Friday, August 29, 2014

A tough story to tell

It is going to be a tough story to tell today. I have delayed telling it because it required a breakdown to happen. It required something to break on the surface to ooze out something from within. May be I was bleeding internally, and now only I have decided to allow it to come out.

I have gone underground in a way that all I can look at is a basement where everything is covered with white sheets. I have left the most vulnerable part of me in that basement, to keep it safe. People are seeing somebody else, someone liberated, someone happy, someone in control, someone with potential to succeed. That's very good, they say. Where do you find a person like that these days? So I keep my fingers crossed that people keep seeing that when they see me, because my fear is that truth is victorious always, and what they are seeing is not truth.

A couple of months ago, I wrote an article on this blog on how the battle I was fighting for my father was already lost. But I was still struggling to keep that fight alive. In the process, making myself grow years in just few months. I kept fighting. He kept fighting. He kept giving up. I kept giving up too. And in that entire battle we didn't know who we were fighting with. Against the course of life?

A friend of mine once told me that human minds have been trained for centuries to face life and death. But that doesn't make facing death easy.

On 21st July, my father bid us farewell. I cried on the stairs of the hospital for half an hour just after that. Cried on the last rites for fifteen minutes. But since then, I haven't cried. Those tears are in some secret land far away or may be in that basement. Throughout the process of winding up my parents' home, I took as many responsibility as I can. After I joined my office, I made sure that people don't stop laughing because there is something terrible happened in my life. I acted normal. Mostly restricting myself not to share it with everyone until unless people themselves approached me to hear.

I talked to old friends. Few of them, I gave a call myself. And told them without showing any kind of emotion. Just plain story of what went wrong as if I am telling about a dear friend's father and not mine. May be not even a dear friend. May be somebody unknown, somebody else's terrible story which was not mine.

And since then, I have made sure to run away from accepting that story as mine. I wrote "Late" in my father's name in the pension form without my hand trembling. I talked about his Death Certificate as if it was a document without allowing it to go beyond a point, reading it just to verify details, taking photocopies without differentiating from a regular government id. Practical and realist? Or just a cold-blooded living under water animal? The latter made me good looking! People find me happy and in-control.Somebody who is strong.

I wonder what I am doing is making me my  strongest or weakest version? More dead than alive, I would say. But there is nothing much choice I have in the entire situation but to channelize every single quantum of emotion in the form of a sincere responsibility. Of a woman who wants to take care of her mom suffering from Alzheimer. And making sure that this battle is not as easily lost as the previous one.

I have a scar to live with. Somewhere when there was time to hold the rope tighter, I just accepted the power of nature against my human limitations and let that rope slip from my hand. My papa's Doctor said to me that his heart says that he should have survived more but his head says, his suffering needed to bring to an end. My heart says, and so does the head, I should have kept fighting till the end.

 I gave up as soon as I saw defeat, much before the actual defeat happened.