved way for clear winners to emerge, the ones who were left  behind, continued running as fast as they were instructed to do and finished their race in the shadows. The world looked past them and cheered on to the winners, who were getting rewarded with medals and wild applause. I looked at the children who were left behind. They had finished the race too. They held a vibrant smile on their faces. Of accomplishment. Of doing everything they were asked to do. Of running alongside their friends. My daughter was among them.

And I cheered wildly for them.

It's remarkable how these kids took the pressure off of winning for me at that very moment. I looked around to see if other parents had witnessed what I had. Some were celebrating their kid's win with triumphant selfies. Some were immersed in some sort of psychobabble to the effect that winning or losing is part of life and it is participation that matters. Some just sat looking at the field, maybe lost in their own childhood or enjoying some quiet reflections of their own.

I, on the other hand, waited with bated breath for my little girl to come to me. I saw her from a distance, looking a little frazzled. I wondered if she had somehow got the sense of losing in the participants resting camp, so early on in her life. She came up to me and said, "I didn't get the medal mommy."

But I looked at her with pride and said the six words that I had read about in an article a long time ago. The six words that every parent should say to their kid after a competition, irrespective of the outcome. The six words that carried more meaning to me than any words of exaggerated motivation or consolation. The six words that made her smile.

All I said to her was, "But I loved watching you run."

Into the Light... A Trail of Shadows Behind

"For better or for worse, till {cough} do us part."

Image Reference: The Book Thief (www.filmequals.com)

Pardon me? I missed the word after "till". You know that dreary, 'one-that-should-not-be-talked-about' D-word or [Insert Favourite Euphemism]. The part about [clears throat] death. You'd say that's a pretty morbid note to begin my blog with, since I'm meeting you after a long hiatus and considering this is technically, my first post in 2016. But something happened in the near family recently that drew me to this seemingly impassable, by-invite-only, eerie-looking door and my dread of mortality.

I first encountered Death as a soft-cushioned blow when I was nine years old. My grandma passed away, a woman who seems very shadowy now, but whose regal air and booming voice I can vaguely recollect, like a fading apparition. I really can't tell you how I dealt with her not being there on her armchair everyday. I am sure I must've got ghosted by her once in a blue moon. I don't recall if I hung on to any of her relics as a way of keeping her home. Her sudden disappearance into the shadows — it must've been quizzical but unfortunately, I don't remember anything about it.

But death went about its business and four years later, when we were sleeping, it came back for my mother. I remember being woken up to the sound of my loud breathing above my dad's anxious voice, as if somehow I had already felt its presence. I remember a ringing sound in my ears, like when an air plane dips in altitude all of a sudden. And I remember incomprehension. The haze of incomprehension lasted for months. We'd go out to play with our friends and come back and realize that someone irreplaceable is missing. We'd eat food without really tasting it — sometimes we'd complain out of habit but it didn't really matter. We were always huddled up in a group of friends and family who threatened to give us warm hugs and kisses for every little incident that reminded us of our mum. And yet there was a thick blackness within - through which the soothing, consoling words failed to seep through, one that made us feel lonely like never before.

I have felt the pervasive, all-consuming experience of bereavement more times in my close family than I thought I could take and every time, it took a piece of me to an alien land. To the stars, to another dimension, to another life form, to dreams - anything that promises a connection between the living and the dead. I lost my brother at a young age to malaria. We, as his family, and his close friends fell in a crumble of despair and agony at the invincible shock of it. I saw us rise from the ashes only to become a little distant, each one of us lost in his/her own unrequited longing for closure, for the finality of knowing that he's not here with us any more, of knowing that just like that, one day, against all odds, he's fallen out of life.

Every time I look at someone who's experienced loss recently, I know that they're wearing a façade, one that makes you think, "Oh, he'she's coping with it so well." "Oh, he/she's a fighter" or "How very brave of him/her." But the hard truth is there's no putting away grief. Unfortunately, grief strikes you in places that you thought were numb before and it takes its own sweet time to heal. Peels of the depths of  love and loss buried deep underneath a hard layer of shock come to surface gradually until you hurt no more, until you stop looking for signs that they'll come back, until you can finally say goodbye, until you can tell their stories, of your deep connection with them to the world with a brave smile or calm tears.

I've thought about Death every time I encountered it in the vicinity and over time, I've found some solace in mellowing the face of it. When I first chanced upon it in my family, it was a dark-faced stranger, inconsequential to my scheme of things at large. Its face grew more menacing as it paid us more unwelcome visits and I started dreading about whom it would claim next in its creeps. I still shake involuntarily when I hear of somebody else drowning in the unknown, leaving the other dots in their life circle to deal with the complications of life, that will only move on in uncaring gusts and torrents. I've thought about Death a great deal and learned (the hard way) that perhaps, it'd make it easier if we could give Death a more solemn, and I dare say, a less spine-chilling appeal.  I sometimes look at Death not as an impenetrable black shadow but as a gentle, Gandalf-like, white wizard dressed in opulent veils coming down on his white-horsed chariot to take you on another road, parallel to life, equally intoxicating and riveting, anything but ordinary. Maybe it's just more exciting to visualize your loved ones in an alternate world than to think they've turned into unchangeable stars. Maybe it's just comforting to think that death is merely a change of location that cannot be geo-tagged, isn't it?

Today, when I talk about my mum and brother, I notice I don't break into inconsolable tears but reminisce them fondly; probably that is the blinding effect of time over grief. I realize that without knowing, I've moved on. However, their worth in my life remains unfazed. I wear my mum's gold bangles and I carry one of my brother's last gifts to me, a pearl choker, in my purse. I finally know that I've reached a place where I can look at their memories as worth celebrating and smiling about, as was their life. As is LIFE. I may still look for traces of them in everyone I get attached to. I may look at old albums and wonder about how much I really knew them and grieve over pieces of them that I've lost forever. Some of their memories are still strong, clung to an old habit or mannerism, a brand of soap or the smell of food. It's strangely true then that while I have come to terms with my sense of loss, their worth in my life is immortal.

To all those who are experiencing the grief of loss in some form or the other, there's a passage that I came across that seems so true:

“You will lose someone you can’t live without, and your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved. But this is also the good news. They live forever in your broken heart that doesn't seal back up. And you come through. It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly—that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp.”
- Anne Lamott

Here's hoping we learn to dance with the limp.

XOXO