I’ve been trying to sort out my feelings for a few days.
My father passed away this past Monday, a few days shy of his birthday.
It was a long time coming, as my father had failed kidneys several years ago.
He had signs of dementia, and afterward, he steadily lost his cognitive and motor functions.
In the past couple of weeks, my dad could no longer walk or feed himself or recognize my younger sister or me.
So, it was not exactly a surprise when it happened.
But yet, it was.
The way I felt, the way I’m feeling can’t be summed up. My feelings were a mass of conflict.
There was relief. Relief that my father was no longer trapped inside that immobile body. Relief that he’s been released from his twisted, broken shell.
And a selfish reprieve.
A secret gladness that I would no longer have to see my dad that way. And relief that my mother would no longer have to make the long trips for his dialysis to the nursing home.
And guilt.
Guilt for feeling relieved. Guilt that I didn’t visit India more often after I realized he had not many days to live. That I was too engrossed in making money.
When I first heard the news, I didn’t feel anything.
I thought it made sense that I didn’t feel any grief. We were all prepared for it. I was ready.
Except that I really wasn’t.
Although the tears didn’t come, there was a searing hotness in my chest. And a prickliness as if a heated piece of iron was logged next to my chest.
And dullness. As if a giant, heavy blanket had been draped over everything.
My invisible hundred-pound blanket weighed me down and threatened to cloak everything around me.
Take some time off work, my kind-hearted manager said.
I couldn’t. Work needed me. I was lying. I needed work.
But yet I let someone else do the work, to take over my body. I watched my body operate my laptop and listened to my voice talk on conference calls.
But it wasn’t me.
Who was this person doing things in my body?
I didn’t know.
I didn’t know, but I found myself hating him. I hated him for going about his day, churning out work. I hated him for talking and laughing in meetings. I wanted to slap him, to shake him.
I was angry.
The world still looked and worked the same as it always did.
Such selfish bastards. Nobody cared, except those fake furred eyebrowed concerns of people who wanted to know the details.
Standing in the grocery store the other day I looked around.
Don’t you see anyone? — My dad’s not here anymore.
Can’t you see? Something is very wrong. Doesn’t anyone care?
Tonight, I go back to the old house in Andheri where we used to live many years before.
I open my dad’s cupboard, the shelf that we had left intact for several years since he never could go back to that old house.
As I look at the small pile of his familiar shirts, it just happened. I started to mist up a bit — silently afraid someone would hear me, judge me.
I was all alone.
My kind father, who finally got his own space, his own room, after we all lived for years in a single bedroom apartment sharing compartments in a single rusted iron Godrej cupboard.
My silly father, who kept little belongings in a small glass cup, a Swiss knife, the little pins, his watch, and his little cash in a small black square tin box — The box from which I stole for my pocket-money to sustain my indulgences during those lean years…
I loved him so so much and I know he loved me even more.
As I sat down on the bed watching his belongings, everything turned slightly hazy.
Overriding amongst my kaleidoscope of feelings, was profound sadness.
It felt good to cry.
