Time for closure

Six years ago, my father died in the hospital on New Year8217;s eve as the world prepared for an evening of partying. He had been ailing fo...

Six years ago, my father died in the hospital on New Year8217;s eve as the world prepared for an evening of partying. He had been ailing for two years and was but a pale shadow of himself; the end was not really unexpected. But it was the first death of someone close to me and I was not prepared for any of it 8212; in terms of emotions, social interactions, logistics.

As my husband handled the hospital paperwork, I fumbled with my address book to call relatives and friends. A cousin told me how to make multiple calls from a PCO using a single coin. Fortunately I had enough coins, because I did not register what he said. As it was late evening, we decided to take the body home the next morning. The men from the mortuary 8212; slightly drunk and wearing gloves 8212; yanked the body on to the trolley. I winced, then remembered that father was beyond pain.

Sleep was uneasy that night as we tried to reconcile to the idea of death amidst sounds of merrymaking. Next morning, in a city nursing a hangover, we picked up the body. The hours that followed went in procuring the 8220;ladder to Heaven8221; 8212; clothes, flowers and dhup 8212; and in preparing him for his final journey. People streamed in to pay their last respects. As his only child, I performed the last rites. When the priest asked me my father8217;s gotra, I realised how little I knew about him. A cousin supplied the answer.

That evening, I rushed around arranging for the subsequent set of activities 8212; the immersion of ashes, havan, prayer meeting 8212; using checklists prepared by helpful cousins. Being New Year8217;s day, many people greeted me cheerfully. Others, aware of my bereavement, offered condolences. I kept switching my expression appropriately and ended up totally disoriented and exhausted. For the following week or so, I was too busy to feel anything.

A neighbour told me that death hits one after the rush is over. I understood what she meant a few months later. During my evening walk, thinking about a childhood incident, I found a gap in my memory. I8217;ll go home and ask father, I thought. That was when it hit me. He was dead. Gone. Forever.

After obtaining his death certificate, I started on the transfer of his assets and other paperwork. But whenever I opened his files I got distracted.Those yellow, crackling pieces of paper captured an era of transfer orders and government circulars and brought back memories of ever-changing houses and schools. There was a group photo in which I could barely recognise my father. His degree certificate showed a caste identifier that he dropped later. When? Why? I did not know.

I began assembling my portrait of him by juxtaposing fragments of my memories and the bits contributed when relatives and friends wrote or visited to condole. Gaps remained.

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Now it is almost four years since I learnt anything new; it is time for closure.