Remembering an eventful life

By Magdalene Natasha.C

Tough souls are complicated to describe. But what about a tale (or an anecdote?) about the strongest person you are still in awe about even after their demise and spin the liveliest life they had into a short writing? That is one hard job. For it to go unwritten though, I wouldn't allow.

Hearing stories from her and about her as I grew up, never felt nostalgic or fascinating. I listened to those mostly to kill my boredom. And, well, it was amusing and interesting and there was a lot of time to do nothing back then. For very long hours, me and my sister would sit and listen to her talk. Talk about her school days, her hostel teacher-training course days or how she once ran from a stalker while she had just come out of a jewellery shop carrying expensive gold accessories. These are just examples of how she could keep us entertained. Now I struggle to come up with stories to tell my little cousin, because as good as the story may seem, the narrator should be good too, to bring out the flavour of the story with just the precise words. She is that. She was born to tell a real and bruised story to the world. She was born to be excellent in everything she did. She was born to be creative. She was born to be perfectly extraordinary.

She dealt with internal politics most of her life. And she knew just how to. A tale she had recounted countless times was the one where she got hit by her brother on the head. Mind you, they were grown up adults during the time we are talking about. Her brother had apparently borrowed a huge amount of money from her to start a business. While she and a few people (mostly family) had gathered to sort a problem out, she had asked about the money. There came her second brother storming at her fiercely and he hit her four times on her head with his huge hard hands. It felt like thunder knocking me out. Her exact words.

The people around had of course yelled "don't beat." But not a single one of them had stopped the son of a bitch from knocking the air out of her. She had giddily come out of the house, the house where her own family sat and stared as she got abused, and she took an auto home. Accepting the situation like she had most of the time. Like she had when her husband gambled her salaries which she earned working harder and harder. Like she had when she was blamed for the things she did not do. Like she had when the society gave her names. Like she had when cancer hit her.

Bold. It was what I was asked to be whenever I spoke in elocution. It was what I wanted to look like. It was what that made me say 'whoa.' It was what she was.

She lived a tough life, working in a government school with a hectic convent to serve and also being the only one in the family to provide. Provide her daughters with proper education and provide the family with all their needs, provide all those things a society pushes you to, just so that you seem regular and normal. To say, she saved up quite a lot and left her daughters with a lot more money than a regular Indian mother who ran a household in the 80s and 90s could have, is what an understatement would look like. Hell, she ran almost all the parts that contributed to the family until her sickness got the most of her.

I could re-tell all the stories she told us about the odd and unique events of her life, but I don't think it would be much if we are measuring it with the story. The one which she never told us but let us see. See her, with the deadly disease that's ruining her. I always thought she was going to be there forever. Even after the diagnosis was made, I never really remember thinking she would be gone. She seemed immortal, no matter how hopeless a disease might feel. I don't think I ever looked at her, even for once, and thought "She's dying.." I once jokingly even told her that she might live for ten to twelve years; when fourth stage cancer hardly allowed that.

Then there was a phone call from the hospice, asking us to visit because it might be 'any day now.' She had lasted longer than we expected. Maybe just a false alarm? We hadn't visited her in months because of COVID. So when we saw her coming out of the entrance, assisted by a nurse, on a wheelchair and her eyes sadly looking at the ground, I think my tears welled up immediately. She looked thinner than ever. Her breast cancer was sucking out her life and I was suddenly hit with the epiphany. She is dying.

And then came her last words I heard her speak. It was the most heart-tearing.

After we walked out from there and I stood by an outside bench near the garden of the hospice, I remember blinking back from crying because I hated doing it. Especially in public. I knew it was the last I could see her. Alive.

Around a couple of weeks later, a night came. A night where I was unable to sleep. And my mind, being a really triggering bitch, had replayed and reminicided every single beautiful moment I had with her. I thought I would hear the news about her death the next day. But she had suffered through one more dreadful hurting day.

It had been a week since my school reopened (due to pandemic lockdown reasons) and I was just about to go for the first time in months. I was buckling up my shoes when my aunt called. My mom said to us, "It's going to be over it seems." She need not explain. We knew. But it's not over yet. Should I still go to school? Well, she, who's major part of life revolved around school, would want that. Why has my thinking gotten weirdly absurd? If she was about to die, I had to stay back obviously. I'm stuck with a dilemma. It's almost time for school. But she hasn't died yet, has she? She wouldn't. She wouldn't. Not happening.

A few minutes later, another call came and I knew my grandmother had finally rested in peace. She was relieved from all the worldly duties. She was safe and guarded now. She doesn't need to face one more humiliating or vulnerable moment. She was… she was… she was dead.

So it happened. She wasn't immortal then?

My grandmother's last few words as she still looked at our feet rather than our faces : "I'm just worried about you all."

By Magdalene Natasha.C