Little souls, big questions

He passed away while we were home for a short visit this March. He had largely refused to talk to me — breathing alone was hard work. But he still called out to his youngest grandchild as she stumbled out sleepily from the bedroom that final morning. She went and patted his hand and came away to have her favourite breakfast — eggs, just like Thakurdada. We didn’t know then what the day had in store.

“But where is he?” she asked, puzzled, a week after his demise. I had explained his death, but not mentioned the funeral. Yes, Thakurdada had died, she had learnt. This was her first loss, and, as an explanation, I had said, death was like a battery running out that you couldn’t replace. We all had a battery, and when it ran out, you died. “Can you ask Google where he is?” Ira attempted at last, before turning her attention (thankfully) to negotiations for TV time.

And finally that night, she made the connection I’d feared all along: “I’m sad that Thakurdada died, but I’m glad you’re not dead.” She accompanied that with a fierce, long hug. As I searched for tissues for us both, I felt immensely sad and joyous. I’m loved. He is gone but still loved. And what is grief but an outpouring of love that has no body to go to?

But that was just the beginning. Her uncurbed curiosity (or is it the scientific temper my father-in-law nurtured) has led to questions coming at me in different forms and levels of intensity.

One night she asks, “How old is the oldest person you’ve ever met?” My answer (92) is unimpressive, I can tell. So I go on to mention how the oldest person in the world is 116. Delighted, she asks, “Do you think he — oh, was it a boy or a girl? — so, do you think he got his heart changed?” I blink. Then I realise that a separate conversation on the powers of medical science (where I had explained a heart transplant) has given her hope that the traitorous battery might, perhaps, be replaced.

“Where did Thakurdada go?” she persists on another occasion. I resist the urge to point to a star. We talk instead about him being sort of invisible because he doesn’t have a body anymore, but that he might still meet other people who don’t have a body, like his parents who died long, long ago.

As the weeks go by, sometimes, she refuses to engage. “Oh, don’t talk about Thakurdada to me,” she stops me in the daytime, when I narrate a story about him and her. But in the dark of night, she burrows into my armpit and asks, “Do you think Thakurdada is with his Mamma and Baba now?”

And the questions don’t come at bedtime alone. “Why do we celebrate our birthday if actually it means we’re growing older?” I look up. She is hanging upside down off the sofa arm and watching cartoons. I wonder how long she has been thinking about this. I start to explain about celebrating the years we have lived, but “look, this part is really funny, watch with me,” she interrupts, distracted by animal rescuer Diego’s adventures. This conversation is deferred, not closed. Sometimes I think she asks just to see if I will try to answer (at school we called it “marks for method”). My readiness to engage gets me off the hook.

Another night, I realise that the little wheels have been turning furiously in her head. Thakurdada was the oldest person she knew and he passed away first (Ira has now learnt to prefer that over “died”). So one night, she hits me on the head (or is it the heart) with her logic — “But Mamma,” she says in a whisper, “in our family you are the oldest, so that means you’ll pass away first!”

And at the end of a long day, “Mamma, do you think you might live till you are 200 or 300 years old?” I sigh, “I really doubt it, Ira. I think only tortoises live that long.” With a disappointed “oh”, she snuggles closer, whispering, “I wish you could live for EVER”. There’s a long silence, then a soft, choked voice asks, “Can you change your heart, Mamma?”

One morning, the mood is flippant. She asks me if we can get new batteries for her toy train. When I promise that’s possible today itself (I’m making a list as I head out to the market), she says, “phew, I’m glad we can change these batteries,” and walks off.

And, then, there is the evening where we talk about whether Thakurdada knows what we are thinking, and Ira assures me, “We can send him a message in our hearts. They are like phones, you can send messages to people you can’t see.” I’ll subscribe to that plan.

Talking frankly about death with a little girl who believes in Santa Claus and tooth fairies has been our choice. We spoke honestly from the first day, explaining what had happened as she had her dinner and filled up her colouring book in a bleak house echoing with endless phone calls. And we choose to be (mostly) truthful every day since. So, her knowledge is inevitable, but also awkward. Sometimes, she casually mentions my father-in-law’s demise among people who don’t know how to react. And, then, there are moments when she consciously refuses to mention a lost grandparent for it could sadden the surviving grandparent. Are these the beginnings of empathy in a child who hesitates to share her fries?

One bright weekend morning we wake up feeling invincible, and she tells me, “I had a dream that made me sad, but I know if I talk to you, you will explain it to me.” It is, unsurprisingly, a dream about death, mine. But I am just grateful that she wants to talk about it. If, in moments of sorrow and worry, she can ask for help, I’ve done my job. Ask away, Ira.

Anamika Mukharji is a Mumbai-based writer.