“If I didn’t wake up tomorrow, the world would not be worse off.” A simple truth I have often thought, especially now that the brainwashing of a nation which claimed I was special and could do anything I wanted and was destined to great things because I was born under a certain flag has worn off and my anonymity and mediocrity have bleached through the colors of that proud banner to show the world and myself what my true worth is. A grain of sand makes up the beach which holds the ocean in check but the beach would not miss one grain of sand and the ocean’s fine currents would not falter if one grain of sand disappeared.
I think I started preparing for death when I sat in the dark of my parents’ empty apartment, my mother dead and my father in a coma, awaiting death. Starkly, I realized that death was indeed the finale I had thought it would be but somehow I never counted on how final the finale would be. Finales came at the end of plays and acts of grandeur. And though a play or other act of grandeur can never be done the same way twice, they can be done in some way over and over, even the finale. But not death. Death is the END. What a cheat death is that it makes its victim look as if she is only sleeping. For a few bare, bald seconds you are convinced that the eyes will open, the smile will break through the pallor and what you loved and now miss more than anything in the world will be alive and whole again. But then reality hits you silently when held breaths become torment and you have to breathe but she will never breathe again.
I remember organizing the belongings accumulated over the few years my parents had lived in that apartment. My brothers and sisters helped me but somehow I don’t think that gathering of knick knacks, books, daily utensils and clothes meant to them what it meant to me. It represented the sum of physical life, could never represent the mental and emotional beings who once possessed them even if a blouse reminded me of the last birthday I spent with my mother or a cow figurine was the one I gave to Dad when he got out of the hospital the first time he was admitted for something that should have killed him long before the shock of my mother’s passing did. For me, all these things were just that – things. I took a few as mementos: a smiley coffee mug, a smiley doll for my mother memories, a cow toy and a set of deer figures which reminded me of my father and a picture of my parents, frozen in time. The rest held nothing for me. And within days of distributing the remainder of possessions among siblings, neighbours and charities, I stood in my own apartment and started culling my possessions.
When I moved from that apartment three years after my parents died, I fit all I possessed into seven medium sized boxes. Most were filled with things I thought I might sell one day, a few simple possessions, clothes and computer things. If I were in my room in the US right now I would reduce these seven boxes to maybe three or even two.
Even now, sitting in my flat in India, I realize I have acquired too much stuff. Granted, some of its paper – puzzle books, notebooks, language books. Some are possessions – a washing machine, the computer I type on now, the DVD player which I never use now that I have the computer. A bunch of clothes no one here would fit into or rather into which two or three average Indian woman could fit. The smiley doll, the picture of my parents and two or three other simple knick knacks given to me by friends. And the cat.
If I died in the night, the cat would surely find a home with one of the few colleagues I have who like cats. The rest of my things might be shipped to my brothers who would surely have no use for big shirts, Learn Kannada in 30 Days books and a peacock made of shells. Not one of these things would capture who I was, even as pale and mediocre as I am. Would any of these things be imbued with my sense of humor, my love of animals, my desire to help the environment? Would any of these items packed into boxes and banged and bashed across the ocean convey my love of writing, my lifetime of knowledge, my dreams, my failures?
Here is the thing about death. There is no word to describe it or replace it. Death is death, inexorable, non-negotiable, adamantine. I am not so foolish as to believe that by paring my life into a few boxes, I prepare myself for death. Rather, I prepare my loved ones for my death – maybe. “If I didn’t wake up tomorrow, the world would not be worse off.” I am pretty sure that’s true but for sure, I hope that the world will have an easier time erasing me from its memory. I’ll pare down my belongings here in India, starting tomorrow...
I think I started preparing for death when I sat in the dark of my parents’ empty apartment, my mother dead and my father in a coma, awaiting death. Starkly, I realized that death was indeed the finale I had thought it would be but somehow I never counted on how final the finale would be. Finales came at the end of plays and acts of grandeur. And though a play or other act of grandeur can never be done the same way twice, they can be done in some way over and over, even the finale. But not death. Death is the END. What a cheat death is that it makes its victim look as if she is only sleeping. For a few bare, bald seconds you are convinced that the eyes will open, the smile will break through the pallor and what you loved and now miss more than anything in the world will be alive and whole again. But then reality hits you silently when held breaths become torment and you have to breathe but she will never breathe again.
I remember organizing the belongings accumulated over the few years my parents had lived in that apartment. My brothers and sisters helped me but somehow I don’t think that gathering of knick knacks, books, daily utensils and clothes meant to them what it meant to me. It represented the sum of physical life, could never represent the mental and emotional beings who once possessed them even if a blouse reminded me of the last birthday I spent with my mother or a cow figurine was the one I gave to Dad when he got out of the hospital the first time he was admitted for something that should have killed him long before the shock of my mother’s passing did. For me, all these things were just that – things. I took a few as mementos: a smiley coffee mug, a smiley doll for my mother memories, a cow toy and a set of deer figures which reminded me of my father and a picture of my parents, frozen in time. The rest held nothing for me. And within days of distributing the remainder of possessions among siblings, neighbours and charities, I stood in my own apartment and started culling my possessions.
When I moved from that apartment three years after my parents died, I fit all I possessed into seven medium sized boxes. Most were filled with things I thought I might sell one day, a few simple possessions, clothes and computer things. If I were in my room in the US right now I would reduce these seven boxes to maybe three or even two.
Even now, sitting in my flat in India, I realize I have acquired too much stuff. Granted, some of its paper – puzzle books, notebooks, language books. Some are possessions – a washing machine, the computer I type on now, the DVD player which I never use now that I have the computer. A bunch of clothes no one here would fit into or rather into which two or three average Indian woman could fit. The smiley doll, the picture of my parents and two or three other simple knick knacks given to me by friends. And the cat.
If I died in the night, the cat would surely find a home with one of the few colleagues I have who like cats. The rest of my things might be shipped to my brothers who would surely have no use for big shirts, Learn Kannada in 30 Days books and a peacock made of shells. Not one of these things would capture who I was, even as pale and mediocre as I am. Would any of these things be imbued with my sense of humor, my love of animals, my desire to help the environment? Would any of these items packed into boxes and banged and bashed across the ocean convey my love of writing, my lifetime of knowledge, my dreams, my failures?
Here is the thing about death. There is no word to describe it or replace it. Death is death, inexorable, non-negotiable, adamantine. I am not so foolish as to believe that by paring my life into a few boxes, I prepare myself for death. Rather, I prepare my loved ones for my death – maybe. “If I didn’t wake up tomorrow, the world would not be worse off.” I am pretty sure that’s true but for sure, I hope that the world will have an easier time erasing me from its memory. I’ll pare down my belongings here in India, starting tomorrow...
If one grain of sand was to simply disappear, couldn't the same thing happen to all of the sand and then what would hold the oceans back? It's hard to imagine in such a divided and fractal world, but we're all in this together. Rich or poor, famous or obscure, what happens to one of us impacts so many more than those who are immediately within our lives. I've mourned the deaths of people I have never met, when I learned that they walked the earth and made a difference in their own way. I know this is an older post, and you've grown much since then. However, I felt moved to say something in this one. Speaking to the young lady of nine years ago, hoping she could feel comfort or emboldened somehow through the passage of time.
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