Despite being the only child, I sort of lucked out
while growing up - I had three parents, my mum, dad and my aunt. 20 years ago,
I lost my dad. Exactly a month ago, I lost my aunt. We’re taught from childhood
that Maasis are special because they’re like your mother – they’re truly Maa
(Jai)Si, but this one was really extra special. She never insisted on being
called Maasi or Aunt (Huge step up for the times we grew up in), she let me
name her what I wanted (Taru) because Tara Aunty was too long and everyone
called her that. Taru was going to be our special thing.
She left us a month ago and
though one knows death is inevitable for everyone, the shock still remains. She
was 81, unwell at times on and off but one of the healthiest adults I ever
knew. She did Yoga and went on her morning walks till the very end; She could
sit on the floor for Pujas and havans longer than most of us could; She had the
stamina to take an auto in summer heat and go all the way to buy sweets for us
for Holi from the Sindhi sweet shop several kilometers away. And, she was the
kindest, most giving, most considerate person I ever knew. The world is poorer
without her, we are poorer without her. Diwali is coming up, I must accept that
I will not get that phone call from her wishing me and Vivek a Happy Diwali
right in the middle of the Muhurat. She always remembered us. Everytime I met
her, there was always a brown bag with candies I ate as a child which she saw
and bought for me, some sweetmeat that you just don’t get this side of town
or something she had cooked for me; or in the summer, Alphonso mangoes. She
always brought me something everytime she saw me – though these meetings were
fewer and farther in the last few years, each one is cherished and today very
missed.
I spent years and years dealing with
the loss of my father, in good ways and sometimes pretty destructive ways. At
times I wrote several letters when I felt absolutely lonely and helpless and
really wished he were alive so I could talk to him. The younger me would tell
herself that if you’re writing, someone’s going to have to read it. Maybe your
thoughts will reach him if you put them down on paper.
Today, I will tell myself the same
thing to send my thoughts to my aunt – There’s just so many things I want to
tell you, Taru.
Firstly, I
miss you and I love you very much. It is very hard knowing that you’re not in
this world, in this city anymore. The night you left us, I still went ahead and
left town for several days, because you were the biggest advocate I ever knew for
normalcy. You were the one that always taught me life goes on no matter what.
But I can not stop thinking about you – I don’t look at my speed dial
without a moment’s pause any more – I see your name but I can’t delete it. I
can not believe you’re not a call away anymore.
After papa
left, many relatives’ weekly visits and phone calls soon became monthly and
went back to being yearly. We went back to being Mumma, you and me for
birthdays, for bringing home the new puppy, for any celebration – like my
school graduation even. I still remember you’d wear the nicest Saree and put those
jasmine flowers in your hair. I know these moments were special to you as well.
This year, you’re not going to be there for Mom’s birthday
or next year for mine. Till this year even, you gave me a pen because you know
I can never have enough of stationery. You used to still buy those cards from
Archies and make sure to pick up the ones that were made for nieces and mine
used to have to always have a little girl – you’d tell me how cute she looked.
I cannot believe I have had the last of those cards. Two weeks before you left
us forever, the three of us met, ate icecream and you told me excitedly what to
do in Vienna and what to bring back for you. You told me
fondly about my Naana and told me I should go to Japan because he loved it and
you always wanted to see that country. I hope you did many many things your heart wished for
before you left, Taru.
My biggest regret for the rest of my
life will remain that I did not see you on your birthday this year – Intuition
is a terrible thing sometimes and though I couldn’t make it because of a very
bad work day, I knew something was very off. I called and wished you over the
phone and I cried my heart out in the office phone booth as we spoke and I told
you I want to come but I’m unable to. You choked up a bit too but you said
you’d treat me later and you know I’m busy but know that I love you. I hope you
knew when you left, I really do love you very much. And, can you come back to
keep your word, one last meal with me?
