Dadu had died that year, 2001, I was reading N orM(Agatha Christie) and wondering why I would never enjoy the taste of food again. No chocolate, no orange seemed to taste palatable, edible even. Didn't realize it was grief, didn't understand what grief was. Tried to shut off things through that goddamned thriller, it was a Tommy&Tuppence book. It wasn't bad.
My other dadu died the next year, and then Arko jethu died, and then B jethu died and then S' jethima died this November. Again utter blank grief and despair struck me, food became unnecessary, clothes seemed a burden. Stopped wearing kajol. Then I started wearing kajol again, then things became OK. Now I can think of her without crying. I can survey her many gifts to me with a sense of detachment. Time does so much. I don't understand time. When I think of time, or the passage of years, (young as I am, only 21) I feel uneasy with the process called life. I cannot take the flux, the constant moving on and on, I hate not being able to remember, and I hate the idea of memory.
I want to live every moment that I have lived over and over again. I want to be able to recollect every month, week, day, minute, second. I want to freeze that eternal passing moment and extract its essence and I want to be able to talk with my dadus again. There was so much left unsaid and so much left undone. I definitely want to tell jethima that I loved her very much-I never actually did that.
Thakurma's diabetes is giving her a lot of trouble. She is the most active 81 year old in the world. She is witty, nasty, sarcy and warm. I love her so much it hurts. This house is lots larger and older and everything but the sun doesn't stay till 4pm on the chhaad. Otherwise I'd drag her and the toshok and get some oranges and run upstairs. She usually sleeps on the sofa and pretends she's actually watching TV. Sometimes she mutters my dadu's name under her breath, and I gently take the remote away from her hand, and tuck the chaador around her.
I hate time.