In Mrityunjay, I lamented the loss of Prabir Sir, an icon in mathematics for all who knew him. I remember I started off with Baishe Shrabon - the 22nd day of the Bengali month of Shraban - Rabindranath Tagore's death anniversary and steered on to the sad event taking place on the same day.
I didn't realize it much then, but in spite of everything I wrote there and howsoever I may claim that Rabindranath flows in the veins of every Bengali, the ways the events affected me were vastly different from those of end-of-2013-beginning-of-2014. I did not have an inkling of the feelings then. These compose uncharted territory, beyond description for those who haven't personally felt it.
On the 12th of December, 2013, my maternal grandmother, my dida, passed away. She was not staying with us at that moment; she was staying with her son, my mama. We were informed in the early hours of the morning. I had not yet woken up.
I woke up to the sounds of my mother sobbing uncontrollably. Something I have never experienced. It is one of the most indescribably strange and worst things possible for a son to see.
I woke up to the sounds of my mother sobbing uncontrollably. Something I have never experienced. It is one of the most indescribably strange and worst things possible for a son to see.
Them came a second instance of a completely new emotion. The realization of Death. I cannot successfully even try describing it. It is a mixture of ironical incredulity - where I wear that non-believing trademark half-smile on my face; a shock of the kind when you're leaning on a revolving chair precariously, with all faith in your balancing skills and suddenly it gives way for a few seconds before you recover; the strange half-realization that what once was real, would never EVER be physically possible - পায়ের চিহ্ন আর এ পথে পড়বে না - those footsteps would never ever mark the roads again (there again, I quote Rabindranath... he IS in our veins, in celebration, in mirth, in famine, in revolution, in royalty, and in the crematorium - the shamshan.. ** ) and the awkward peace due to reasons I do not wish to reveal publicly.
I was the younger grandson. My brother (mastuto or mausera) was away for work and he could not come for the last rites, so I increased in prominence during the last rites. I was the son on the daughter's side. Hence, I had less strict 'rules' to follow. My mother had lesser 'rituals' to undergo. (The hypocrisy of Brahmanical Hinduism and its rituals, I shall not talk of too much here.) Through all this, war raged on inside me. I was confronted with something very very different. I was trying to train my scientific mind to come to terms with it. Constantly. I failed for some time. And then I succeeded. I met some relatives of mine whom I had never interacted with before. I talked of India's science policy. I criticized Mamata Banerjee. I was extremely surprised and a bit guilty at these 'normal' moments. And hence, I failed again.
I witnessed for the first eerie time, a person I know well, in front of me yet farther than the farthest far. She looked the same as she always had been - peaceful, strong-willed, God-fearing. As poignantly beautiful in death as she was alive, as strong-jawed and determined as the politician who had defeated the Left candidate in Red Bengal in her home turf.
I saw my aunt, my mashi breaking down. She couldn't believe that the lady who steered her family through the tumultuous events of Calcutta in the 70's, 80's and 90's after the early death of my grandfather (when my mother was 18), was no more. I saw the iron lady whom I feared as a child, for whom a car marked 'Defense' used to come every day to take her to office at Fort William, who exuded power, collapsing.
And then I saw my father break down. Which I never ever expected. My father's and mother's families were friends long before their marriage. My father was there when my maternal grandfather passed away, he performed all duties towards my dida as a son. From the steel-nerved, eternally patient and controlled person I knew him to be, who had never even raised his voice at me, he became a weeping child.
I was shocked. These scenes instilled an immediate reaction of fear. Of how Death changes things so rapidly and so distinctly. And then it led me to deep introspection and realization. I realized I can switch between heavily emotional and highly practical pretty quickly. I realized for the first time what Death can be, starkly contrasted against all the philosophical work I had chanced to read. I realized how very complex human relations can be. And how very stupid rituals can be.
There are a lot more complexities associated with the incident, which I am again loath to reveal in public. But that day, I aged. As a person, as someone who wants to understand oneself, I grew. I am not proud of all I learnt of myself, but of some things, I do feel slightly happy of.
-- To be continued...
I was the younger grandson. My brother (mastuto or mausera) was away for work and he could not come for the last rites, so I increased in prominence during the last rites. I was the son on the daughter's side. Hence, I had less strict 'rules' to follow. My mother had lesser 'rituals' to undergo. (The hypocrisy of Brahmanical Hinduism and its rituals, I shall not talk of too much here.) Through all this, war raged on inside me. I was confronted with something very very different. I was trying to train my scientific mind to come to terms with it. Constantly. I failed for some time. And then I succeeded. I met some relatives of mine whom I had never interacted with before. I talked of India's science policy. I criticized Mamata Banerjee. I was extremely surprised and a bit guilty at these 'normal' moments. And hence, I failed again.
I witnessed for the first eerie time, a person I know well, in front of me yet farther than the farthest far. She looked the same as she always had been - peaceful, strong-willed, God-fearing. As poignantly beautiful in death as she was alive, as strong-jawed and determined as the politician who had defeated the Left candidate in Red Bengal in her home turf.
I saw my aunt, my mashi breaking down. She couldn't believe that the lady who steered her family through the tumultuous events of Calcutta in the 70's, 80's and 90's after the early death of my grandfather (when my mother was 18), was no more. I saw the iron lady whom I feared as a child, for whom a car marked 'Defense' used to come every day to take her to office at Fort William, who exuded power, collapsing.
And then I saw my father break down. Which I never ever expected. My father's and mother's families were friends long before their marriage. My father was there when my maternal grandfather passed away, he performed all duties towards my dida as a son. From the steel-nerved, eternally patient and controlled person I knew him to be, who had never even raised his voice at me, he became a weeping child.
I was shocked. These scenes instilled an immediate reaction of fear. Of how Death changes things so rapidly and so distinctly. And then it led me to deep introspection and realization. I realized I can switch between heavily emotional and highly practical pretty quickly. I realized for the first time what Death can be, starkly contrasted against all the philosophical work I had chanced to read. I realized how very complex human relations can be. And how very stupid rituals can be.
There are a lot more complexities associated with the incident, which I am again loath to reveal in public. But that day, I aged. As a person, as someone who wants to understand oneself, I grew. I am not proud of all I learnt of myself, but of some things, I do feel slightly happy of.
-- To be continued...
** From a shloka I learnt:
উৎসবে ব্যাসনে চৈব; Utsabe, byasone chaiba; In festivals and in joy;
দুর্ভিক্ষে রাষ্ট্রবিপ্লবে; Durbhikkhe, Rashtrobiplobe; In famine and in revolution;
রাজদ্বারে শ্মশানে চ Rajodware Shashane cha; At the royal gates and the crematorium;
যষ্টিষ্ঠতি স বান্ধব।। Jostishthoti so Banshobo. Who stands beside you equally, is a friend.
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