A Year Hence

It's been a year. A favourite food offering was made. Photographs were wiped and garlanded. A date, based on the lunar year, was set for the religious ceremony. A very heartfelt ad was put in the paper, one that quoted Frankie Laine's 'Flamenco' ("Dance, gypsy, dance, gypsy/Laugh and romance, gypsy. Dance, gypsy, dance, gypsy/Break every rule/Fly, gypsy, cry, gypsy/LOVE WILL NOT DIE, GYPSY/Now that you've captured the heart of a fool").

We didn't know what to do further.

Religion, however you personally choose to profess it, endows the bereaved with traditional duties and customs, ostensibly for the purpose of adhering to tradition but I believe that it is secretly intended to distract the bereaved from the grief and also to give them the freedom from participation in activities/events that might cause them to miss the deceased even more. Religious tradition expects you to do something in memory - to do it feels necessary but it does not of course feel completely satisfactory.

So I played his songs extra loudly. That helped a bit. But it didn't feel right. It felt like how they have Rajnikanth music specials on his birthday. How do you celebrate and grieve at the same time for someone whose absence is so conspicuous, still a little raw and whose true spirit was so free from rigid ideologies, unwaveringly seeking only what was fair and true? He would laugh at the acts that try to distort the truth and present some warped sense of reality. For him, the truth however unpretty, however complicated, was the only thing worth living for. Hypocritical, wishy-washy behaviour was something he saw through at once, even if it was in his favour. For him, his heart ruled and he followed it, unfailingly, as much as a man of science could. So when I felt a twinge of hurt at an action that attempted to do exactly the above, I decided to do just what my father would have done - laugh. Because when you know the truth and when the truth is love, you have nothing to feel hurt about. If there's anything my father has taught me, it's to be truthful and about to be strong, cement-footed about it.

In a year, life can throw beautiful miracles your way. It can heal you by keeping you so busy, so absorbed, so productive that you push the pain to the back of your mind. That helps. But of course, in the dark, sometimes at night, it sears and aches because of the forced vacancy, the closed door that you cannot open, a fated date that you cannot reverse.

And you dread the date coming around again, because you don't want to confront it. It would seal the time since so specifically that it increases the vast canyon that separates you from that person you had so close and who seems to have just slipped out beyond reach. I always felt that past the one year mark, I would be so further away from his life, that his living memory would fade and I forgot what it felt like to hold his hand. There would be tears but less specific. I would rather crave him to question my movements, to miss me when I travel, to be there so that we could have major life decision conversations and even arguments. I would want him to scare the person I chose to marry and to finally agree. I would never want someone to do that for me, not even another family member. I wish that he, specifically, him as a person, would be there to do that because I am not able to imagine right now how he would react to such circumstances. When he was ill, I was so wrapped up in his health, his suffering, the fear that I would not have much time with him that I treasured our daily moments together and never had the luxury of taking my father for granted, as most people would do. My parents' love raised and lifted me in such a way that I never felt the typical teenage stirrings of rebellion or the need to let loose. Of course, I was lucky that they never suppressed or restricted me but I knew what his expectations of me as a human being were and I always felt responsible to that. So, in my moments of weakness and rage at life's order of things, I sometimes feel so resentful that my father being a father of a 24 year old girl is something that I will never have the privilege of experiencing.

But I do have faith in the protection he has left me, both earthly and metaphysical. I can only imagine what they would react to the prayers and offerings being done (knowing my father, he would say "Bah, humbug!") I believe that he is a part of all the good things that happen and I believe that he can, with his invisible, mysterious force, alleviate the bad. People say that he is always there, everywhere but I'd rather he were elsewhere, looking down, all-knowing and all-understanding but somewhere much better than the restrictive, physically-bound, potholed streets of Chennai, just for my sake. Of course, he will always be my guardian and confidant but I know, just know, that whatever form he is in, it would be much expanded and much powerful.

Because love is powerful. And love does not die.

Goodness Me

(Photo courtesy: http://www.good.is )

A lot of us talk about Bucket Lists, about places we'd like to see before we die, about things we'd like to tick off as Done instead of To-Do. My father actually did check off a lot of items, although I do admit that his wishes didn't involve swimming across the Godavari or learning how to play the drums for 'Sing, Sing, Swing'. His wants and needs were simple-he had a list of songs he wanted, a couple of movies he wanted to watch and he wanted to meet 100 Good People before he passed on.

We had a 'picnic' one night when he was sick, munching very slowly on a few Corn Puffs and watching 'Mary Poppins'. We also watched 'Jungle Book'-the first movie I've ever watched in my life (when I was four) and the last movie he ever watched in his (when he was seventy four). We got most of the music on his carefully compiled list, even finding the one song from the film 'Sombrero' where Cyd Charisse dances in a tropical storm. We even wrote our long overdue letter to Harry Belafonte where my father insisted on comparing calypso to Tamil folk songs, particularly one song which we both loved called 'Thandanae' by N.S. Krishnan and T.A. Mathuram (film unknown. Can anyone fill me in on this? It's a catamaran song where the fisherman plaintitively sings to God '...Thana thandanae....Innika kaalaiilae yendhirichu kanji thani illaame....', "...When I woke up this morning without watered-out rice to eat...") We read a lot of cricket reporting, some choice spiritual books, some Madras nostalgia articles, a lot and a lot of jokes.

