Ten minutes, Thirteen Hours, Four Weeks, and a Decade

This post originally appeared on medium.com/@kannarkk before I consolidated my writing here.

When my grandmother died, I almost laughed. I barely understood what the loss meant, as she left us right on my lap, and right in front of God’s idol. A decade later, and a month ago, my Appa (father) passed away. I had presumed to be prepared, for my father was sixty-nine. Yet, on a calm summer night, I sat 8,728 miles away, wondering how I should inform my mother. Ten minutes earlier, I rationalized that people who go into a coma do come back sometimes and dad was young and energetic; All it took was a call from a family member to break that cozy bubble.

It wasn’t until we cremated my grandmother did I realize she wasn’t coming back. I walked back home in a daze and cried all night inconsolably. A decade later, I stood in front of my dad’s body on the funeral pyre and set it on fire as per Hindu rituals. As the mantras were chanted, I looked at the huge crowd that came to bid him goodbye. Unlike the hot summer night that dignified my grandmother’s funeral, pouring rain of the late monsoon awaited this funeral. Yet, it was all a blur.

When I realized it’s time, I silently cried. I couldn’t wail. My tears mattered, but not the manner. As his only son (and also the only child), I had to set the funeral pyre on fire. As the flames rose high, an ethereal calm spread within me. I was still crying, but calm. I stood and watched him blaze for a long time. Was there an invisible phoenix singing to let him go?

Somewhere after twenty-odd minutes, I took an earthen pot of water with a hole and went dripping water around anti-clockwise, and repeated two more times, each time with a hole made in the pot. The heat was unbearable on one side but the other side was cool as I was soaking wet in the earlier downpour. I slipped the pot behind and it shattered, completing the funeral — the finality of his cremation, the finality of his physical presence and finality of a chance to see him.

I walked back, bathed in the well water and entered the home where Appa had lived for most of his life. I changed my clothes and sat down for lunch in a blur. After, I sat cuddling the kitten I barely knew; it was barely a few weeks old, still sucking my thumb in want of milk. As the house fell in silence with the emptying guests, I sat there waiting for the pain to come, just like the realization ten years ago. But nothing happened- Why did death suddenly feel anti-climactic despite the finality?

A decade earlier, I was a teen excited to know the world, and my grandmother’s death was a window to an inevitability that I barely understood. Little did I know then that death and dying would become a background app that I would worry about consuming my life. And yet, those ten years prepared me in some sorts; I became hyper-rational in the thirteen hours that I was in SF before flying home.

Being so far away from all of it helped. The ten minutes between the two calls ticked the brain into asking What do I do? When should I leave? What do I need? Who do I reach out to? I packed my bag; I notified immigration, my manager, my employee success business partner, and Salesforce tracking system. I kept the plants in the living room and left a note to water them. I threw out the take out food and groceries I had bought that evening and washed the utensils. I tried to sleep at four in the morning and no sleep would come — what do I do next? I took a shower and left to work at seven for I couldn’t stay at home. I took a few printouts before sorting out my flight ticket. I met my cousin to collect an important travel document that I’d need while coming back to the US. And then, I finally left to the airport.

As I requested to skip the line at the check-in counter, I felt the emotions overwhelm as I uttered the words, my father passed away and I am traveling to India. Could I please skip the line? As I waited at baggage claim, I met a grad school friend who was traveling on the same plane. I felt a blur as I informed him the actual reason I was traveling home. I was a wreck through the flight, but little did I know the pain was yet to come in forms I couldn’t have imagined, couldn’t have prepared for, and couldn’t have prevented.

The fifteen-year-old me would not have known what death was when Appa mentioned that he had fainted on the farm. Though it put a tiny worm in my head that would poke around often, I never ventured into the crazy of what would happen after — the funeral, the life after, and the struggles. In retrospect, Appa kindly shielded us from the various gruesome aspects of grandmother’s funeral. There was nothing to hide behind this time though.

A decade since then, I’d burn my father the morning I arrived at home. I would pick his bones on the seventh day and immerse the ashes in a nearby brook. I’d pick and recognize the teeth and femur, while the rest went beyond my forgotten tenth-grade biology skills. I’d bury a set of bones while purify and retain the other set for a process to be completed in Kashi (or equivalent).

As the clock ticks to 10:12 pm, I am nervous. Four weeks ago, I had just analyzed my workout of the day and posted a chart on Instagram. I was still sitting at the dinner table when the call came. Today, I almost repeated the same conditioning workout (or rather it was eerily similar). I awkwardly hesitate to analyze today’s workout. Rationally, it makes absolutely zero sense. While the rest of the usual life seems jarring, the striking similarity upsets me more at this time.

While I don’t believe in superstitions, two recent examples confound me. As I desperately tried to catch a wink the night before I traveled home, I heard my father’s voice just calling me out. Was it my mind processing a simple call based on thousands of his utterances of my name? As strange as it still sounds, it was a lullaby putting me to sleep, at least for an hour. As his body burnt, I found a calm that beckoned me to stay. It was as though a phoenix was singing to ease the transition to the new world without him — a thought I cannot explain on any other basis apart from sleep-deprivation.

Where do I go from this? I expected the pain to be ripped off in one go, and yet waves come and go — some invisible, and some hidden to the world and yet extremely apparent. I expected to come to terms with the passing and yet each day I feel like he is still here and I completed someone else’s funeral. Life still is a blur, a jarring misfit and a harsh penalty lost in a football game. Yet, as I looked at my mother one last time before heading back to SF, I was reminded of what happiness truly meant — “Happiness can be found in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light.” (JKR, HP & PoA). I was leaving my happiness behind, and yet, it still felt the right way ahead; It was as though Felix was shining a lantern to a familiar path of distance and separation and you had no choice but to trust Felix.

Getting back to CrossFit brings back some sanity. Writing this post prevents me from turning inward. The double shot coffee in the morning brings back life. And life moves on just like the clock that just struck eleven; I skipped 10:12 pm and there is no regret.