There was a lady who joined us at yoga today – older than me – spirited, warm. It was raining heavily when I was leaving. I saw her waiting for an auto. I offered her a lift. As we snaked through traffic she told me a bit about her life. We both lived in Poona for some time. Calcutta too. She lost her husband during Covid. She needed yoga to ease out the stiffness within – not just her muscles, but deep inside. Maybe I’m just projecting. She showed me by contracting her shoulders uncomfortably and then pushing them back and setting them free. I told her, it helps with the grief, but my words felt hollow. I often find myself talking about grief these days but not feeling it. Autopilot grief talk. Here it comes. Small talk about something big, something devastating. I don’t know how to explain this, but right then, I wish I was older, wiser, more experienced. I wish I could be with her in that moment like a peer, and not some psuedosciency grammable faith healer. She carried her grief with such grace, it made me feel vulnerable, exposed. How do I carry my grief these days? Like some sort of badge of honour? Yuck. I hope not. But it's a new phase. It’s not fresh. But it’s there. And I don’t have a roadmap to this. Sometimes I’m blindsided by it. Sometimes, I carry on, like it’s nothing – like shapewear under a bodycon dress – effective and maybe even a bit attractive. Maybe even a bit perverse. And I immediately hate myself for it.
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