All That Remains…

“Krish be careful with that skateboard!” shouted my husband Sunil from the living room.  Krish is five and already a little athlete but Sunil is an over-protective father. We have fought many times over this. Somehow Krish always manages to reassure his father that he will be safe  though I cannot seem to talk Sunil out of his anxiety.

Sunil also cherishes his parents and  cannot bear their absence  and sometimes it bothers me but then  I remember that cherished time 10 years ago, when we first fell in love and were dating each other.  I remember how consistently forgiving Sunil was towards my childish whims  and temper tantrums. I used to wonder why someone so affluent, stylish and good looking with a bunch of admirers praising his talents constantly would be so unreasonably affected by the idea of losing me but somehow I took pleasure in testing his love and then basking in the feeling of being wanted.

But then recently my grand father-in-law, all of 85 years shared something that made me understand the root of my husband’s fears. Sunil was just three when his maternal grandfather planned a  family visit to the holy shrines of Badrinath and Kedarnath. The journey was fraught with dangers as pilgrims had to negotiate the edge of the Himalayan mountain range and cross various rivers. One wrong step could mean the difference between life and death.

Sunil and his father could not accompany the group but Nandini, Sunil’s mom bid a loving goodbye to her husband. Sunil’s father was madly in love with this free spirited, young and expressive woman. She was gifted, played the harmonium and sang soulfully and covered linen with her neat and precise embroidery. She engraved the initials of my father-in-law on his handkerchiefs, loved cinema, fashion, children and life. She had befriended the entire neighborhood with her charming and amicable nature. Everyone in the family loved her and looked upto her.

As Nandini ran down the steps, excited about the upcoming tour with her family, she suddenly felt that she was leaving something behind and came back once again to plant a kiss on the forehead of her son who was wailing inconsolably. Sunil held on to the corner of her saree, screaming to be picked up. She held him and laughed through her tears, “Oh ! It’s so hard  to leave him even for a few days. Just remember, he’s scared of the dark and allergic to orange candies.”

Nandini set out for the journey along with her brothers, their wives, sisters, her grown up nieces, nephews and parents and boarded the bus that was to take them to crisp mountain air, rivers springing forth from melting glaciers, lush green forests and valleys of flowers. However, the journey was fated to end much earlier. The steep hill on which the bus was crawling came to a dead end suddenly and the driver realized that he had made a fatal mistake. The joy in the bus suddenly  turned into  panic stricken howls. Nandini’s father was thrown out of the bus that continued its backward journey to the valley, driven by inexorable gravity.

One of Nandini’s sisters jumped off and survived but the bus vanished into the depths of the darkness within seconds. Away from the accident site but deeply connected with his mother, Sunil was woken up by a nightmare  and could hear his mother calling out to him.  His cries woke up the whole house and then the phone rang. Nandini’s father and sister came back with the remains of their shrunken world, a few days later.

In the years that followed, a lot of love from friends, family and neighbours sustained Sunil and then arrived Rani, the loving woman who married his father to help him overcome his loss and move on with his life. She doted on Sunil and became the mother he had lost so tragically. Today things are “normal” but yes, the mother he lost lives on, in his heart, memories, in subconscious fears, in all his relationships, in the songs he sings, the pain he still carries within. One does not have to search too hard to find the pain that’s still fresh.

Now when I see him rushing through long corridors to pick Krish up from a minor fall,  hugging him tight, pressing him against his chest and sleeping peacefully or enduring my mood swings with love and acceptance or listening to his mom and dad with enormous patience and making small sacrifices to make them happy, surrendering the power of being right even when he is not wrong for the sake of his siblings, I can see the innocent eyes of a three-years old desperately trying to hold on to the image of his mother.  I see him and realize the meaning of holding on to life, the pain of losing someone you love suddenly and I understand  just how he knows that even bigger than our ego is what we leave of ourselves in the hearts of our loved ones. Because that is all that remains after we are gone.

Shreeja Mohatta Jhawar is a partner in Think Unlike Events where she  organises creative and life-style transforming workshops. She is also a freelance writer, web and graphics designer as well as a social activist who runs ‘Kritagya,’ a group aiming to serve old and destitute people.