It was a Sunday evening. My mom and I had left the hospital. We had tonnes of thoughts whirling through our heads. At 7 pm, the news had reached us through a phone call from my father. We froze in despair as we came to know that my grandmother, who was struggling in the hospital, was no more. I could not bear it. As I reached the hospital, my eyes could not stop shedding tears on seeing her body being wrapped in a blanket.
She looked calm, but there were no movements. I cried terribly and hugged her as tight as I could. Her body was completely cold. I groaned and yelled near her ears which could no more hear my words.
As it was reported as an accident, we did not receive her body immediately. Leaving behind the dearest one dead amidst a crowd of cadavers is the most maddening thing that could happen to anyone.
There were never-ending legal formalities. She was given in bits and pieces stitched together after autopsy. It killed me. I felt as if thousands of thorns were pricking my body at the same time. I was ashamed of myself for not taking care of her properly. A post-mortem at the age of 89 was the only way I could repay her for all she had given to me.
After the rituals and customs were completed at home, her body was put in place over the intertwined coconut leaves and was about to leave to the cremation ground. I could not accept she was already dead. A soul that had poured unparalleled affection, a soul that was yearning for bonding, had now travelled miles away from me.
I was on the road shouting and bending my head down to her foot as she was about to be marched for the funeral. I understood the impact created by the death of someone who was with me for 25 long years. Every occasion made me remember her, thousands of memories flashing through me. She yearned for relationships and people. She had many thoughts to share. But there were only a few to listen. Loneliness veiled her and she was trapped in a shell. I felt angry for only realising this after her death. Old people don’t seek happiness in luxuries, but in the time that you give for them. Her death has taught me a life lesson.
Manjula Ambalavanan
Email: manju.ap19@gmail.com