The day my world stood still

I failed. Exactly one year ago, this was the day when I failed. And I failed hard, miserably and one from which I can never come back. 2nd June 2015 is the date when Amma died. No euphemisms here. And I wasn't even beside her. 

Rewind to 1st June 2015. Thanks to my friend Pratik, I had got a job in Singapore. This meant leaving my then employer TCS. And it is with this purpose of serving a month's notice period that I went to Mumbai after a long period of working from home. I was staying with my friend Ishan and had reached there on the first itself. That day was any other day apart from the fact that I had officially resigned. I talked to my manager Sachin and he was supportive of it. He also casually inquired about the well-being of my family members. I did inform him of Amma's fracture albeit with a smile knowing that she'd bounce back as she always had no matter what the situation. I asked Sachin to keep it a little secret as I believe that the more people know my plans the more it is doomed to fail. Later in the evening I told this to Srilekha who I consider in high regards and to be my mentor. I also called up Farhan for the sake of old times' friendship. Both were my colleagues. No one knew apart from them. So much so that none from my family (barring Maa) was aware of my Singapore plans, not even Amma. 

The next day as I was getting ready for the office, I got a call from Maa around 7:30 in the morning. She mentioned that Amma is really sick and her health is dwindling. She asked me to call her and have a talk. I was in a haste. Tuesday mornings meant a call with the client in America and I had to reach there by 9. I thought that this was just a normal case and Amma wouldn't got anywhere easily. She was bedridden and at my uncle's place not far from my parental home. I am family man in the end. Not even the most urgent of work takes preference over the tiniest concern of my family. I gave a call to Amma's mobile. No answer. I tried again. Still no answer. I passed with the idea of calling her after the client call ends at 10 am. And moved on. 

The bus ride wasn't comforting though. I had thoughts over Amma's health. And mine as well thanks to the numerous jolts in the Mumbai buses. Finally I got a seat and took to reading as is my usual hobby. The book that I had was won in a Goodreads giveaway and a romantic one. I am not against romance but the cancerous plot and mushy acts in the book left a bad taste in mouth. So I rushed to my desk reaching there at sharp 9 am. My screen showed the shared presentation over an extremely slow internet connection. Just as I was connecting the phone, my mobile rang. Maa. Family man in me picked it up. Sobbing. "Amma nahi rahi, Pintoo!" (Amma is no more, Pintoo!) More sobbing.  

I was shocked. It was a strangely familiar feeling. When everything goes numb around you. When your mind loses control of your body. Leave alone words, you can't even think. When business calls have the least precedence over anything. I knew this feeling as I had gone through the experience then two and half years ago when my grandfather passed away. That time too, I was in Mumbai and not at home near him. 

"Main aa raha hu Maa" (I am coming Maa) was the only thing I could speak and disconnected the call. Learning from my past experience, the first thing I did was to book flight tickets for two. My cousin Pooja also lived there and she had accompanied me then and would accompany me now. In fact, she was the one who had called me up to inform me about my grandfather's demise. This time I'd inform her. 

Sometimes, you curse slow internet connection. Other times you are just helpless. That time, I couldn't get my senses to spend energy in cursing. I was fixed to the screen and in 30 minutes or so booked two tickets that would get me to Ahmedabad at the earliest. During that time, I also got calls from others including Pooja. Between her sobbing, I told that the tickets have been booked and she had under half-hour to get going. My office is on the way from her home to airport, so she'd pick me up. 

Others were fixated on the computers and phones. I managed to search Sachin and inform him about the events. He was understanding and granted me the leave. I dropped a mail to withhold my notice period as one can't take leaves during it. I also informed Ishan, picked up my stuff and left the office. I met Pooja at the designated place and we continued our commute to the airport. All in sobbing and consoling each other ignoring the otherwise irritating Mumbai traffic. Managed to reach airport in time and boarded the flight. 

Strange thing that both the times, I was far from my grandparents. I had last met them just two-three days ago and I had to take a flight. Both knew that I love airplanes. When at home, I often run to catch a glimpse of the airplane. But never had travelled in one. My grandfather gave me the first reason to. Maybe, it was his parting gift. This time, Amma knew it well that I had enjoyed the commute of a flight a couple of times. Still she preferred this mode. When I reached home, her eyes were open over her lifeless body. Folks there said that all attempts to close them had failed. I saw the last glimpse in her eyes. Pooja closed them personally and Amma's body allowed to. 

