“The art of losing isn’t hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster.”¹
I am most awake when I want to sleep. Finally having found silence in a room, my thoughts gather in rebellion to create a noise loud enough to deafen it.
“We will not allow you to forget!” they scream.
Isn’t it ironic that no matter how far you go, you can’t ever lose your loss?
I think I’ve done a fairly decent job of tidying up my grief, storing it in a cupboard only I can open, and finding a torchlight when it gets really dark. But there are reminders everywhere.
All the words that make me think of my father are spoken so often, so easily, in so many of the sound bites that surround me.
Daddy, family, parent, abbu, appa, home, child, daughter, mother, grandmother—words which spoken in any context, by any person, still take me back to the same place.
A friend asked me once if I have any regrets, if I wish I had done more with daddy. ‘No,’ I replied immediately and sincerely—because I knew I had spent my time with him unreserved and unguarded. He took me to my first rock concert, and my first opera. He taught me how to wire a surround sound system, and tie my shoelaces. He knew all my secrets, even the ones I didn’t tell him.
But that question stuck with me. Not because of more I could have done, but because of what else I could have asked.
I spoke to my father more than most—multiple times a day—on the phone, through emails, on BBM, and late night Google chats.
Because I wanted to know the thoughts that might be making noise in his head, I asked him:
Did you ever do drugs?
Would you like it if you were famous?
Do you dance in the shower?
What’s your favorite chocolate?
Why do people die?
If you only had one day, where would you go?
How did you know you wanted to marry mummy?
But those were just a few questions, thrown at him over a span of 26 years. I would have asked a lot more, a lot sooner.
I would have asked:
Did you ever get your heart broken?
What do you say in your prayers?
If you painted a canvas, what colour would it be?
Is there anybody you’ve disappointed?
Do you think I’d be a good mother?
Are you scared?
What’s your favorite thing about your children?
What makes you nervous?
If you could capture one memory to replay forever, which would it be?
When you look in the mirror, who do you see?
Some of them sound difficult, but we only have to ask to realize how easily they can be answered.
I learned a lot about my father from knowing his favorite photograph, time of day, and type of paper. I ask people similar questions now, in the hopes I’ll discover who they are in the details.
As we struggle to establish ourselves within our families—juggling identities, values, and cultural expectations—maybe it’s time to start asking. You don’t have to pose serious questions to get sincere answers.
There’s still noise in my head. With every answer I get, a new opportunity for stillness arises. The sound tells me I can’t lose what I’ve lost. But even more loudly, it reminds me that I can lose what I’ve still got.
So before we go to sleep at night–when a thought floats around in anticipation of action; a question mark hangs hopelessly at the end of an intention–if there’s only one question we’re brave enough to ask when we wake up, perhaps it should be this:
What are you waiting for?
Notes:
¹Elizabeth Bishop
Such a beautiful diary……his notes in the diary remind me that as soon as he got the telegram from India to be engaged to Manju-bhabhi he rang me up from London and said you are going to be my best man and quick get yourself a suit made……those are the fond memories of your dad…….such a loving person and gave his fullest to everyone irrespective of colour, creed, religion or otherwise.
And yes I know he did his best to be with Uttu and Unnu all the time.
Just admired his patience and love to his family.
So beautifully written and insightful as well. I like how you tied it in to making the most of the things we truly want to do that often come up as thoughts in our dreams and sleep. People don’t ask enough of these kinds of questions to each other and hopefully those who read your piece will do it more.
I’m sure your Dad read this from up above, smiling proudly at the work of his daughter!
So true. It’s best to talk everything out. Why wait for another time another day, when the moment is shouting out loud n clear…. I’m here. So just Express, act and say it! That’s important. Everything has to go. Nothing is permanent. What remains is the clarity in us when we have said what he have wanted to.
So beautiful.
Thank you so much, as always, for all your comments. If a question is asked from what I’ve written, or even just a simple thought implanted in someone’s mind somewhere, the purpose has been achieved. Always appreciate your responses.