But what strikes me as different from my father's list is that it was not as self-centred as mine would be. I don't mean that he included charity on his list. It's just that my to-do list would involve my acquiring certain skills or doing something professionally productive with my life. His list included a desire to meet 'Good' People, however relative that term can be and that definitely tells me something about his character.

We didn't keep track, my father, mother and I. The process took several years. But each time a guest, a family friend, a distant relative came and left, my father would turn to my mother and say, "That's another Good Person I met...___ (insert random number here) more to go". He probably didn't keep track either but that wasn't what mattered. The people did-and their goodness. They were old college or school classmates out of touch for years or regularly in contact, distant cousins from his village in Andhra (particularly one very kind Uncle who came all the way and spent my father's last two birthdays with him), colleagues from the various hospitals he worked in. The People who comprised the list were diverse-of different religions, languages, backgrounds but they all had love in their hearts. And whether I knew them well or had met them for two minutes at the door, there was always something about them I would like without knowing they were the supposed Good People. They always had a kindness, a decency about them and it was usually detectable.

Nowadays, being Good has fallen low as a priority for what parents want their children to be. When kids are naughty and disturb guests or make noise, parents call them 'badmaash' and comment exasperatedly on their kids' naughtiness. But secretly they appreciate the individualistic nature of the child. Who can blame the parent? In a world where we are taught that we must ask for more, where we must create a strong personality to survive, a parent would naturally wish his/her child to be as forceful as can be. A quiet kid is a sign of lack of go-getterness.

People in general are not sure what good really means either. Being skinny, being wealthy, being successful, being attractive, being popular-these are the virtues of our generation. Be nice and be left behind. Being aggressive is equated with being powerful. But life isn't a boxing match. Why do you think God made flowers then?

My father was somehow, usually always on target about a person's character. Not surprisingly, most of my closest friends are people he knew would stick through. And how he could talk to them for hours!

My father diligently followed the old school report-card approach to judging my success at school and college. I must say (as modestly as I can) that I didn't disappoint, winning the gold medal both at the UG and PG levels and topping my school in English and Accountancy (and getting 87-not failing!- in Maths) in the 12th Boards. But he always maintained that his happiest achievement for me was my being awarded the C. Subramanian Excellence in Character Award when I was in the 9th standard. He made me feel like a good person by believing in my inherent goodness. I can credit him as being the reason why I always put myself in someone else's shoes before reacting. I can point to him for the reason I cannot lie (when I accidentally revealed a private family issue to an acquaintance and felt exceedingly guilty about it, he actually wept to my mother, stating that he knew that it was because I was too honest). When my friends took me to clubs when I was in college (of course no drinking or smoking for me, you know why. Not because he told me not to but because I always considered his opinion) I said I liked to go because I love to dance and he looked at me in despair - "You must learn a classical dance then...." and no, he didn't say Bharatnatyam like any other good Indian father, "...like the Flamenco, Rumba, Tango...and also not that mixed up non-traditional thing they call Salsa".

My father was the kind of doctor who could tell a person's sickness by just looking at them-once he looked at a friend of mine and stated that she suffered from such and such problem and he was accurate. He hated to prescribe unnecessary tests for patients when he could directly diagnose the problem because he knew that some patients didn't really require them and that they could not afford them. His honesty reached awkward levels when he was blunt with people- he wasn't very good with diplomacy (Tact is something I learnt from my mother!) and while my mother and I cringed, I knew that he was the last of a rare species of people who prize the cleanliness of one's heart over the grandeur of one's home, of people who cannot pretend to like someone for the sake of society, of people who collect friends based on love and simplicity, of Good People.

Heartbreak Hotel

Grieving isn't a process. It doesn't have expiry dates, it doesn't have stages. Sure, the shock, almost-physical pain, numbness, unfamiliarity, absence becomes less striking with time. But there are other things that don't really go away. And there are some things that you don't want to go away-such as memory, routine. You play the same TV shows, you keep bringing up the person's name in conversation as if they still exist on this human plane and still enjoy the same movies and say the same inappropriate things in public and are still unabashedly vocal about their opinions on the Indian cricket team and certain cricketers in particular. As if they still exist in this man-made world with its man-made laws and institutions and games and needs and wants.

My father would have loved the article on Mariachi music that I just read in this month's Reader's Digest. I get that familiar ache over my left eyebrow that I've gotten used to in the past few months-the sign of tears about to fall. I was so used to reading him tidbits of things over the past few months-there, I'm still stuck in the six month time frame of his illness when in fact it ended over three months ago. He's out of it. But I still dream about trying to get him better. In my dreams, he's sick and I have hope that he will get better, that I somehow can make him get better. But when I wake up, he's gone and he is better. I don't know which is better.