You’ve been a part of many of my firsts
– You bought me my first writing desk and chair when I was 7. I can never
forget how precious it was to me and how heartbroken I was to give it up many
years later and only because I outgrew it. You bought me that hobby loom in
high school and then we learnt crochet together two summers. You gave me my
first Mills & Boons, which I ended up never returning to you – I know I
still have it. You gave me my first Walkman as a birthday gift and I treasured
it and cellotaped it when it cracked even, to continue using it even till I
even went off to college. You used to buy me Mac Fast’s pizzas, way before
Dominos and Pizza Hut came in. You took me for a re-run of Lion King and Parent
Trap, even to this really bad cookery class where the teacher burned her hand –
We laughed about it the last time we met too. You always were with me, even for
rubbish like that when you knew you weren’t going to enjoy it.
I told you this one story very
recently too – but there is so much I’m grateful to you for that there’s
nothing I have done or could have done in my life to come close to matching your
generosity and thoughtfulness. There was a time when a watch that Papa gave me
had broken – after 6 years of (mis)use, it went in for repairs and I remember
vividly, Timex called and said it was ready and the bill was Rs.700. At the
time, Mom or I didn’t have the money to pay for this, it was just something we
could not have afforded at the time even in the coming months. I remember with
a very heavy heart telling myself that maybe it was time up for the watch,
though I was ridiculously attached to it because of Papa. I told you over the
phone during our very normal daily conversation that this had happened and I
was going to let it go and not collect it. You went to the store yourself, paid
for it and gave it to me the next time you saw me. I still have it – I will never
forget how much you cared about me, about these little things. It wasn’t a
Rs.700 you would want to throw over watch repairs either I know, but you
did.
I had 12 years with dad, with memories
which are vivid even today. I have 32 years of memories of you – I don’t know
how to go on knowing I’m never going to see you again. You’re probably the
first person I saw when I was born, I’m sure you were there in the hospital.
You’re the first person I’d look for in all family functions because I knew
you’d come early and be helping with the preparations and seeing you was always
comforting especially when there were many occasions I felt I didn’t fit in. You
loved me irrespective of how terrible I looked or how poorly I dressed, or my buck
teeth, or how clingy I was to you. A few years ago, we fought, you stopped
talking to me for a few months even – but you came back. We both knew that
embargos and wars wouldn’t work with us both. We loved each other too much for
that.
The world will remember you as this
spiritual and religious person – I will remember you as the first person who
taught me it was okay to be different. It was okay not to stick to social
norms, not to wear jewelry to show off, to have fewer but meaningful
conversations rather than fleeting hellos and careless how are yous every day; not to mention that you truly lived every moral and every aspirational quote
that some shallow people share on family groups ten times a day. You taught me that
one can live alone and be okay – A man or a group of people cannot define a
person. I will remember you as the greatest balance between spirituality,
tradition and modernity. You knew your Arijit Singh from your Amit Trivedi with
the same oomph you knew Chinmayananda from Tejomayananda. You knew that Ravi
Shastri was bad for cricket and that Rahane shouldn’t have been dropped from
the test squad as deftly as you knew that Virat was marrying Anushka.
Days after Papa passed away,
someone in my hospital room pretty insensitively asked what would I do if
something had happened to Mom also in the accident. You immediately matter of
factly said I’d have lived with you. That’s what you were for me, Taru. You were my
home if I had no where to go, my family if I were ever to lose all I had, you
would never just be my aunt or a guardian, you were really another parent. One
that mostly didn’t care for my faults and flaws – By the way, with you gone I’ve also lost an entire cheering
squad.
And I mourn you and miss you
like I do my father even today. I know you’re up there, sitting with him maybe looking
down at us – and hopefully you’re telling each other that I turned out okay. I
know you both loved me to the moon and back, I just hope you always look at me
with pride and happiness as I look up at you with an empty heart and teary eyes.
I miss you more than I can say, though we didn’t talk everyday – knowing that I
never will see you or hear from you is a truth I have to accept, though I’m
just figuring out how to do that.
Always and forever,
Your niece,
Pooja
Pooja
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