Memorabilia of the Living

By Trivedi Jaimin

Context to the reader: This is the writer’s way of getting closure and paying homage do his aunt, dying of Motor Neuron Disease. The title is chosen to indicate how soulless she was in her last days, yet it she showed character and grace. 1. Senescence- how the disease changed her 2. Three Men I – about her husband and two sons 3. Three Men II- about her three brothers, the middle one is the writer’s father 4. Woman- about her mother, that is the writer’ grandmother 5. Faith- about the last conversation of the writer with his aunt. 6. O Danny Boy- about her grandson and the writer relating to the situation when his grandfather died when he was about the same age as her grandson 7. Long Forgone- Her funeral

Senescence Morphed into a sharp icicle, cold, stagnant, wet, violent. Boys’ hair, grey kissing the black, On my aunt’s head, life’s worthy tenant. A mask for a visage, dead of love, Hatred, helms, glower and grace. Shoulders dropped with weight o’ life. A towering neck to catch some light. Short woman, tall pride, taller valour, A high mind, singing like a troubadour. Seen rags, riches, penury and plenty, Fed big boys, for years barely twenty. Poker nights queen now dumb poker faced, Exuberant costumes, and now shorts with lace. Solitary confinement, everyone is around, Solemn, ashamed, aghast, jaded. No steps, doesn’t dare to dream, Without her husband’s hand by her seam. Young sons, married and misplaced, Stomping through bare time and space. Water is painful as poison, Oxygen as burning as chlorine, Constructing and digging memories, from a life now a palace of ruins. One foot in grave, one in an oasis of morphine, Disbelief and delirium crowding her, She’s gasping for air, which I have not, I lend a shower of blessings and love I ought.

Three Men- I

Silver sheen with dreamy hair, No crease, mildly rugged face, Her cane, with past forging banes, Old husband with a young grace, Tearless disdain- a ware to wear Mortality tapping his shoulders, To snatch a lover of fading colours. Leasing her time and spending treasures. Bathe, comb, walk, dress. A circle of life, failing to impress. Their first one is here, and his wife, To embrace his mother, enthral her sight, Blinds his son, from malice and plight, the spectacle, of nature’s supreme might. His father’s carbon print- mask, grey hair, A life with his mother- a blatant love affair. Subtle, subdued, stable, pacified, Sound of a solitary stifling snort, Acceptance kicks in as a last resort. Fire blazes trailing the screams, their youngest is on the ring. Denial, apathy, marring his soul, Death of a deity, a bruise too bold. Flares of fury, sparkles around, Love on a splinter, cracks too loud. Can’t lose a mother, can lose a mind, thinks immortality is bestowed to the kind. Rage abuts impotence and flames, finger in the open to find bodies to blame.

Three Men- II

Solemn six hours on a six lane drive, Bluesy blues, rain ever so romantic, The beloved elder, respected middle, hated little one, All gather to the ceremony of the last embrace. Bigger in age, tiny in stature, baby sister, Death looming, her head by her mister, Three brothers, masks of decency, Tears rolling under the state of quiescency. She emerges from a dark room in a gown, while her brothers let the flood gates open. The cripple stands, men weak in their knees, with stills from childhood flashing by. How do you embrace the dying, With arms so frail and tongue so tied? In this impulse of exhilarating eye contacts, she painfully sobbed, but none freely cried. The eldest cried with a smile in His admiration, the youngest asked for the woman’s blessings, the middle lay still, being unreasonably reasonable, for this wasn’t his moment, like when his father died. A mute dinner table followed in an hour, Clamour of steel utensils between the breaths, The stew went salty, with a bread soggy and sour. The last supper without sermons and flowers. The occasional hiccups startled the men, she coughed up mashed lentils and soup, Her old husband kept wiping it off. ‘Did I not teach her how to eat,’ Thought her old mother, staring on.

A Woman

She walked through the snowy valleys, She’s hunted for oases in barren deserts. Her husband died in her tiny arms, while she thanked God for his suffering. She aged well, mostly meditating in a room- Closed, sultry, pungent and humble. An indifferent woman, a lovely God’s woman, A hypocrite, a saint with worldly temptations.

Will she hold her old daughter too young, in the same arms she held her spouse? The arms which taught the girl to walk, spanked, caressed, embraced, bruised. She walks up to her sedentary child, for a nightmare she wished was blind, to raise a daughter and watch her die, with her own heart, launching to fly. A decade of devotion to a deity, that never appeared outside her head. A saviour to call, to heal the wounded, to feel like her useless -self contributed. Preached her version of His word, with a pinch of salt and a dash of lime, to a hopeless conduit, forever been dumb, Seeking sense out of a great long mime. She stood staring at a dying daughter, in a theatrical Victorian anti-climax. Did she question her faith and Father? A weak woman asking God for strength.

Faith

Gloomy grey greeted me, A room echoing of sobs and sniffles, Broken brains with delusion and dilemma, Statues and wreaths making her stifle. Surrendering to my staunch infamous claim- Believers are mere primitive hunters of fame, ‘You are right, He is a traitor, a believer!’ My drop of elation lay in a gallon of pain.

A mind-blowing murmur of belief and love, to strip off her miniscule identity left, however tainted and underwhelming it may be, and let her perish as the nameless dust. A sigh and a sermon left my mouth, and a divine intervention of an Oracle, As I gathered a host of words too strange, for my atheist ear to decipher and derange. ‘Have faith, for He is your righteous friend, remember the recession, don’t forget the trials, Never resolved them, but He did condescend, the evils and nay, and blessed your survival. Your faith forged your strength to fight, the monumental deaths and crevasses of night, I can’t see him, neither do your blinding eyes, I am bare, but He touches you in a disguise. Clinging to His grace, for your eternity, Bow out with a glorious spotlight soon, till we watch you debilitate like an autumn willow, With faith flowing through dying veins, Savour the last elixir to numb the pain.

O Danny Boy!

“What pretty tongues you speak, lad! So broken and diverse from north to south. Your young love transcends the sagas. Unconditional, bold, undemanding, simple. But you are kicked out of the room, when half- dead elders come to greet the dying. They care for the tea, not for your dear grandma, invitation to the funeral, to discuss groom proposals. They weren’t present through her dire sufferings, yet they get the first look at the corpse in white. You’re her morphine, and delayed the smothering, But selfish lifeless hooligans rob you in spite. They close the doors to keep you out, when they gather to soak in the gloomy fate. They want to protect you in forced oblivion. Shroud you from inevitable tragedy at stake. Are they blind to your unconditional affection, and simple need for love from your blood? Rather sell to the curtly brats that visit and lure, for free food and fake tears at funerals. Lifeless hags smother her in deep nostalgia, while you wait with poker cards just to build some. Remember the summers with pickled mangoes in a jar, you stole and shared with your friends in pride. You smell of her hands, the eternal scent of comfort, Dare you not forget the unfathomable warmth, of the wrinkled palms and godly psalms uttered. ‘Where do you go after you fall asleep forever,’ you asked perplexed, intending to tag along there. Sniff around the rooms, stare at the photographs, the only salvation from the strangers to the heir.

Long Forgone

Déjà vu in a solemn apartment, as strangers flooded the plain room. A late evening of crocodile tears, Hoax, chaos, grunting and gloom. The six men were confused as bees, Meditating mother kept staring at the sky. I wanted a huge celebration, they wanted a white costume party. Loved ones and the love seekers, gathered in circles around the deity. Danny was out of the room again, playing with the old servant in tears, He punched his way through the crowd, only to see her gone to be ashes now.

By Trivedi Jaimin