Heartbreak isn't for lovers alone. Heartbreak is something I confused disappointment with. Heartbreak is when your emotional heart truly breaks, melts, rips, burns, what have you. It's when you know that a situation is irreversible and it hurts in the worst way-knowing that you have to live the rest of your god knows-how long life with regret, guilt, a fading memory and worst of all, the missingness. And it's strange because you welcome the feeling. It's proof that there is something there and not emptiness. You don't really want the feeling to be gone because what does a feeling weigh against this gigantic, huge void? A feeling's just a feeling. Whereas a person who was part of your life, such a major part of your life, almost your life itself is no longer there, can no longer see and hear and read the same things you do. The feeling about that reality is like an unpretty feather on top of a heavy iron-wrought ball of lead.

It gets better. What is 'it'? It is how you cope. How you deal. That does get better. And you think about the happy things. How much better it really could be out there. How we're all going to be 'out there' sooner or later. And until then, we just live it like we're supposed to.

That 5 Letter Word

My father's greatest message to me was to never lose touch with music in my life. He was a living and practising example of the power of music. Not only would he whistle and hum and sing to himself all the time but he would allow himself to be emotionally swept away by an evocative song or tune. Tears would stream down his face when he heard a beautiful old Telugu song ('Andenaa' from the film 'Pooja Phalam' http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Eiz9cGMaAw). Eyes dancing, he would sing along with glee to Harry Belafonte's 'Man Piaba'. How many of us allow ourselves to be absolutely stripped and vulnerable before a piece of music? Why, I feel embarrassed at even my mother catching my involuntary goosebumps when I hear some unknown singer with a beautiful voice hit the high C's with perfection. Music is the utmost revealer, I feel. The litmus test to prove the existence of the human soul. Good music catches us unawares, filters through our skin to where the real stuff is and when we are open and receptive, that's when it goes beyond note meeting ear. It's where "soul meets body"(see! I managed to quote the Deathcab for Cutie song)

Music did help in bonding my father and I. We spent years scouring the internet (his room is beside the corner where my computer is) for his extremely eclectic and rare list of songs ranging from Frankie Laine to Lata Mangeshkar. And nothing too popular, mind you! Most of my father's favourites were songs from the 40's and 50's, once heard on the radio when he had been a teenager, much remembered and to my surprise, still evergreen. I'd read the songs I'd find on YouTube or on sites and he would label them "Bore" or "Don't want" until I'd chance upon the rare gem he had been seeking for 60 years "That's the one!". Finding the song would be a true Eureka! moment. Of course, there was the possibility that the song would be right but the version would be wrong, oh so wrong. Like when I found Harry Belafonte's 'The Drummer and Cook'. Nope, my father wanted the Cockney version. Thank you, YouTube.

Listening to his songs after his passing has been extremely painful-not to hear his voice singing along with mine, not to hear his accurate lyrics-spouting (his memory was the ultimate encyclopaedia). But listening has been necessary. Music lays it all bare, lays you bare and then it lifts you up. It goes beyond words and sounds and cells and fibre. It goes beyond this world, beyond the invisible curtain that separates those who are living from those who have lived. Perhaps celestial music is different from the earthly kind-a living memory of those you love that you can access again and again. More alive than a photograph. More metaphysical than a video or a letter. But till we finally hear the music of angels, of the divine, we can be content with the one created on this planet, the one that reminds us of those we love and a way for them to remind us that we are loved.

Beginnings

This blog is dedicated to the memory of my father Dr. C. Ranga Rao-one of the most remarkable human beings to touch this planet and the most fascinating, inspiring personality that I have ever had and will ever have the privilege to know. He left this physical world on Christmas 2011 after five months of serious illness, setting on a new journey, one in which he could finally be free of the limitations of his physical body.

My father and I shared an indescribable bond- my filial love went deeper and far beyond a typical father-child relationship. The fifty year age gap between us caused less of a generation gap for me and more of an admittance into a bygone, beautiful era- a world of great music, classic films, world knowledge, and an innocence, a simplicity and a humour.

We didn't just share late night insomniacal conversations, midnight snacks and endless hours of music. His presence, ideas and ideals have shaped, whittled and expanded every aspect of my life such that I don't know where he ends and I begin. This is one of the numerous reasons his passing has left me bereft. I feel like I've lost my greatest accomplice, my twin brother and my 4 a.m. friend.

But this blog is not about regrets and sorrow (though grieving is natural). This blog is not about the invisible curtain that separates us from our loved ones whom we've lost. This blog isn't about spiritual or scientific or psychological analyses about life and death. This blog is about my father's living legacy which is meant to be shared. His passions, views and active interests in life, this world and beyond would fill his conversations and these conversations must continue.

This blog is dedicated also to all those who love life. To all those who live life despite losing a beloved one. To all of us who choose to go on, in their memory, to soak up life and living as much as possible because they would have wanted us to.