ow was I going to make someone else happy? I had been thinking over and over about calling Bhavna’s mother. As much as it was on my mind, it was extremely difficult for me to call a mother who had just lost her young daughter.
Yet, I picked up the cell phone. I was about to dial, but questions hung over my head.
What shall I say? What can I say to her that would make her feel better? What should I say so that my words may heal her wound? How should I try to console her?
In my mind, I was having a desperate discussion with myself. Maybe I didn’t know what to say but a few things were now clear to me. I was not going to say that we were helpless. Or that God wanted us to be brave. Or that this had been destined. The phone was still in my hand. With great courage and strength, a broken husband called a broken mother.
“Hello mummy, Namaste.”
“Ajay! Khush raho. Be happy.”
“How are you mummy?” I asked with great difficulty.
“Same as you,” she said.
“I’m completely okay.”
“If you’re completely okay, then I’m also completely okay,” she said. I paused for a few seconds.
“Mummy, you’ve to come out of this. Pooja didi told me that you’re not talking to anyone,” I said.
She went silent and I continued, “Listen Mummy, we all are very sad and we cannot help it.”
I was feeling helpless because I didn’t have any logic to reason with her. At the same time, I didn’t want to leave the situation the way it was by saying that God is great; He might have a great plan in store. I refused to leave myself at the mercy of some power, whose existence meant nothing to me.
“It’ll take some time, beta. Slowly, slowly I’ll learn to accept this,” she said.
“But Mummy, the way you are behaving, it’s not just slow, it’s the slowest way of handling something,” I protested, gently.
“Bhavna used to speak to me daily. I am trying to find my bearings but whenever I’m free, I miss her….” She broke down.
Don’t you worry about the void, Mummy. Now, I’ll be talking to you daily, I thought.
“Mummy don’t you worry, after sometime, we’ll get used to it. Please try to involve yourself in something,” I suggested. “Maybe in some social activities? If you busy yourself with the well-being of others, you’ll feel happy for sure.”
“We’ve decided that on the fourth of every month, we’ll donate a meal to the orphanage,” she said and her words reminded me how Bhavna had celebrated our one month anniversary.
“I’ll tell you about something beautiful that happened on our one month anniversary on the fourth of August. Bhavna had bought a cake for the celebration. This scared me and I asked, ‘Ma’am,
are you going to celebrate every month or what?’”
I narrated the sweet memory in detail and my tears started flowing. I had to stop talking to hide the pain in my voice.
She replied, “She chose the fourth of July for her wedding and God chose the fourth of December to take her away.” I hated God even more.
“Forget God and destiny, Mummy. It’s like peeling open an onion; the more we peel back the layers, the more we cry. And we’re not going to get anything out of it. We don’t know why this happened to us. But when things are beyond our control, we’re not supposed to think much about it.
Now, tell me, when are you coming to Delhi?” I said, in order to change the topic.
“No, I’ll not come to Delhi.”
“I can understand.”
“But you can come to Raipur,” she said, sobbing softly.
‘Mummy, don’t you worry. I’ll come soon.”
“Ajay, please don’t end our relationship.”
“I didn’t get you, Mummy.”
“You’ll always be my son-in-law.”
“Mummy, what are you saying?” I wanted to convince her that I had no such plans, but she added, “Don’t end our relationship, Ajay. This relationship was created through her.” I felt broken by her words.
I said, “How can I end something that was created by her?”
I started calling her daily from that day onwards. There were days when I didn’t talk to my mother but never did I skip calling my mother-in-law. I booked a ticket to go to Raipur for Holi. It was heart breaking to go to my wife’s home without my wife. But then, I was going for her.
❖
I had reached a point where I had completely given up. I was a man who had lost all hope and was nothing more than an empty shell. Every morning, I awoke long before dawn and lay exhausted and wakeful, with eyes closed, thinking the countless days I still had to live without her.
I decided to resume my office after ten days. On the first day to office, as I was all set to start my vehicle, I stared at the balcony. Tears rolled down my eyes as I realized that there was no longer the person who used to throw me flying kisses. Death might have consumed her body, but her soul always lingered with me. She continued to occupy the seat beside me when I took the car for a drive.
She accompanied me on my evening walk. She cried with me when I watched a romantic movie with a tragic end, sharing my popcorn. But when I realized the lack of her physical presence, life turned more painful than death. Sometimes, I wondered why I don’t meet with an accident so that I could find a place in the world she was in. Then, when I thought about how her parents had mourned her demise, I realized it would be the same case with my parents too if something happened to me.
My wallet still had her photo with boyish crop cut hair. Every day, I talked to the photograph, she was still smiling, as if saying, “Pandeyji, please get another photo. I have long hair now.”
Whenever I saw a couple walking hand in hand, it reminded me of the reality that there was no hand to hold mine. All funny messages related to a wife were no longer funny to me. There were days
when I played loud music, closed my eyes, switch off the lights and felt like I was dancing with her.
My mind was dancing, lips were smiling and eyes were raining.
All through the isolation, anguish and pain, I had two friends who never left me alone. One was my washroom mirror which dared to face my idiotic questions. It was the only thing that witnessed my tears and frustration. My second friend was her velvet pillow which let me imagine it was her. I used to hug the pillow every night and talk about the events of the day. I wished the pillow could talk back.
O
The quality of life is what matters
ne day Bhavna’s mother called me and cried over the phone. But I was unable to console her. I felt helpless. After the call, I buried myself under my quilt, closed my eyes and started talking to Bhavna.
