Shadows On The Glass

Realization is a slow process.

I see the body of a frail old man preserved in an ice-box and I feel nothing.

I see a hoard of people crowded around him, red-eyed and unmoving, but still not grievous and I feel nothing. I see not only relatives, but also a crowd of the native town folk who only know the deceased as an upright Revenue Inspector and I let it pass.

Maybe I'm numb from the sudden ferocity of it all. Its not everyday that I wake up to the sound of my Mom crying, and to a hurried departure to a relatively distant native town with only two cups of coffee keeping me vaguely awake, and not fully aware.

Maybe I didn't expect to see so calm a face, or so natural a death, being a part of a generation that revels in violence. But realization is a slow process.

I stand near the unmoving old man, holding a flaming stick of long fingered fire, and by the light of the fire I see his face, and comprehension dawns.

I remember the times we spent, the crosswords we solved. His view on politics, his belief in India. I remember the stories he told me of the times when he was a rebellious teenager rooting for Gandhi in khadis, a remainder of a generation that brought a dawn on an enslaved country. His tenure as the Deputy Collector, and his refusal to bend down to people which yielded him countless transfers. I remember tales my Dad told me of him, including the time when he sent back ten cartons of apples that came as a bribe, even when the family was struggling to make ends meet. One of the few good men on a totally corrupt government machinery. The joy with which he welcomed guests, and presided over their stay. I remember all that he taught me religion and identity. His vast knowledge and his steadfast stand on his conservative outlook. I remember mythology, and the collection of Amar Chithra Kathas he bought me regularly. His ritual of reading 3 newspapers a day, and the scriptures. His will power and his very few medications.

I break through my stony silence with silent denial, when I see my Grandmother sitting speechless near him, her eyes vacant, lost in thoughts whose burden I cannot but imagine, the shock of having lost her her husband of 64 years of wedlock in her face. Sixty four years of a wedlock, and I had never known. It was just one of the things I took for granted, but the enormity of the relationship knocked the breath out of me.

My hands clasped over my grandmother's, she leans to me and sobs "He promised not to leave me till I die. He promised that he would never leave me alone."

I retreat to a far corner, and I see an empty armchair by the window, its shadow stretching towards me. An empty armchair. His empty armchair. What is existence? What is its purpose? What is death? And what lies beyond that?

I remember GS's post as I type this out. His post on the insignificance of our size, compared with the vast volume of the universe. Millions of galaxies and stars, ever changing tides and a constantly evolving universe. Does a life matter in all this chaos?

And I realise, it does.

Sujeet's past words haunt me.

"Life is not about making yourself a prominent part of the universe, on the contrary its understanding how improminent you are. The truth is that you are as small a quark as small can be in this universe..
but a greater truth is that without this tiniest bit, the universe wudn be complete..its impossible 2 chuck u outta it, whether u r on d earth or heaven or watever.. meaning d universe cant do without u.."

Elegant. And that questions the very basis of my Nihilistic principles.

Until next time.