Three years ago, on this very day, was when I made the resolution. The loss, the hurt, the pinch that day left me with has never ceased to haunt me. The worst part of losing someone is the resentment you feel afterwards for not being able to tell them the million things you didn't care enough to share while you had the time. Probably what is worse than the worst is the few things you wished you'd not said or done out of spite. For her, who has passed on, its of no consequence, but for you, who still has to suffer this materialistic existence, such actions get etched in memory, forever scathing, tormenting, eating away at your conscience day after day. Why today, then, after three years, am I unearthing things am not particularly proud of?
Having burnt each and every one of my 7 journals, torn to bits the collection of 212 poems I composed, shredded away 10 chapters worth of material I had written for my book, I realise, the only part of me that will survive me is probably this blog, and though its not touched every aspect of my life, it remains true in every word chronicling my transition through various phases of life. It is not anybody's business to know stuff close and dear to me, yet am sharing with you, dear Reader, a confession that I can no longer hold inside, and deserves to be out in the open. My purpose is not redemption. It is not pardon. I write today, as penance, for things I have said, and done, those I cannot erase or undo.
In the wake of recent events it struck me, what I resolved never to repeat somehow manifested itself in my attitude, and the bitterness that people now associate as the singular attribute closest to describing me. My grandma passed away 13 days ago following a cardiac arrest that left her immobile for 2 days before she succumbed in the ICU. I do not know if it was the helplessness in my dad's voice, the emptiness in my mom's eyes, or the sorrow I saw in my brother's face that made me realise the emptiness within. My grandma wasn't an angel, nor am I the devil, yet we had a system worked out that kept the friction at bay, in a passive form that didn't disturb the harmony of either's life. Subsequently, we grew apart, my anger and bitterness towards her manifesting itself in a form of latent hatred driving me to the point of wishing ill for her. Yet over all these years, my Delhi visits were incomplete without my mom pestering me to go spend some time with her. Irrespective of what the reasons may have been, respect for the elder, obedience for my mother, a shred of humanity left in me, I invariably ended up obliging my grandma with at least a 30 minute visit. We never spoke about anything in particular except her endless rant about how she thought the maid was cheating at work, how one of my younger cousins, her favourite, was enjoying tennis and chess classes, or how she wanted me to marry within the "biradari". I cringed every time I used to go, yet the fact I came always made her happy. It was on my last trip to Delhi when I decided I'd had enough of the old hag and wanted to put an end to the formality of paying her a visit. The first time I didn't visit her, turned out to be the last time I had the chance to sit with her, hold her fragile hands in mine and tell her I cared, even if I didn't mean it. Her passing away hasn't brought me any closer to her, but it has shown me how hollow I've been. The resentment lies not in my not having shared a warm and caring relationship with her, but in the fact that I let her go with bitterness in my heart and apathy in my actions. My having been with her would not have mattered, except given her the happiness of having her eldest grandson by her side. I could not give her even a sense that I cared enough to acknowledge her presence.
I should probably draw this post to a close now, for fear of making it sound like judgement day confessions. However, as I get ready to shut down my laptop after posting this write-up, I am unable to get myself to let go of the undelivered birthday card with Ami's name on it and a funny limerick, clutched in my hands, one I chose to not post, out of a misplaced sense of prejudice, uncharacteristic of me, corrupted by wrong advice. Whatever be the reason, the action is for me to own up to, and for such insolence I shall never be able to forgive myself. It is today, three years hence, that I resolve once again, to not let bitterness get the better of me. Prejudice is not me, nor will it ever be.
PS: I would not like anyone to post any comments for this post. Thanks.
Having burnt each and every one of my 7 journals, torn to bits the collection of 212 poems I composed, shredded away 10 chapters worth of material I had written for my book, I realise, the only part of me that will survive me is probably this blog, and though its not touched every aspect of my life, it remains true in every word chronicling my transition through various phases of life. It is not anybody's business to know stuff close and dear to me, yet am sharing with you, dear Reader, a confession that I can no longer hold inside, and deserves to be out in the open. My purpose is not redemption. It is not pardon. I write today, as penance, for things I have said, and done, those I cannot erase or undo.
In the wake of recent events it struck me, what I resolved never to repeat somehow manifested itself in my attitude, and the bitterness that people now associate as the singular attribute closest to describing me. My grandma passed away 13 days ago following a cardiac arrest that left her immobile for 2 days before she succumbed in the ICU. I do not know if it was the helplessness in my dad's voice, the emptiness in my mom's eyes, or the sorrow I saw in my brother's face that made me realise the emptiness within. My grandma wasn't an angel, nor am I the devil, yet we had a system worked out that kept the friction at bay, in a passive form that didn't disturb the harmony of either's life. Subsequently, we grew apart, my anger and bitterness towards her manifesting itself in a form of latent hatred driving me to the point of wishing ill for her. Yet over all these years, my Delhi visits were incomplete without my mom pestering me to go spend some time with her. Irrespective of what the reasons may have been, respect for the elder, obedience for my mother, a shred of humanity left in me, I invariably ended up obliging my grandma with at least a 30 minute visit. We never spoke about anything in particular except her endless rant about how she thought the maid was cheating at work, how one of my younger cousins, her favourite, was enjoying tennis and chess classes, or how she wanted me to marry within the "biradari". I cringed every time I used to go, yet the fact I came always made her happy. It was on my last trip to Delhi when I decided I'd had enough of the old hag and wanted to put an end to the formality of paying her a visit. The first time I didn't visit her, turned out to be the last time I had the chance to sit with her, hold her fragile hands in mine and tell her I cared, even if I didn't mean it. Her passing away hasn't brought me any closer to her, but it has shown me how hollow I've been. The resentment lies not in my not having shared a warm and caring relationship with her, but in the fact that I let her go with bitterness in my heart and apathy in my actions. My having been with her would not have mattered, except given her the happiness of having her eldest grandson by her side. I could not give her even a sense that I cared enough to acknowledge her presence.
I should probably draw this post to a close now, for fear of making it sound like judgement day confessions. However, as I get ready to shut down my laptop after posting this write-up, I am unable to get myself to let go of the undelivered birthday card with Ami's name on it and a funny limerick, clutched in my hands, one I chose to not post, out of a misplaced sense of prejudice, uncharacteristic of me, corrupted by wrong advice. Whatever be the reason, the action is for me to own up to, and for such insolence I shall never be able to forgive myself. It is today, three years hence, that I resolve once again, to not let bitterness get the better of me. Prejudice is not me, nor will it ever be.
PS: I would not like anyone to post any comments for this post. Thanks.
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