This morning when I heard from neighbours about a young man who had died of brain tumour my mind travelled to the day when my mother called to tell me that my cousin had died. I remember the flutter in my stomach.
That little boy that I had held in my arms, seen grow, enjoyed playing with, and fought with, was no more. I am ten years older than him but I fought with him over firecrackers when I was 19 and he, 10.
As I walked to see mother, I recalled the toddler, his charming smile, the little boy who created a ruckus, threw a ball into the aluminum pot of boiling water. The boy who always fought with his brother, five years younger than he. The boy had a striking resemblance to my aunt,his mother, who is my mother's younger sister. The boy who had an opinion about everything and infuriated older people in the family. The boy who thought I had a boyfriend and if I didn't then I am no girl! The boy who was shocked that the deities in the temple on our street were standing naked.
Every morning, at the Agasthyar temple, the idols would be washed and then decorated with new garments. He did not understand the rituals though I tried explaining them.
The boy who was always jealous because his younger brother was a delicate child and hence was pampered... was no more.
I remember my aunt telling me over phone, "He is my baby..." as she sobbed. Six years later it is still fresh in my memory. He died of aneurysm in the brain, we were told.
I met my cousin in my aunt's house in 2001 for Christmas at Wshington DC, after a gap of nearly 10 years. He had grown up, now an adult, and he remembered little of his childhood fights with me. I met him briefly for dinner on Christmas day. After that I never ever spoke to him.
Today, my neighbour's son, all of 35, in his prime, had died of tumour. His mother sat beside the freezer box, tears flowing down her cheeks. "He is gone," she said. "I educated him, he went abroad, got himself a green card. He is not there anymore." Her sorrow and pain will heal only with time.
How does one convince her that life goes on and that there will be pleasant memories that she can continue to live with? My mind has been with her all day, commiserating with the grieving family. But I go about my work as if I am an automaton.
Knowing me, I know I will now go to the internet and read up about it. But what help is that? I need something to assuage her pain. My memories and the shock I experience every time I recall the day I got that phone call which turned my life upside down.
I cried a bit but was not given to crying as others did that day. But the memory of that cousin is so fresh after all these years.
That little boy that I had held in my arms, seen grow, enjoyed playing with, and fought with, was no more. I am ten years older than him but I fought with him over firecrackers when I was 19 and he, 10.
As I walked to see mother, I recalled the toddler, his charming smile, the little boy who created a ruckus, threw a ball into the aluminum pot of boiling water. The boy who always fought with his brother, five years younger than he. The boy had a striking resemblance to my aunt,his mother, who is my mother's younger sister. The boy who had an opinion about everything and infuriated older people in the family. The boy who thought I had a boyfriend and if I didn't then I am no girl! The boy who was shocked that the deities in the temple on our street were standing naked.
Every morning, at the Agasthyar temple, the idols would be washed and then decorated with new garments. He did not understand the rituals though I tried explaining them.
The boy who was always jealous because his younger brother was a delicate child and hence was pampered... was no more.
I remember my aunt telling me over phone, "He is my baby..." as she sobbed. Six years later it is still fresh in my memory. He died of aneurysm in the brain, we were told.
I met my cousin in my aunt's house in 2001 for Christmas at Wshington DC, after a gap of nearly 10 years. He had grown up, now an adult, and he remembered little of his childhood fights with me. I met him briefly for dinner on Christmas day. After that I never ever spoke to him.
Today, my neighbour's son, all of 35, in his prime, had died of tumour. His mother sat beside the freezer box, tears flowing down her cheeks. "He is gone," she said. "I educated him, he went abroad, got himself a green card. He is not there anymore." Her sorrow and pain will heal only with time.
How does one convince her that life goes on and that there will be pleasant memories that she can continue to live with? My mind has been with her all day, commiserating with the grieving family. But I go about my work as if I am an automaton.
Knowing me, I know I will now go to the internet and read up about it. But what help is that? I need something to assuage her pain. My memories and the shock I experience every time I recall the day I got that phone call which turned my life upside down.
I cried a bit but was not given to crying as others did that day. But the memory of that cousin is so fresh after all these years.
No comments:
Post a Comment