They say that she wanted to see me. That her eyes were waiting for her dearest grandson. But he had failed her. I didn't talk to her in the morning when I had the time. I could have called my uncle or cousin but didn't. I didn't inform her of my Singapore plans. She didn't want me to go Mumbai and I mentioned that it was just a regular weekly trip. I lied and I failed. I was not able to get her a proper fan when she lay uncomfortably in summer heat. And I enjoy the air conditioning here. I failed. I couldn't help her build the home of her dreams; I was too attached to the current home. I failed. She loved cars very much but we didn't have one and would often ask the relatives whenever possible for a trip in car. I didn't know how to drive (nor do I know it at this moment) so I didn't get one. I failed. Numerous times she had asked me to marry so she could see her 'bahu' (daughter-in-law). I was not ready for the marriage. I failed. We promised her a gala bash on her 90th birthday. She was 86. Failed. She had great plans to visit Barcelona. I promised her and I failed. 

Not a single day has passed since then when I don't think of her. Remembering her brings me strength but weakens me to the core. It's an emotional burden that I have to carry lifelong. Nothing I do will ever rectify or justify the failures. Nothing. It's now a universal postulate and all my career performance (since grandpa and alleviated after Amma) have steadily dwindled. I know I can never succeed. Because I am a big failure. 

Acceptance

Well, I am here again with yet another rant. I simply cannot get on with people. And years of observation have helped me conclude that it's due to my complete inability to talk. Put me in a party, throw me in a group of people or even in the midst of family/friends, I will sit still without speaking much. I am the kind of person who will return from a party being friends with the dog! And even if you get me speaking, it'd be extremely difficult to get a subjective viewpoint from me. For facts and all, I'm bang on - capital of a place, approximate currency exchange, cosmic stuff, mathematical formula, films (I so love them!). But ask me to take stand on a political party and you'd be disappointed.
At first, it doesn't seem so bad. But I've to face it every single moment. Yes, my writing somewhat compensates for the lack. But I got no ears to listen to my loathing, no voice to assure me when I'm sad. I know it works both ways. And yes, I have supported my friends and family in their time of distress. Being an INTP(yes I strongly believe that shit theory or whatever you may call) doesn't help either. I become too much of a self-critic to live up to my own expectations. So here I am pondering over what keeps on people conversing day and night. Maybe, I should take up the challenge and face my biggest nightmare: a date.

Bhugda Khaijaiin

I can write endlessly on nostalgia. To me, it’s the strangest feeling of all. You can’t hate it. Neither can you fall in love with it. It pops out at times you don’t expect it to or worse when you are not prepared for it. Consider this. You are busy in a meeting and your brain ticks! The nostalgic impulse rushes at the speed of light and no, you have no control over the outcome of emotions. That’s the reason why you see many of the folks smiling at a serious point or shedding tears when the company has its growth being manifested. I bet you have just recalled a similar incident and if am not wrong, you are smirking your way through ;)

Today when I talked to my Amma (grandmother), a similar nostalgia ached through my heart. I have not visited my home for over a month. A job in a distant city and the difficulty of booking train tickets during vacation have added to the woes. I prefer to converse with her in Sindhi, my mother tongue. I believe one should imbibe the language he or she is born in. I have grown up with grandparents by my side and that has made me love my language. It brings me closer to the culture I am hereditarily a part of.

It is summer here and she has put forth some set of rules. Recall a typical Indian motherly figure showering advices (rather commandments) with oodles of love. Us mein baayr na nikar jaiin (Do not go out in the sun). Baairi bhaaji na khaay jaiin (Do not eat outside vegetables, which symbolises non-vegetarian food). Duddh vathi kare kha (Buy some curd and eat). Kheer thado pi jaiin (Consume cold milk). Bhugda Khaijaiin (Eat roasted chick-peas). Amb-chaavar kha (Eat mango with rice – and that’s what my weekend plan will be). Ghar mein hi vetho rahe jaiin (Remain in home).

The Bhugda part hit that mother lode of nostalgia. I rarely had roasted chick-peas, popularly known as Chana in Hindi, during my 15 month stay in Mumbai. Not that I am extremely fond of it, but the memories of it during my school days make it a food to remember. Amma keeps telling how she relished having bhugda in her school days (and that’s before Indian independence). She and her sisters used to fill their pockets with bhugda and daakh (black raisins) on their way to school. Now at the age of 83, she grinds them and consumes the powdered avatar. I recall watching TV or reading a book while involuntarily devouring them.  I recall Amma instructing me to have some after having fried things (She has this theory that if you consume water after having oily/fried things, you will develop cough. The way out is either to wait for like, half an hour or to bridge the gap by consuming ‘safe’ things like biscuits, papad or chick-peas among other stuff). I recall my mother keeping some of them with a little jaggery in my tiffin box. I recall mouth-watering laayi (Chikki for you) made out of bhugdaas and/or khaajas (groundnuts) during Diwali. I recall the stories of horses having them and that that being responsible for their strong legs.

So many memories in such a little pea! We do take as granted the little wondrous elements of life. I don’t know if I’d be having bhugda soon, but yes, they would always intrigue me as carriers of nostalgia. Forget coffee. A lot has indeed happened for me over Bhugdaa.