It is ironic how the one thing that is constant about life is death. In this piece, we have attempted to do something really different as we have Nikhil Rajagopalan giving two completely different perspectives on death. Do tell us what you felt.
The Death of a Goldfish
Sadness is an upturned goldfish in a fishbowl; glistening in the morning sun. Sadness is the tears that flow down Millie’s face as she discovers Mr Goldy lying still in the water. Just yesterday, she was feeding the fish and tapping gently at the sides of the bowl to make him do a trick. Today, he lies lifeless; locked forever in the illusion of performing a trick.
Millie runs straight into my arms sobbing inconsolably; a deep hacking, guttural sound that comes from the deepest part of her soul. The sheer raw pain echoes in that cry and her tears flow unabated like torrential rains. All I can do is to pull her close to me and make gentle soothing sounds and hope that my little six year old daughter’s heart won’t break.
We need to say goodbye to him”, I say.
She nods her head silently.
We look together for a box to bury Mr Goldy in. I find an old white shoebox in the cupboard. Millie gently puts him in. I start digging in our backyard. Just when I think its deep enough, the neighbor’s cat appears ominously. I dig another couple of feet.
We both place the box tenderly into the shallow hole and a grim moment later, we lay Mr Goldy to rest. I step back after piling on the last bit of black dirt into the hole, which is now a grave.
You were a good goldfish. It was just your time to go.
Millie’s eyes cloud up and she sobs gently but does her best to hide her tears. I kneel down and put my arm gently around her shoulders and pull her in close and we mourn silently.
“He’s in a better place, Millie.”
It’s what anyone would say.
Millie looks me in the eyes and in her most vulnerable and innocent voice, asks, “Really, dad?”
I stare at the grave; the poor dead fish buried in a musty white box, just a few feet below the moist, dark earth.
Cold, unfeeling and lonely.
And for the life of me, I cannot bear to look into her sweet black eyes and repeat my filthy lie.
A Death in the Family
The blood in my veins freezes every time I hear my mobile phone ring. For two days, I’ve been expecting a call from my mom confirming the worst. I expect to pick up the phone to hear her distorted voice from a seemingly faraway place, uttering the words I dread to hear. I imagine myriad voices in the background: my grandmother’s wails of despair with my mother’s incoherent words mixed with sobs. The nurse’s sensitivities are numbed by years of service as she tries to usher my family out of Intensive Care and the doctor dispenses hollow platitudes in a vain attempt to assure that my grandfather is in ‘God’s hands’ now.
I imagine the sea of faces, both familiar and not, visit our domicile to give their condolences. Grandpa would lie in his iced casket – a mute spectator to the throng of relatives, friends and neighbours who would linger over him, shedding tears and consoling my aggrieved mother. My uncle would have to steady his heart and heed the instructions of the scholars schooled in the traditional wisdom of commending souls to their creators. There would be elaborate rituals involving sandalwood, holy ash, silver vessels and water. There will be womenfolk crying silently into their saris. I too would be standing in the corner observing the grim proceedings and holding my mother’s hand whilst holding back my tears. The time would come when Grandpa would have to be carried out to be ‘witnessed’ by all, one last time. The assembled gathering would place grains of rice near his mouth as a token of respect before he is taken away and his ashes subsequently liberated to the very womb of nature itself – the ocean. The unbearable silence of the household would trigger memories of immeasurable sadness for years to come.
The ringing of the phone brings me back to reality.
I pick it up and I listen.
Oh God.
Oh God.
Note: The author also blogs at The World as I See It.
