Mid-December. Pleasantly cold wedding season in northern India.
My first cousin was all set to tie the knot with his girlfriend of four years. We, the big Indian family of the groom—parents, uncles, aunties, sisters and brothers (both biological and legal)—prepared for the destination wedding. One big happy family with its groups, sub-groups, favourites and backbiting aunties.
The uncles (that is, the better halves of these aunties) are a stark contrast as they refrain from gossip of any kind, speak only when necessary, care to the fullest, yet practice detachment.
A wedding
So, my big paternal family and I hopped on the train merrily, braving the chill of the wee hours. Somewhere between catching sleep, munching, joking and guarding the most confidential info about who was wearing what to the wedding, we reached the destination. A day later, the brother became better-half to his better-half. We all rejoiced.
As the two exchanged vows, the discussion moved from his wedding to that of the next cousin in waiting.
His search for his woman is on, because the economy is down and a homely girl from an equally wealthy family is hard to get.
To each his own.
The big, happy family came back even happier, with a new member, a shy bride … singing, dancing, teasing the newlywed couple … back to routine life.
A funeral
Two days later, on a lazy afternoon, while I scratched my head over judgment and the impending article, a WhatsApp message dragged me into gloom.
“Papa has left us,” my maternal cousin informed me.
In the next half hour, my mother, my father, my daughter and I were on the road to Rajasthan, to say our goodbyes. Our driver did his best to hit the destination before the funeral. We made it in time.
Papa went for the funeral. The women, including the three of us, stayed back because Hindu women do not attend cremation. The sight of people weeping … no, we could not go inside. But we had to. So, we did.
I was not crying. I don’t cry much now. I have had enough.
I just wondered how many people my uncle knew and how many people knew him as a father, a brother, a friend, a man of taste and ‘rude.’ Yes, I always thought of him as a man with no emotions. As a kid, I was scared of his disciplinarian ways. But when I saw him living a lost battle with Parkinson’s disease, his controlling nature looked better than his loss of control.
I went right across the room to my widowed aunt. I caressed her shoulder and occupied a corner. I didn’t dare look at her face. I could hear her sob.
A strong-willed, beautifully feminine, tall and authoritative figure, she rued the loss of her better-half.
She and the uncle, now deceased, together had made an attractive couple: she, beautiful and authoritative; he, smart and dominating. Both tall and firm, physically and mentally. Together, they made two sons—both extremely fine gentlemen.
In the coming days, I witnessed various rituals—some scientific, some illogical. All extended family stayed with my maternal aunt and we all prayed together every evening, for almost two hours.
But so much happened before and after the prayer meetings and during them. The focus shifted from the loss to who will eat what. Some elderlies refrained from eating roots, some forbade greens and some wanted spicy while some liked bland meals.
We all were eating in turns—the elderlies, especially those who eat before sunset, dined first. They were followed by the third generation and the kids. The little ones, like my daughter, played around and made everyone laugh. The elderlies enjoyed and giggled.
There were talks around me and many things Canadian. Witty humour, too.
The prayer meetings were fun rounds of singing prayers, followed by a round of tea.
As if she’d had enough, after one such prayer meeting, my widowed aunt commented, “Does it even look like we are grieving anyone’s loss?” She gave words to my thoughts.
In the days to follow, I tried to meditate during the prayer meetings. I needed a vent.
But thoughts are like jumping monkeys, you see. Whatever was happening around me in this house was very similar to the wedding scene. How could bereavement and mourning be compared to unison and merriment?
But my mind was stuck. My thoughts jumped from my cousin and his wife to my aunt and the late uncle. I looked at all the couples around me, at the effortless togetherness they exuberated.
After some days, my aunty was back to her usual self—strong, commanding—and it was time for us to return to our nest.
A partnership
A few days later, I was on the subway. I was reading The Girl on the Train.
“And they are a partnership. I can see it, I know how they are. His strength, that protectiveness he radiates, it doesn’t mean she’s weak. She’s strong in other ways; she makes intellectual leaps that leave him open-mouthed in admiration. … At parties, he often holds her hands, even though they’ve been together for years. They respect each other, they don’t put each other down.”
- The Girl on the Train by Paula Hawkins, p. 23
I knew then why I felt so strange about the wedding and the funeral. So close to each other, not just in time, but in the coming together of people on such a large scale.
My brother had formed a partnership, my aunt had lost one. And me? I could never form one. And my eyes welled up.
"LEGGI RELATIVI" RELATIONSHIPS ARE PARTNERSHIPS: Focus on the team, not just yourself»
immagine 1 pxhere 2 Funeral Procession, Dharavi by Adam Cohn, via Flickr (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0) 3 Pixabay
