On grief: Death isn't a pretty star in the sky

Stop with the reports, with detailed explanations of the ruins of my father’s body. Stop being uni-faced as you explain, with grey, iron-hearted medical terms that I don’t understand. The cold eyes with which you say, almost declare, that my father’s lungs are infested, from blood to bone. Stop.

To you, dear doctor, my father is a number on a file with markers for his liver, his lungs, his heart, to be forgotten with a flat line.

For me, he is my whole living, breathing life.

So stop weaving your way into my head and squishing my brain with words.

I don't like words anymore. Just tell me how long I have with him.

I didn't say all this out loud, of course. It was just a polite, 'So how long will he live?'

Even in death, I had to remember my manners. So pretentious. The doctor said, 'A year for sure.' Almost celebratorily. I am not blaming him. I am sure a year for 4th stage lung cancer is a victory pin. He didn't live a year. But why did mine stop?

After he passed away, I wasn't coming off the seams immediately. In fact, I was fine. I went to my favorite book street. I went to Park Street in Kolkata, spoke to my friends, and my family. And I was fine. The thing is, we are told to be confident in boardrooms. Talk politely to strangers. Walk with the head mid-aligned. Iron our clothes and turn up for work with a wrinkled mind.

But why aren't we taught about grief? No one told me it would come crawling, all fangs and poison out, one fine Friday morning, while I was innocently marveling at my three-year-old son’s gibberish. No one warned and said, 'listen when you wake up feeling heavy, know that it's a shadowy, floating cloud that's been on your chest'. Move it properly. It won't let go, because it's sticky. But you have to push.'

The word 'grief therapy' came tumbling down a lot of times. And I tried, and I'm still trying. In the meantime, I've stopped writing. In fact, this is the first essay after his death. I've stopped looking for that feeling called 'happiness'. Because when it does come as a fleeting, fluorescent fairy light, it brings along a feeling called loss. So I am skittish.

I wonder, sometimes, if I am diseased and my heart is now dark and dripping. But even if I am, it isn't my fault. Because someone, while doling out books on 'The Art of Life,'  forgot to write the sequel 'The Art of Death.'

So now my life writes it for me every day, in living without my father. And I turn up dressed in polite hi's and hellos, and handshakes, and air kisses and social media emojis. So yes, I am surviving badly.

But for the ones who haven't been slapped across their faces with grief, for the sake of heaven, if they exist, someone has to tell them death isn't a pretty star in the sky. At best, it's your favorite song that has run dry.

So take all the ticking minutes, roll them in your heart, and grieve till it cracks and the light comes in, again. All the very best and stay warm.