Moving on...

Moving on...

   Seven years ago, I lost my dad on this day. 31st May shall never be the same again.

   I am struggling to put my thoughts into words, staring at the blank page trying to assimilate them into a coherent flow, while Florence sings ‘Hunger’ in the background. Although I titled this post as ‘Moving on..’, I find myself at a loss in doing that either.

   Maybe using an analogy might work? Maybe not? Who knows.

    Why is it that I am unable to move on from my dad’s death? It is a question which baffles me till now.

   His death happened all of a sudden - just an hour ago before his passing, he got up to use the washroom. I remember saying a prayer for him, before leaving for work. Next thing, I get a call from my sister to come home soon.

    A frantic chase ensued, where I was playing catch-up with them and reach the hospital just in time. He was declared dead on arrival.

    All these years later, I wonder what would be his last words to me, if I happened to be there. What he would have said? Would he tell me to take care of my siblings and look after them in his absence? Who knows. I never got a chance to say goodbye. He was gone before I reached there.

     

    We had a similar conversation like this back in January 2009.

     He had contracted tuberculosis and no matter what he tried, he was unable to get rid of it. All night he would cough and cough, keeping everyone up all night. But it was nothing to the pain he was going through. The coughing got so worse; he decided to commit suicide as he was not able to take it anymore.

     It was afternoon. He sat on the chair, while I lay on the floor and my sister sat on the bed. With a calm tone and almost bordering on the edge of crying, he subtly told us how we had to look out for each other, after he was gone. In that moment, I guessed what he was trying to say, but I would not allow myself to go there. He walked out, leaving my sister and I to our confused thoughts.

     Later, my attya (dad’sister) brought him back. Apparently, he was sitting under the shade of a tree by the tracks, about to commit suicide.

     My father was always the toughest dude around. His childhood friends would often share tales of how he would go first in a brawl and handle the fight. While I despised this hyper-masculinity while growing up, it does me give me an understanding as to why he was so tough on me always.

    But perhaps, this is the reason why I feel inadequate.

  

      Friends often tell me that your parents are looking over you, watching you, protecting you. I wonder, when he sees me from above or wherever, what he must be thinking. Does he think I lived up to his expectations? Does he think I handled the responsibilities well?

     All these years, I have not had asked my siblings on how they dealt with his death. They were the ones with him in the last moment of his life. Not once, did I sit down with them and asked them, how they felt about it. Do they miss him? I am sure they do, more than me in fact. Have they managed to move on?

      How does one move on? What does moving on refer to? Does it imply we must bury the grief in a small compartment of our minds and get on with our lives? How does one move on?

     The five stages of grief – denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance – are commonly accepted and have helped many in moving on in life. See, I went through these stages during my mother’s death. But for my dad’s, I never got the chance.

     How do I let go the memories of the one person who genuinely loved me so much? How do I move on from the sound of his voice, the image of his smiling face, when people keep telling me how much I look like him? How do I stop thinking about the tales of his perseverance in the face of adversity and hardships, when they are the only source of inspiration left for me now, in moment of despair?

     There is so much left to be said, so much left unspoken between us. I want to share so many things with him, about myself, about my life that I keep having these imaginary conversations with him often.

     Moving on is a bitch. 31^st May will come every year and I won’t be able to organize myself on this day, again and again. It will be a mess always. The tears have now dried. A gaping void exists somewhere in my heart now. I have lost my shield and I stand, naked in the dark as despair and darkness threaten to surround me from everywhere.

     Maybe I will see him in another life, as this one was not enough.

     But for now, all I have is to live with regrets.