Death is strange. It has been eulogised gloriously in our scriptures, as well as art, literature and history. In the real world, it impacts the life of those that escape it. The kith and kin of those who survived the tsunami that took their loved one.
At first we scatter. Shatter. Stumble.
Drowned in death, like it has befallen upon us, only to look up and realise that it hasn’t.
Everything is the same. Except for us.
Stranded, bereft- of direction, of a reason to wake up the next day.
(I remember - I woke up a few mornings later- went down, sat on my regular bench in the garden. Everything was the same. The green grass, the towering building and the security guard. Even the flowers continued to smile.)
How to live the rest of our lives- without, that is the question. By default or by design time passes, detached from us.
I have observed 2 paths of “coping” fairly closely.
One, is of course, my lived experience.
Ketu and I had barely resumed our journey, ready to write out our Act 2, as the kids were older now, in school. Just having completed our introductory chapter, during our 9 years together, it was time begin the main story. Only, that did not happen. Life shut that book with a hard slam. Over the last 22 years, I never had the courage to reopen that incomplete book, even if only to reread what had already been inked. I made it a private diary- locked it and hide the key. I was cautious and deliberate with my revisits. And when I did- it was mostly alone, or with the therapist.
The other path, that I observed, is of my artist friend- who went through the same trauma - just a year later, under similar circumstances. She chose to live immersed in her grief, with her loss wrapped around her like a shield, with her deceased husband's invisible presence (to me- this would mean living with a constant stabbing pain, with a slow bleed), in a pall of gloom. Like several great artists however, she turned this behemothic thorn into inspiration for her magnificent art. She translated her pain into expressive motifs with watercolour on paper, agony splattered in acrylic paint on canvas, and her most creative medium- ceramic- where she sculpts small delicate pieces, independent, free standing mouths, screaming in silence. She dwells in the whirlpool of her past, while time flows.
I decided to write a new book-scripting it, singly, in my own hand. I redefined the characters, introduced several new ones, and wrote out a few of the old ones. Many of them had actually left (due to the expiration of their contract!) Just as well.
I looked ahead. Began afresh.
But today is about the aborted original book – the introduction. I am ready to open the musty pages, dust off the cobwebs, let fresh air in.
The man we rediscovered through the numerous photographs, meticulously organised in albums, three dozen of which were specially brought from America. (That was the time when everything was better when bought “from there”!) During the early days of my marriage, I was assigned the job to sift through the assorted multicoloured photolab covers, fill the transparent plastic sleeves and label each collection, with a date and location. Little did I know how useful this now discoloured text, would be, when memory has faded and the protagonist, lost.
It was the time of colour photographs which captured our big 80s hair and tacky fashion. But Ketu, never so. In all the USA photos, 1990-1992, he was always the cool dude with his classic polo sweatshirt or plain oxford shirts, paired with “Dockers” khakhis and tan “Topsiders” (boat shoes). In style.
The 70s, however was a time of frugality, with its almost non – existent fashion, which at best was functional . So his childhood look was another story. A certain sister broke half his main front left incisor (in a fight!) and for some unfathomable reason it was not fixed until a few years later, which emphasised his appearance of a “street urchin”.
Today, I am ready to rediscover Ketu, my husband for a very significant decade- one that shaped my life, the father to my 2 wonderful adult children, our provider. Also, a dutiful son and a loving/ not-so-loving brother (depending on which sister you ask) and an enterprising businessman.
Everyone who knows him well, speaks about his personality, amiable nature and easy-going attitude, the special way in which he could put anyone at ease.
As I took out the albums from 1985-1995 we discover the man- through the multitude of stories, told by the photos and numerous incidents, narrated to us by his friends. The pre-MBA going away party at the Willingdon poolside, the many Lonavala and Goa trips with the gang, his 2-year stint in America- Scranton, NYC, Florida, Vail and much more. Of course, we cannot recognise a lot of the people- as their identity was tied to him.
I have often spoken about Ketu’s 2 big passions. Music and F1. (He had many others too- cricket, golf, tennis…) But it was for these two that he went all out. Today, I want to talk about how these have become an integral part of our lives.
