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| Image: Bruce Dale |
Don't look for structure in this one. Or plot. Or beginnings and conclusions. Or articulation of already-formed thoughts and storylines and concepts.
I have none of those things to offer at this point in time. I'm too busy trying to make my way through a maze of thoughts that have gotten too numerous and inarticulate to make for a decent blog, forget a decent night-time conversation with the self. So this one is for that old cliche: resolution through words.
There's enough that comes to mind.
There is suffering and illness. There is misery and hospital beds. There is the ICU - a word that struck terror in all of our hearts at first, till we became resigned to it in the weeks that followed, and then said "ICU" in the same tired voice we had first heard the receptionist say it.
There is hope and then the loss of hope, and then hope again and then the loss of hope again, and then- then, there is death. My first conscious encounter with death, a loss that matters in a way that none before it have. The pain of it is sudden and overwhelming. But it can be dealt with. Because of the reassurances we have, said constantly by everyone to everyone till they become the mantra in the weeks afterward: "a long and fruitful life", "released from his suffering", "better to go like this than have stayed on without independence"... It is made easier by the fulfilment of his last request. A family mends itself slowly and surely, as it comes together to honour its greatest and most enterprising member; but it is too late for the architect of this process to enjoy what he has brought about.
There is an already half-disappearing image of an old man sitting in front of his dead brother's photograph and crying for forty lost years. His regret is so powerful that you recoil from him, and you shudder and hope you will never taste regret like that, so intense that it is almost acidic. And there is a renewed commitment to apologising- sometimes even when it's not your fault. Because the price of being righteous (or even right) is just too terribly high sometimes.
Then, Agra. We are here because this death needs to be accorded its proper place, its proper meaning by the framework that sheltered this giant of a man when he was alive. It is a misty, cold morning. Winding deserted streets at the crack of dawn. A hall full of men and women meditating in unison. The head of this religious sect believes in the power of collective energies. Afterwards, there is a field of crops that are ready to be harvested. And there are plenty of scythes. It is almost surreal. I am in a field in Agra at 7:00 AM on my 24th birthday. (That has to be one of the unlikeliest autobiographical sentences I've ever written.) The harvesting is a community project run by the sect- we all sit down and proceed to cut the crops with scythes- it turns into a bit of a competition, a game, and we laugh and talk while quickly mastering the art of harvesting, as more seasoned members generously pass on bits of wisdom to us ("Make the cut right at the bottom of the stalk- no point wasting the last few inches!"). We are shushed at regular intervals by senior overseers, and our group (which ranges from a 19-year-old to a 62-year-old) subsides into chastened silence at periodic intervals- just until someone cracks the next joke in a muttered overtone.
The head of the sect arrives. A number of people in the field have come because there are problems they want his advice about. Some have come to share good news. A stern senior member makes us all gather round as he explains the process to us. There are rules and guidelines - "Don't talk", "Don't shuffle", "Don't interrupt" and so on. I feel like we're in school; no-one has spoken like this to me in many years. But it seems to fit- in this place, in this context, perhaps it could only be this way. We line up, waiting for the head to reach us. Progress is slow, even though none of the devotees speak. Why does no-one speak? Because they have already given short summaries of their problems to the religious committee earlier- and anyway, the head of the sect is omniscient so there is no need for conversation.
Finally, he reaches us. Fragments that will stay with me (and certainly with everyone else who was there) all my life.
"He was a good, good man."
"He went too early."
"All of you stay together."
"He did such good work. All these years that he managed Delhi...we've never had a problem from there."
"All of you stay together."
And that...was that.
