Parting is such sweet sorrow
"As real as love that sates the heart
Is heartbreak that tears us apart
And yet between them there must be
Some necessary connection
Else the earth could never bear
Such agonizing deception"
- Translated from Rabindranath
Every time I left home to go to boarding school, my mother would feed me her most favourite food ever (or so I assumed), luchi and rabri - milk reduced with sugar and thickened to the point where the creamy bits had solidified. With tears near the surface and a lump in my throat, I found the pieces of sticky dripping luchi hard to swallow. It never did become my favourite food.
Adults forget so easily how tender is the heart of a child, how every rebuke is a blow, every disappointment agony. I conveniently forgot too when my kids were little, yelled at them for making a fuss. But now, looking back, I remember. My unmarried aunt, my father's third sister, came to stay with us for a month.(Hardly any of our relatives visited us in the backwaters of Kolar.) I don't remember anything much about the visit, only the grief (there's no other word for that deep sorrow) I felt when she packed her bags and just went away. I don't know if anyone else can identify with this ..someone is right next to you, touching you, talking to you. You get into the car or taxi together to go to the train station. Maybe you eat something together, laugh at a joke together. You're chatting even as the train pulls in, the suitcases are stowed away under the seat. And then, suddenly, the whistle blows, the train chugs out of the platform and - just like that - they are gone. Even in my teens, when I didn't feel so intensely sad anymore, I couldn't help feeling somewhat surprised, taken aback, slightly betrayed when someone left. Even when I had known for days and seen their tickets, it never felt real until they were actually gone.
So much leaving happened in the dark. The train, bus, plane schedules required you to wake up in the middle of the night, cold and dizzy, brushing your teeth with a queasy feeling in the pit of your stomach. The early morning hour made everyone talk quietly as if at a funeral. And, whether we knew it or not, whether it felt temporary or not, it was always an ending. You would never be back in that same place in that same way again. When you came back, something, maybe imperceptible but definite, would have shifted.
When I first came to the US, I was excited for myself (it was a new beginning after three years of post-college stagnation) but sad thinking about my parents. On the last evening before I left, my friend Kanta came over to say goodbye. As always, we asked her to sing. It was a dark and rainy evening, my mother stood by the window and hummed along softly as Kanta sang, "তুমি নাই বলে মোর সাথে, তাই কি বিরহ বরষাতে...". In my new apartment, on campus, I would lie in bed and suddenly see clearly, in my mind's eye, my father entering the room where I used to sleep, early in the morning. (He used the bathroom attached to that room and would annoy me a lot by turning on the light, playing the radio loudly and generally making a lot of noise.) He would turn on the light as usual and look at the bed..but this time I wouldn't be there.
This time, when I left you at the airport, I didn't get out of the car. I had already given you hugs at home. We waved and smiled and said "love you". I watched you head to the terminal door for a few seconds and then turned my attention to moving out of the drop off lane. The road curved smoothly to the left and headed to the freeway exits. One minute I was with you and in another minute, or five, I was almost in another town! It never ceases to amaze me, how fast, almost instantly, a hug's length away turns into miles.
Is heartbreak that tears us apart
And yet between them there must be
Some necessary connection
Else the earth could never bear
Such agonizing deception"
- Translated from Rabindranath
Every time I left home to go to boarding school, my mother would feed me her most favourite food ever (or so I assumed), luchi and rabri - milk reduced with sugar and thickened to the point where the creamy bits had solidified. With tears near the surface and a lump in my throat, I found the pieces of sticky dripping luchi hard to swallow. It never did become my favourite food.
Adults forget so easily how tender is the heart of a child, how every rebuke is a blow, every disappointment agony. I conveniently forgot too when my kids were little, yelled at them for making a fuss. But now, looking back, I remember. My unmarried aunt, my father's third sister, came to stay with us for a month.(Hardly any of our relatives visited us in the backwaters of Kolar.) I don't remember anything much about the visit, only the grief (there's no other word for that deep sorrow) I felt when she packed her bags and just went away. I don't know if anyone else can identify with this ..someone is right next to you, touching you, talking to you. You get into the car or taxi together to go to the train station. Maybe you eat something together, laugh at a joke together. You're chatting even as the train pulls in, the suitcases are stowed away under the seat. And then, suddenly, the whistle blows, the train chugs out of the platform and - just like that - they are gone. Even in my teens, when I didn't feel so intensely sad anymore, I couldn't help feeling somewhat surprised, taken aback, slightly betrayed when someone left. Even when I had known for days and seen their tickets, it never felt real until they were actually gone.
So much leaving happened in the dark. The train, bus, plane schedules required you to wake up in the middle of the night, cold and dizzy, brushing your teeth with a queasy feeling in the pit of your stomach. The early morning hour made everyone talk quietly as if at a funeral. And, whether we knew it or not, whether it felt temporary or not, it was always an ending. You would never be back in that same place in that same way again. When you came back, something, maybe imperceptible but definite, would have shifted.
When I first came to the US, I was excited for myself (it was a new beginning after three years of post-college stagnation) but sad thinking about my parents. On the last evening before I left, my friend Kanta came over to say goodbye. As always, we asked her to sing. It was a dark and rainy evening, my mother stood by the window and hummed along softly as Kanta sang, "তুমি নাই বলে মোর সাথে, তাই কি বিরহ বরষাতে...". In my new apartment, on campus, I would lie in bed and suddenly see clearly, in my mind's eye, my father entering the room where I used to sleep, early in the morning. (He used the bathroom attached to that room and would annoy me a lot by turning on the light, playing the radio loudly and generally making a lot of noise.) He would turn on the light as usual and look at the bed..but this time I wouldn't be there.
This time, when I left you at the airport, I didn't get out of the car. I had already given you hugs at home. We waved and smiled and said "love you". I watched you head to the terminal door for a few seconds and then turned my attention to moving out of the drop off lane. The road curved smoothly to the left and headed to the freeway exits. One minute I was with you and in another minute, or five, I was almost in another town! It never ceases to amaze me, how fast, almost instantly, a hug's length away turns into miles.
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