Earlier this year in April, Sikdar Uncle passed away. The year before in September, just after B's birthday, he was diagnosed with a malignant tumour which eventually got the better of him. When I think back to when I first got to know of the diagnosis, to the day I learnt of his death- I was certain of one thing- the relentless suffering. No matter what would eventually happen, the pain couldn't be avoided. I knew that. And that is what I feared the most.
He passed away after travelling 1500 kms away from home in the hope for a cure, after numerous hospital trips, after a few futile surgeries, after flying back home, after nights of losing control over limbs and organs, after days of near-paralysis. Earlier, when he was better, over my childhood days,I remember him sunk into his armchair, sometimes reading a newspaper, sometimes aimlessly looking into the TV screen, and sometimes trying to crack a joke. I remember him in his humour- awkward, reticent, loud, humble, honest.
When I heard he'd passed away, I was in Delhi. I remember waking up crying to my mother's text, heart trembling at the thought of calling B. What would I tell her? Death means an agonizing absence.
I got tickets to Calcutta, and flew in to hug her.
This year, I could barely make it home during Pujo. I landed on oshtomi, after Didi pleaded and coaxed. B was there, so was Aunty. Minutes before I entered home, she swore to those around her that she could hear my voice. I wasn't talking, and nobody at home knew I'd be turning up. She'd always had one of my soul-strings.
Growing up, there was a shiuli tree in our building. Still is. Every year during Pujo, Ma and Aunty would sit beneath it, collecting shiuli from the ground, and talk about things they couldn't share in larger groups of superficial conversation. We'd look at them and smile- they were so similar. For my mother, sensitive and aesthetic, Aunty was her only real friend.
This year Aunty seemed a little lost from the moment I entered. I caught her tearing up more than once, and at other times, she too seemed sunk inside, lost aimlessly in an invisible TV screen in front of her. On dashami, I saw her wandering near the shiuli tree, and that's when I noticed that there were no shiulis this year.
He passed away after travelling 1500 kms away from home in the hope for a cure, after numerous hospital trips, after a few futile surgeries, after flying back home, after nights of losing control over limbs and organs, after days of near-paralysis. Earlier, when he was better, over my childhood days,I remember him sunk into his armchair, sometimes reading a newspaper, sometimes aimlessly looking into the TV screen, and sometimes trying to crack a joke. I remember him in his humour- awkward, reticent, loud, humble, honest.
When I heard he'd passed away, I was in Delhi. I remember waking up crying to my mother's text, heart trembling at the thought of calling B. What would I tell her? Death means an agonizing absence.
I got tickets to Calcutta, and flew in to hug her.
This year, I could barely make it home during Pujo. I landed on oshtomi, after Didi pleaded and coaxed. B was there, so was Aunty. Minutes before I entered home, she swore to those around her that she could hear my voice. I wasn't talking, and nobody at home knew I'd be turning up. She'd always had one of my soul-strings.
Growing up, there was a shiuli tree in our building. Still is. Every year during Pujo, Ma and Aunty would sit beneath it, collecting shiuli from the ground, and talk about things they couldn't share in larger groups of superficial conversation. We'd look at them and smile- they were so similar. For my mother, sensitive and aesthetic, Aunty was her only real friend.
This year Aunty seemed a little lost from the moment I entered. I caught her tearing up more than once, and at other times, she too seemed sunk inside, lost aimlessly in an invisible TV screen in front of her. On dashami, I saw her wandering near the shiuli tree, and that's when I noticed that there were no shiulis this year.
