10.06.2019

The day my Baba took his last breath I lost my voice.

I knew he was dying, but I didn't realize it would be his last goodbye. I never talk about my Baba’s death. Whenever I do, I go numb. I lost him when life was going perfect. 

7th June 2019, it was their 33rd marriage anniversary. I had just scored my dream job 15 days ago, my sister was 7 months pregnant, everything was good. But suddenly, this happened.

I was lost, I was devastated, for a long time. I simply could not accept his death. How could this happen? We were so happy, everything was so perfect till just yesterday. He couldn't have left us behind like this. I remember that day at the hospital I told my mother that I'd like to perform the last rites of my Baba. My relatives were supportive, told me they won't oppose it. 

For the first time in my life, I went to the Shamshaan Ghat to cremate my father. I did everything that a son would have done in our culture. I categorically told Pandit ji that he must not hesitate in making me do the rites properly. That day I realized Baba wasn’t there anymore to make up excuses for me or help support me in whatever way possible. He was gone, now I was responsible for myself in this big bad world.

I had to take care of my mother. 

We all cope with death differently, my way of coping was to be by myself and just contemplate on what death was and how I would live my life without a father going forward.

I still get flashes of him every time I hear someone say "Dada Bhalo!" just the way Baba used to greet people in passing. And when I hear a song that he used to sing, I suddenly realize that the only way I will ever hear his beautiful voice again is in my dreams. Sometimes I'm reminded of the happy, healthy times, but more often than not, I get dreams of the darker days that make me realize that I'm still grieving.

However, this is my reality today. And that's life. Losing my Baba to death has taught me many lessons. Recently, one of my friends lost his father, and I reached out to share my condolences, which of course consisted of  "I'm so sorry for your loss. You‘re in my thoughts. Let me know if you need anything." But then I thought about what I would’ve wanted to hear when my Baba died and followed up with. "Nobody talks about how much this hurts. We are supposed to be okay and strong enough to handle this because we are adults, but you don’t have to be. This sucks and hurts like hell. I know because it happened to me."

I’ve come to realize that when someone you love dies, you don’t just have to say goodbye to him at the time he passes but moreover at every crossroad. I’ve discovered that there are uncounted firsts and tough moments to get through, not just obvious ones like holidays and big events, but many others that are equally if not increasingly challenging to struggle through under the heavy wrap of grief."

My Baba was my soulmate. I’m the youngest one and we had a connection that no words can explain. He knew what was inside my head just by looking at me. I remember he was always joking about the good and the bad things in life.

When he passed away, I felt like someone had ripped my heart out of my chest. I would never hug him again, or hear his voice or see him coming through the door after a long day again. I'd never hug his legs again, blush when he asked who my boyfriend was or how many boyfriends I have now or make me give him a hundred kisses before leaving home.

And then there are the stinging moments, those that rub salt on my wounds. The times when I am watching TV and the story line is one in which a character is dying. When I close my eyes to go to sleep at night and all I can picture is the image of my Baba’s frailty at the end. The times when I’m searching for a contact on my phone or on my email and his name automatically pops up. That happened just now when I typed the number 10. These are the times I keep forgetting to expect, the ones that leave me with a heart-thumping feeling that I’m not sure will ever go away.

Probably the most frequently occurring moments for me since Baba left us have been 'The Empty Chair' moments, the ones in which I am startled again by his absence.  I think about him many times each day, I fall asleep with tears on my pillow almost every night, and I talk to him in the car pretty often so that part of missing him has become a part of my routine.  But family vacations and holiday gatherings are so tough without him. I keep thinking about how he would’ve loved the things that we are all able to do today, the ones that he now isn’t here to do - going to the beach, playing with the kids, listening to conversations and laughing.  

All of those moments of togetherness that feel so great except for the fact that he’s missing from them.

What I learned from my father's death is that life has a way of teaching you exactly what it is that you need to learn. Death is the ultimate teacher. It will allow you to experience life very differently.

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