Past, Present, Pending

It's hard dealing with a death in the family. It signifies a lot of things; changes I had played around as hypothetical situations but couldn't entirely envision suddenly became real. These thoughts and feelings of loss have weighed heavy on my mind since May, when my grandfather passed away. I wasn't able to grasp what life meant until I saw it leaving someone I loved dearly. I still think about how he looked mere moments after he passed; not at all like the person I knew. His mouth was open and his jaw was askew, his nose had thinned and he had taken on a yellow color; the only thing I could think was that the life had been sucked out of him. I was not disturbed at the sight, only shocked because I had never seen a body before. I understood that his body and soul were no longer together; that his soul had left the world, but we still wept for him and for what we know is inevitable for everyone.

And now I think about it all the time, especially at night when I am drifting to sleep. Unfortunately because it's the most recent memory I have of his life, what has stayed with me is watching him in his last days, struggling with something; struggling physically and mentally to stay with us. Maybe he was trying to stay for us, to tell us something before he left; I am entirely sure he knew he was at the very end of his life, and knowing that he knew this was the hardest part of all.

***

This ongoing feeling of loss has been complicated (in good and bad ways) by these pictures my cousin scanned the other day. It's bizarre seeing snapshots of family members you could never imagine as children; that they were young too, and never thought of the rest of their lives, and what we know about them now. These photographs also speak to broken bonds between brothers, sisters, and cousins; family members lost in the span of time and place--things we are still dealing with today in our family. I almost can't wrap my head around it; it brings to life all those memories my grandfather would share with me about his childhood.

My great-grandparents and all 8 of their children. Dadu is the boy on the right holding his baby brother

Five of the siblings together. The kid in the white kurta on the right is Dadu. The resemblance to my one of my cousins at that age is uncanny

The girl reading is my grand-aunt (my grandfather's sister he was closest to, especially when they moved to New York). I'm guessing that's my great-grandfather and another sister to her side, and possibly Dadu in the background

We guess this is the wedding procession (either before or after) my grandparents' wedding. My grandmother is in the in the center, wearing a garland, dark lipstick and glasses

Dadu's closest brother, grown up, with my uncle in the backseat. He's also the other boy in the second picture

My aunt and uncle (brother and sister) on the right, and their first cousins (they were pretty much all like siblings since their father was killed when they were babies). My guess is that this is before 1953, when my dad was born

The same 4 a little bit older; my guess is 1954. Sweet sweaters

The little boy is my dad, and next to him his big sister, playing with their cousin in the background. When I saw this, I instantly knew it was him. I had the same baby-arms stance, the same little face and big eyes

My dad posing with his tricycle. This one just tickles me

For me, it will take a while to process these images, and all that my generation carries on our faces & in our blood: the unmistakable resemblances to our mothers, fathers, uncles, aunts and great-grandparents. But as we look back we can't help but mourn those who were like us at one time; young, healthy, living life and looking ahead.

I think what strikes me the most is the legacy of the photograph. One day our grandchildren and great-grandchildren will look at the thousands of pictures of us (all in color, and far more candid), and try to write narratives about our histories and our relationships with one another. They will know far more, and they will carry something too, I guess.

The Restoration

Sometimes I wish I could sit down and write everything that came into my head. Every memory, every little detail and I wish that someone could understand just what it means to me. I wish I could draw it and show exactly what it was and what it represents looking back now.

I am too young to mourn the past, but it is dead, and there are few who can give those memories life. Little is said or done now to remember what we had many years ago. I was sitting with Dadu, Dadi and Omi at the dinner table on Sunday, and I completely fooled myself into thinking Baba was going to walk in at any moment, with that silly, put on grin that he has. I literally believed that he was going to appear out of thin air and give us hugs.

It's been hard being with my grandparents because they're so depressed. All of my life, I have been around old age, and now it's getting to that point where things seem imminent, to the point where my grandfather has weakened himself so much just by thinking becoming weak for so many years. He has rendered himself helpless because he is a man who has aged, and who has convinced himself that he is nothing of what he used to be. Livelihood, independence, it's run out, so he lives to remember and lives to love his family, but his reward is less than half of all the hope and prayers he puts in. Knowing this upsets me. That confidence, the command and the rigidity has all eroded leaving behind no edges--the soft wrinkly skin, the professions of loss, the rekindling of memories of which I have no connection, except they are mine too in some remote way. Always so witty; he is absolutely the brown Englishman who dressed with such style and pride but also made fun of the English (and still does). And poor Dadi, who has been his eyes and ears, who knows what she's thought over the years, what she's felt; she hasn't said a word, would never hurt a single soul...in fact, I do not believe she has ever hurt anyone.



***
Lately I've been feeling wasted, like I'm not keeping track of what's important and I've forgotten what inspires me. I've been doing silly, self indulgent little things when I have the time. Maybe belittling isn't the way to account for it; although I cannot help but feel hollow because so much of what I've done in the past year has been some form of instant gratification, not necessarily something productive in the long-term (except getting into Hunter, which I'm not even excited for because I'm only going part-time, and when I think of the amount of time it'll take to finish, I don't care).

I don't know where to find it, but I know it'll come back to me.