“Bhavna, how do I help yaar? I’ll not admit defeat against destiny or God; I’ll fight against this. Bhavna, please suggest how I can help?”
I started reading the Hindu religious text Gita, but I gained only two messages from it. One, the soul is immortal and Bhavna would be reborn on earth; I appreciated this. But the next moment I found that we human beings are helpless and that everything is destined in advance by God due to some previous karmas. I hated the book after that; I refused to read it again.
I started watching motivational videos by Sri Sri Ravi Shankar, Swami Vivekanand, Shiv Khera, Robin Sharma, Sandeep Maheshwari and many more, but they failed to motivate me.
A few days later, Holi was nearing and I was to meet Bhavna’s parents. I was compiling all Bhavna’s videos on separate hard drives because they were priceless to me now. I played Bhavna’s last video; she had made it on our second anniversary. While watching it I noticed a photo in which we were enjoying a shikara ride at the Dal Lake in Kashmir. It reminded me about what Bhavna had said regarding her ideology of life. I remembered the conversation and felt motivated.
On Holi
Your wife’s maternal home is normally the best place to celebrate Holi in India, but when you don’t have your beloved with you, every festival becomes meaningless. The moment I entered the house I saw a big collage mounted on the wall. It had photos from her childhood till her marriage and after, and on the top was a quote:
Dearest youngest, will reside in our hearts forever.
Every part of the house and every article somehow had the sense of belonging to her. Now my wife’s maternal home had turned into a painful place to stay. At night, I talked with Bhavna’s parents.
“Papa I wanted to show you something.”
“What is it?” Bhavna’s papa enquired.
“A video Bhavna made as an anniversary gift.”
Now everybody was expressionless, as the person responsible for our every expression was no more. I played that video. I intentionally switched off all the lights in the room. As I knew what was about to happen, I lay down near them.
The video began with music in the background:
‘Ek din aap yoon humko mil jayenge.
Phool hi phool rahon main khil jayenge, Maine socha na tha.’
And the caption that flashed read:
Cherish the journey of Ajay and Bhavna.
A series of pictures were played one after another in a video montage. Bhavna had made a video collecting our best photographs. Only Bhavna and I were swaying to a song in the entire room with her invisible presence. All the snaps from our best moments in college – from her anchoring events, my mimicry, photos of Beena and our other friends, to birthdays, snowfall in Shimla, our honeymoon in Kashmir, our favourite places, karwachauth and photos from our marriage flashed on the screen.
That five-minute video came to an end with the following lines:
Forever yours…with lots of love, Bhavna.
After we had watched the video, I switched on the lights. Needless to say, we were all in tears.
It was ironic; just seven months back that video had been a reason for me to smile. Now it was responsible for my tears. Bhavna’s mummy started making her way to the washroom. I stood in her way and hugged her. We broke down and this relieved me. Bhavna’s papa too had broken down and he went away to the other room.
“Mummy, don’t hold back your tears. The more you cry, the lighter you will feel. You’ll be less burdened with grief and pain. When we restrict ourselves and don’t cry, we actually build up internal pressure. And when the tears fall, the pressure is released,” I philosophized.
Bhavna’s mother continued sobbing and then went quiet.
“Mummy, tears don’t help that much that you turn crying into a lifelong activity,” I made a feeble attempt to joke.
“I don’t want to cry, beta, but when I realize how short my daughter’s life was, and how she could not enjoy it, it breaks me…” she said, sobbing again.
“Who said your daughter did not live well or did not enjoy life?” I freed her from my arms.
“Now, I’m going to say something your daughter said.”
I continued, “Tell me the best moments of your life. For example when you got married, when you had your first baby, when Papa got promoted, when you bought your first car or something like that.”
“I don’t understand, Beta,” she said.
“How many memorable moments can you remember in your life?” I asked seriously.
“I have had a tough life, Ajay. I don’t have many good memories,” she said.
“Now listen carefully, Mummy, you don’t even have some good moments after living for sixty years and if I ask you how many sad moments you have had in your life, you might score a century. If
someone asked Bhavna the same question, she would have said she had more than a hundred happy moments and very few bad moments in her life.
“Mummy, she lived for a fewer number of years but not in terms of moments. This video and its every picture is related to one such moment and many more that she did not even capture, but cherished throughout her life. Please understand, Mummy. Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.
“Life is a journey; we all are born and will die someday. Some celebrate their silver jubilees, some celebrate golden ones and some may score a century, but life cannot be evaluated on the basis of the number of years spent alive. The quality of life is what matters, not the quantity.”
She remained silent and after absorbing my thoughts she felt relieved and said, “The only relief in my life is that my daughter was happy.”
“Your daughter will be remembered because she was always the happiest soul and she made others happy, too.” I sighed. “I want her mother to be a happy soul like she was.”
She hugged me back and cried. After that, she smiled and nodded.
I had been controlling my tears for the last few minutes, but now I went straight to the washroom, wanting to cry. I felt choked and my throat was dry. Desperately missing Bhavna’s hugs, I opened the tap so that my sobbing wouldn’t be heard outside the washroom’s brick walls. My sobs were masked by the noise of water falling from the tap. I stood in front of the mirror, twisted the tap, and crossed my arms hugging myself, imagining her. I closed my eyes, cried and kept murmuring in frustration,
“I can’t do all these things alone, yaar. Missing you, Bhavna. Why did you leave me alone like this? Missing you, yaar, missing you…”
But every time I cried, I heard her sweet voice in my mind, which said, Love you, Ajay. And you are the best husband.