75% - Part II

“When will Baba come home?"

Catch up on Part 1 here

Death’s profound silence was so palpable that even time stopped to listen. That silence consumed me completely. His body, laid in the hospital stretcher outside the building, was enveloped by divine peace.

Relatives had gathered. Sitting on the sidewalk, they were wailing. The tears that streamed from their eyes had transformed into a perennial river; sadness etched the creases of their faces. Yet, I could not bring myself to cry. Instead, watching their histrionics almost brought a smile to my face. I was glad I was wearing a mask.

The waiting stretched on forever. We were waiting for the doctor to arrive, the one whose signature was needed to transfer the body from that concrete outdoor setting to the indoor laboratory. My husband had decided to donate his body. For scientific research. He hadn’t wanted a cremation, or the 13 day mourning ritual after his death.

When the doctor arrived, so did the ‘corpse van’. His body was moved to the back of the van. I went in with him, sitting atop the thin stools pushed against the van’s edges. Other relatives streamed in until the vehicle was fully packed. A short drive across the road, and we reached our destination. The body was removed and put into a stretcher.

An employee began to push the stretcher inside, and I followed behind. With every step forward, the miasma of death intensified. Inside— rows and rows of cupboards attached to the walls, each containing large glass jars— filled with organs. Here, I had to leave him. Here, I saw his physical form for the last time in my life.

***

After the medical officer’s verdict, I couldn’t bring myself to walk back home. I took a taxi instead.

My son was outside in the garden, chasing after a blue butterfly. He was eight years old. My mother, watching behind him, approached me— then stopped. The solemn expression on my face— perhaps— had told her all she needed to know.

She followed me into the kitchen, where, on the counter, was my half-finished herbal tea. I picked it up, and the cold liquid slipped through my oesophagus, leaving a cool chill as it passed. I was staring— blindly— out the window.

“You’re worried about Prashant, aren’t you?” My mother said, referring to my son.

I didn’t reply.

“He has me. Don’t worry. I did raise seven healthy children, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

I headed up to my bedroom— and opened the cupboard. I took the piled stacks of clothes and threw them on the bed. I needed to pack.

My mother followed, entering the room minutes later.

“They give you clothes there. I don’t think you need to take anything with you.”

Of course they do.

“So, what next?” I asked my mother.

“Just brace yourself. What time is your pickup?”

“2:45 pm.”

“Just relax until then.”

I headed downstairs, and called my son inside.

He skipped into the room, thinking lunch was ready.

“How about we take an early nap today?” I asked, restraining my tears.

He shrugged, walking towards his bedroom.

As he curled up on the bed, I said, “Ama will be gone for a while now. But don’t worry, she’ll be back soon, ok?”

“Why do you also have to go?” He asked, looking deep into my eyes.

“That’s what best for you and me. For now. Ok?”

Unconvinced, he turned to the other side.

I wrapped my arms around him and let the tears fall.

***

When I arrived at the institution, an elderly woman was waiting for me at the door.

“I’m glad you made it, Jyoti,” she said, smiling at me with her kind eyes.

She led me to my room, which was a small rectangle with beige walls, a bed, a cupboard and a study table. Atop the table, a solitary, pink rose stood inside a blue vase.

When she left me, I opened the cupboard which had a pile of neatly folded clothes, all in shades of pastel.

Days at the institution blended into each other. Time moved in circles, each new day mimicking the pattern of the day before. There were others like me— mothers, wives, daughters— who had been unable to escape grief’s clasp. They smiled at me when we passed each other in the hallway, but a sea of sorrow was embedded in their eyes.

Group therapy, individual therapy. They were all the same to me.

“But he’d want you to be happy, right?” My therapist said, one day.

“Yes.”

“So, embrace that happiness— you have that power.”

Of course I knew that. As I stared at the vibrant spring garden poster pasted on the wall behind him, I gasped for words.

It wasn’t true that I was unhappy. There were so many moments, after his death, that I’d been happy. My son’s eighth birthday party— the most recent. But, grief and happiness could co-exist. No one seemed to understand that his absence, for me, was as though I had lost a part of my own soul. Even when I found happiness, a part of me would always be in a distant space and time, searching for the lost bit of my soul.

For the first two years, I was allowed to grieve. I wore the white bracelet, symbol of a citizen in mourning.

“I’m sorry,” they’d say for a moment when they saw the bracelet, before moving on to another topic. Some paused, waiting for me to explain. More often than not, I didn’t.

As a grieving widow, my workload was reduced at the bank, where I worked as a teller. I received government support in the form of monthly stipends to supplement my reduced income. I spent more time with my son, trying to fill in the shoes of both parents.

“When will Baba come home? It’s already 6pm.” Prashant would ask me in the early days, having forgotten that his father had died, and expecting him to return home from work. The two of them would have then gone out for an evening stroll in the neighborhood. From the excitement gleaming in his eyes, I could tell that this was Prashant’s favorite thing to do.

I bent to one knee, and held my son’s delicate face in my hands. “Remember what I told you?” I’d say softly.

The excitement in his eyes melted, replaced by a perplexed look. Then, when the realization hit— a deep gaze of sorrow.

“Let me take you for a walk,” I’d offer.

But Prashant would quietly head to his room, dismissing my offer wordlessly.

Part 3: Coming Soon