Shakuni
One month and one uncle later, I return to LJ.
My first emergency trip to India. India feels closer. 48 hours after I THINK about being home, I am here. And yet it's still too late.
Not unexpected perhaps, but just too early. I miss him. I love him. I wish I had told him that more. I have been so hard and so harsh. He's appreciated that from me, but still, I wish I had been kinder.
He's my closest loss. So many regrets. For him and for me. While everyday life did not involve him, contact was regular and frequent enough that he was a regular part of life.
I hate the feeling of pity. Either for him, the suffering he must have felt near the end or anything about his life. I hate pity. Never cared for the Fountainhead, but Ayn Rand spoke the truth to Roark when she said that pity was the most wretched feeling anyone could feel - why would anyone want to feel it. I prefer to think that he had control. I prefer to remember the strong side of him, not the weak. I prefer to think that his suffering was minimal and brief enough as a part of his life that even he will not remember it. I prefer to not face the ideas that he may have been lonely or depressed.
I've learned to transcend social class from him. To treat people with dignity and respect their individuality and equality regardless of social status or profession. He's a good hearted, good natured person with a great sense of fun. Took great pleasure in bringing happiness to others and held that very sacred. He visited and tended to the old and infirm in the family especially when others who shouldn't have forgotten had forgotten anyway. He was a talented musician with a great deal of exposure to musical experimentation. He loved model trains. He took delight in me.
He was supposed to be there to delight in my child. When I moved back to India. To bring to me by recollecting aspects of my babyhood and childhood. To link me to my home, history and ancestry. To take me to the station. To continue teaching me about selflessness and fulfilling family and friendly obligations. To teach my child the same sense of generosity with resources and dignity that I learned by observing. To teach my children about idealism. About civic and filial duty. To put things plainly and expose truths in crass ways that made them unavoidable. To enjoy watching me enjoy food. To crack jokes about extended family and their quirks. To have visited and stayed with me in the U.S. To connect me to Madras. To ask me where I want to be in 5 years. To tease me.
To be my Shakuni, Shashondi...moshondi, logic breaching mama (uncle).
The anger is easily subdued, the loss is not. When I'm not crying it's because I'm not yet believing - not because I am accepting. There's a part of me that's gone - some portion of which I didn't know and can now never know.
Belief in this reality is only intermittent.
My first emergency trip to India. India feels closer. 48 hours after I THINK about being home, I am here. And yet it's still too late.
Not unexpected perhaps, but just too early. I miss him. I love him. I wish I had told him that more. I have been so hard and so harsh. He's appreciated that from me, but still, I wish I had been kinder.
He's my closest loss. So many regrets. For him and for me. While everyday life did not involve him, contact was regular and frequent enough that he was a regular part of life.
I hate the feeling of pity. Either for him, the suffering he must have felt near the end or anything about his life. I hate pity. Never cared for the Fountainhead, but Ayn Rand spoke the truth to Roark when she said that pity was the most wretched feeling anyone could feel - why would anyone want to feel it. I prefer to think that he had control. I prefer to remember the strong side of him, not the weak. I prefer to think that his suffering was minimal and brief enough as a part of his life that even he will not remember it. I prefer to not face the ideas that he may have been lonely or depressed.
I've learned to transcend social class from him. To treat people with dignity and respect their individuality and equality regardless of social status or profession. He's a good hearted, good natured person with a great sense of fun. Took great pleasure in bringing happiness to others and held that very sacred. He visited and tended to the old and infirm in the family especially when others who shouldn't have forgotten had forgotten anyway. He was a talented musician with a great deal of exposure to musical experimentation. He loved model trains. He took delight in me.
He was supposed to be there to delight in my child. When I moved back to India. To bring to me by recollecting aspects of my babyhood and childhood. To link me to my home, history and ancestry. To take me to the station. To continue teaching me about selflessness and fulfilling family and friendly obligations. To teach my child the same sense of generosity with resources and dignity that I learned by observing. To teach my children about idealism. About civic and filial duty. To put things plainly and expose truths in crass ways that made them unavoidable. To enjoy watching me enjoy food. To crack jokes about extended family and their quirks. To have visited and stayed with me in the U.S. To connect me to Madras. To ask me where I want to be in 5 years. To tease me.
To be my Shakuni, Shashondi...moshondi, logic breaching mama (uncle).
The anger is easily subdued, the loss is not. When I'm not crying it's because I'm not yet believing - not because I am accepting. There's a part of me that's gone - some portion of which I didn't know and can now never know.
Belief in this reality is only intermittent.