ABOVE: POSTER OF PAUL SIMON'S CONCERT IN THE PARK (CENTRAL PARK)
Ketu had invested in “gold” monster cables- for wiring for his top-of-the-line music systems- the many gadgets that filled my room. The only piece of music equipment to have survived my Marie Kondo style of minimising (brutal cleaning), amongst the pre amp, receiver, blah blah (7 different black, rectangular “dabbas” with various inexplicable functions – to me) was his LP player- the iconic Technics SL1200. “Oh my, this model is epochal!”, says the repair man, as I have decided to revive it after all these years, and spent a small fortune on that. But of course, by now we have established that Ketu always chose the best. From the diverse and prolific CD collection, carefully acquired over a period of 3-4 years, with clever club memberships (2$ a CD per week) and some extravagance. Yes, I have kept a few, but sadly, gotten rid of plenty. And in my ignorance, I also “seem to have given away” a lot of his LPs. Now we have nothing to play on our “new” LP player!
A few days ago during the admission of my audacious act of disposal, Harish remarked, rather caustically, “Amongst the many LPs that you threw away- were some signed covers!” Yikes! How was I to know?? And it seems that the ownership of this autographed John Denver LP was contested by the same above mentioned sister!
Harish also remembers that they went to a particular store
(the name eludes him) to pick up his 'Dynamix' stylus! These seemingly innocuous details remain etched in our minds forever- enriching our lives. Small, seemingly meaningless gems - gaudy baubles, junk for most, valuable to a handful.
During one of our first “meetings”, he was visibly impressed when I told him that my favourite Pink Floyd song was 'Comfortably Numb'! He was such a huge fan of Pink Floyd that he had promised his friends- whenever they played in India he would take them all to the concert in a Rolls Royce(!). And sure enough, when Roger waters came to Bangalore in 2002, we all were present at the Palace Gardens, albeit, no Rolls Royce.
THE LP PLAYER AND THE TICKET FROM 2002
(His legacy of music is carried forth by Arnav- with his music blog and the permanent blaring from behind his bedroom door.)
Also during that trip, we visited the Infosys campus. He bought a huge chunk at Rs. 200, and made a couple of his friends invest too! He knew how to spot a winner, and always believed in their story. It remains a significant part of our portfolio until today.
Ketu’s favourite driver was Ayrton Senna (before Michael Schumacher) who died in a crash in 1994, age 34. Senna’s passion for the sport was legendary, and zest for life – big. I did not know anything about him at that time. Recently I watched a documentary (thank you Netflix) and understood why Ketu revered him so.
Finally from the “maaliya”, I unearthed Ketu’s massive collection of F1 memorabilia- t-shirts, caps, keychains. It was carefully curated, dominated by Ferrari and Maclaren stuff. He had bought most of it himself, and a lot was- gifted (I think demanded) by those who understood (pandered to) his obsession. We watched all the races, knew all the teams and drivers as well as the underlying intricate politics.
I had always imagined us going to watch the Monaco GP as a family.
To have such deep passions at so young an age, to believe in art- more than just living, made him the man that he was. Ahead of his time, he was living wide, living more while I had just discovered my love for Shah Rukh Khan (DDLJ was released in 1994), and I was replaying my happy frivolous Abba and Madonna songs. His passions were deep and they shaped his personality.
I had once written (and long since believed) that we are a patchwork of the people in our lives. I now understand that we are an amalgamation of all, those from our past and those our present, as we consciously and sub-consciously imbibe their values and define ourselves.
I look around this beautiful 56-year old living room, with its faded photographs and forgotten memories of the people who lived here, once towering personalities, now, fragments in our hearts. The movers and shakers of their worlds, dissolved into wisps. (We will be thus reduced as well, in our time.)
The overriding theme of this new book is plasticity. A critical quality that allows us to turn trauma into self-awareness. The re-invention of self, continually.
In the early days, there was only a maddening soliloquy of my (our) infinite loneliness playing in my head. On loop.
Suddenly or slowly, maybe it was happening slowly and I realised it suddenly - beneath the surface of my awareness something was shifting, tectonically rearranging my emotional landscape. My surrender to the process- the eternal equation of holding onto and letting go- of one’s loss, one’s grief, was changing and moulding me. It was creating a new room for me to inhabit. From a heart weighed down – dull and emotionless, to one filled with light, seeking new joy.
The imagination of life, is always greater than that of living.
Always grateful for all of you and your unflinching support, that makes me realise that I am not alone in this experience.
