Notes on Grief

Making sense of being left behind.

Dear Reader,

It’s been awhile. A much longer gap than I intended. The truth is, the world has been bleak lately. And while there are many great writers who put out wonderful work in the wake of tragedy, it pains me to admit that I am not one of them.

Perhaps that makes me shallow, or talentless, or just unfocused. Certainly I feel like all of those things right now. As someone who has always believed that great adversity forges great art, it surprises me (in an abstract way) that tragedy has stolen any desire I have to create. My respect for those who pen poetry amidst rubble is at an all time high. I have nothing. Right now, I feel nothing.

I’m not trying to sound mysterious or anything. What I’m experiencing isn’t unique. I recently lost my father. Actually, scratch that. I didn’t lose him. He hasn’t gone out for a walk and not returned. My father died. He was hale and hearty one minute, and gone the other. Everyone tells me that I should be grateful for that. That I should rejoice that he didn’t suffer, that he felt no pain, that we could be with him in his last moments. They try their best to transform this sadness, this rip in reality, into a sign from God, a blessing from the divine.

Reader, I’m going to be brutally honest with you. Nothing about this feels like a blessing. I sense no hand of God in this, just another bitter turn of the wheel. I understand that I have it better than many people. That others have faced all these things and worse. I don’t want to participate in the misery Olympics. And I hope that in time, and with more wisdom, I will view all of this differently. But right now, in this dark, waking nightmare, I feel like all these well-meaning, loving people are missing something crucial. My father is gone.

I wish that I was someone who derived comfort from platitudes like “he’s in a better place” or “he’s always watching over you.” In all honesty, I hope my dad isn’t watching me sob while washing the dishes, or while taking a walk, or doing any number of mundane things. A few days ago I wept at a traffic signal—one he hated—because the last time I drove past it, he was in the passenger seat. Life stretches before me, filled with many ‘firsts’, and now ‘lasts’, without my father, and that haunts me. Everyone tells me that time will dull the edge of my grief, and I’m afraid of that too. What if I lose my memories of his face, or the comfort I felt from his presence, or the sounds of him puttering around the house. What if I lose him in every way?

I hope I’m making sense. I’m not sure if I am. Grief is disorienting. It’s all pervasive and banal at the same time. I have been moving through the world like I’m underwater, numb and still, except when I’m not. And then there’s nothing decorous or dignified about my grief. It ferments inside me like a wild thing. It has made me unrecognisable to myself.

There’s nothing about the whole process that makes any sense at all. Grief is full of contradictions. I’ve met scores of visitors with smiles and kind words, dry eyed and steady. But five minutes into taking an evening walk, I found myself sitting on the side of the road, dry heaving at the thought of living without him. It felt impossible, unimaginable, but in reality I had already begun to do so.

I find myself both frustrated and endeared by the various versions of him that are emerging after his death. People are so quick to put halos on humans. One of his friends called him ‘Saint Paul’ at his funeral. It made me laugh, but also sigh. What a burden it is to be so ‘good’. I much prefer the reality of him. Saints are so untouchable, and my father was anything but that.

He loved watching recipe videos on YouTube though he hated chopping vegetables. He’d be the first to pour you a drink, and the last to leave the table. He was deeply superstitious about cricket matches, and would refuse to watch them live because he thought he’d bring India bad luck. He hated paperwork but would file people’s taxes for them as a radical act of love (it was!). When he said “call me if you need me, I’ll come” he really meant it. He was an earnest, sentimental man who wasn’t afraid to tell people he loved them. He rarely fought with his friends or family, but was always locked in bitter battles with parking lot attendants (a bizarre family trait). He decided that the best way to teach me my times tables was to wake me up at odd hours and question me (failed experiment). He squirmed when I asked him where babies came from and came up with a variety of colourful lies (a DIY kit from John Lewis, found at the bottom of his beer glass, etc).

He adored me. I’m not just saying that. He really did. And being loved like that, with no conditions, is a radical, wonderful thing. He was so bloody proud of me no matter what I did. It was a gift freely given, which I’m only just beginning to understand the power and depth of. Despite how different we were, he always tried to find common ground. He listened to me with respect even if he disagreed with what I was saying. We fought bitterly on occasion, but he’d meet me halfway. He saw me—the good, the bad, the ugly—and loved me anyway. Now, those are blessings. Well wishers, take note.

I know this is all a bit incoherent, and perhaps an unwelcome outpouring of emotion for an audience simply seeking book recommendations. But I can’t bring myself to apologise. I have been reading. I’ll list a few of those books below. Some of them have helped, others have devastated, and some have been necessary escapes. Perhaps I’ll share the whole list in another edition of this newsletter.

We’ll return to some semblance of our regular programming soon. While I’ve been withdrawn, hiding from the world, my team has been working hard to make up for it. New episodes of the podcast I host for Dark ‘n’ Light, Arcx, will be out soon. They were all recorded before my father’s death, but editing them has been a bright spot in this fragile time. Please listen if you can.

The world will continue to turn but for now, this is where I am. I’m not sure when that will change.

Signing off,

Anjali

1. One Day, Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This by Omar El Akkad

   Let me take a minute to recommend this book, filled with grief, loss and disillusionment. I have nothing to say that I haven’t said before. What we are witnessing, helplessly, uselessly, will leave its mark on our souls. As always, I stand for a free Palestine (and so did my father).

2. The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion

   I don’t know what I was thinking picking up this book again. It’s not new to me, I read it first years ago. But I underestimated how grief colours words, especially now that I have experienced a loss as devastating as Didion’s. She wrote this book about the year that followed her husband’s sudden death. There were chapters that had me crawling into bed, shaking. I highly recommend it in theory, but if you’ve recently experienced loss, hold off for your own sake.

3. History Lessons by Zoe B. Wallbrook

   This was such a pleasant relief (and a good escape). A fun, well written murder mystery with an interesting protagonist. There’s such a gift to writing books like this, which essentially depend on a well worn formula to succeed, but require reinvention constantly. Points if the protagonist is a bit of a nerd. As an undeniable one myself, I enjoy those the most.