Skip to main content

Of Death and of Life

Life sometime seems like a walk through the desert with little change in the scenarios, deaths are only punctuations sewed on an otherwise plain, uneventful story as someone called it "a tedious story twice told".
Last week I lost some one who was once very close to me, who in older days of joint families would have been termed as head of the family in Indian context. My paternal uncle, the oldest among the brothers, my father had passed away. Why I say once close is because the present has a nasty way of messing up with the past. I still remember the love that he showered on me when I used to visit him as a child. A child has great capacity of love, unhindered by other considerations and I would love him with same vigour and enthusiasm as I would my own parents. Families grow, larger and apart, and so did we as the distances found a way into the closely knit relation till the time we came to a point that whenever we both families looked at each other, we would look as if gazing across a glass pane in cold morning with fog playing with the vision.
Slowly, as lives move in a direction of unlove, we look at our pasts with fondness. I sometime wonder if those blessed with siblings realize the loneliness and futile attempts to fight that which an only child grows up.
In spite of the distances which seeped in, it was his persona as a neat, tall and upright figure, who would always speak in a chaste and kind language with some hidden undercurrent warmth of oneness, and in the memories of the past. For some reason the love that he carried, could not transcend to the following generations, each individual busy in analysing the equivalence of relationship and bitterly fighting his or her own summary battle everyday. We fought, and hurt and ignored everybody, safe and secure in the knowledge of the anchor which he represented, holding the family together, even in a notional, feeble way. As he follows his wife, who was always very kind to me as well, in to the heavenly abode of existence or non-existence which I am not wise enough to know of, the world around him seems lost trying to make sense of the loss of balance which his demise presents. Hope those next in order will rise to the occasion to take charge and hold the family as a glue connecting it all together till we can. Passing away of a generation in a family marks great transformation, and no one can guess how we are going to come out of it, better or worse. It also remind one of the infallibility of those still around and gives a sense of velocity with which time moves, amidst the waves of which we float helplessly. While I bid farewell to him, I do think how important it is to embrace forgiveness, as we do not know if time will grant me another Sunday, another movie and another cricket match in the green park stadium.He did however lived a full life, marred in between with some undeserved misfortune, basking in the warmth of love of his children and grand-children. Hope those after him would srtive for same warmth and love. Every death around us bring a similar set of thoughts which we would do well to heed to, is it important to be right than to be loved, shouldn't we forgive more and judge less and shouldn't we actively try to extract utter joy and happiness from our otherwise banal existence.
Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Book Review- The Waves- By Virginia Woolf

Book: The Waves Author: Virginia Woolf (1882-1941) Genre: Fiction (Spiritual/ Philosophical) Style: Experimental Published: 1931 Publisher: Hogarth Press Rating: Must Read, Classic
“The Author would be glad if the following pages were not read as a Novel.” – WroteVirginia Woolf(1882-1941) on the manuscript of The Waves (Initially called The Moths). It was first published in 1931.  We are close to a century since this book was published, still this book is unparalleled and unequaled. The Independent called this Book of a Lifetime.
This is not an easy book to read. Beauty is never too easy to create, or is it ever too easy to savor to the fullest. Both production as well as the consumption of true work of art needs to be earned. This is a difficult book to read yet immensely elegant and infinitely exquisite. The story, unlike most fictional novels, does not unfold through dramatic events. It doesn’t depend on drama, it deftly steers clear of the mundane. It is sensually sublime and magnificentl…

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man- James Joyce- Book Review

Amazon Link 
Some books are an act of education; they cannot be read in haste, cannot be understood in one read. James Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man gives one such feeling.
It is a coming of age story of Stephen Dedalus. Nothing extraordinary about that. But then there a rich, slowly flowing lost river of philosophy which moves beneath the surface, turning an ordinary story of a boy growing up, encountering questions about faith, religion and sex, into an exceptional, extraordinary and engaging story. The story moves along the timeline, much in the manner of Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse, where the writer is seemingly a passive narrator. Further, while this book is more of a philosophical essay wrapped around a story, Ms. Woolf’s book, on the other hand, is rather a Story primarily, with a philosophical touch. This book is blatantly philosophical, dwelling into the dangerous territory of religion and how a growing mind looks at God. It begins with his school, whe…

Madam Bovary's Eyes- Flaubert's Parrot - Book Review

Some books are very hard to classify and categorize. This is one such book. Officially, it is a fiction, a novel. In terms of genre, it should be put in the same shelf as Cakes and Ale by Maugham or The Ghost Writer of Philip Roth, both I have read this year. But then, maybe not. The two are totally fictional, in terms of all the characters contained in them, even though they do have a writer as the central character. But then, that is all that has to do with writing. I don’t think we ever consider the writer’s profession as a central point of those novels. Also the characters are out and out fiction. That is where this book is different. It is about the giant of French literary history (and now, of English classical literature)- Gustave Flaubert.
            The characters and references are all real. Julian Barnes throws all his weight behind the genius who is the key protagonist in the fiction, follows the dictum of a perfect biography as mentioned by Flaubert in a letter in 1872, …