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Thursday, August 21, 2008


The <http://rajivndesai.blogspot.com/2008/08/karmayogi-hall-of-fame.html>
Karmayogi Hall of Fame 


An Obituary for My Mother

It is four months to the day my mother died. I miss her comforting presence.
What strikes me is life goes on as if nothing happened. Hello World, I often
say to myself, my Mom's gone; show a little concern, some respect, and some
grief. Relentlessly though, things grind on and she is consigned to be a
fading memory in the minds of those who knew and loved her. How easily we
are reconciled to the passing of a loved one!

My Mom was difficult to love; she had a way with guilt. Whenever she came
with my Dad to visit us in Chicago or in Delhi, she always made me feel I
did not spend enough time with her. In some way, her complaint was
legitimate because we lead busy lives: long hours at work, many social
engagements and many friends to visit and to entertain. I refused to take
her guilt trip, which made her angry. Within days of landing in our house,
she would start up about going back to her home in Ahmedabad. My Dad was
always the fall guy, coming into my study with wads of banknotes, asking me
to book their tickets back.

Four months ago, when she died holding hands with me, I felt bereft. I
didn't cry or anything but just felt a deep gash in my heart. For some
reason, we believe mothers are immortal and they will always be there to
remind you of your checkered youth and then, after they have layered you
with guilt, to comfort you. When you come to think of it, they are immortal
because everyday of your life something happens to remind you of your
mother. In many ways, grief is important; it helps you come to terms with
the loss.

My problem is my 88-year old Dad, who suffers from Alzheimer's. A few days
after my Mom's death, he came to me, looking distraught. "You know, I feel
helpless. My mother just died and I did not have enough money to give her
the best medical care," he said to me. It is true that his mother also died
of cancer in 1966 and he may have felt as an upright government official
that he could not provide the care she needed. I was devastated. I realized
then that the major outlet of my grief, to share the loss with my father,
was denied to me.

Sadly thus, my grief has remained bottled up in some obscure corner of my
mind. I could become a psycho like Anthony Perkins in the Hitchcock movie of
the same name and end up as a mass murderer or a suicide bomber. No, let me
hasten to add, it's not about to happen. The point is it's important to
express grief and while I have a hugely supportive family, I have no way to
commiserate with my Dad. As such, we are the principals and yet we can't
share the emotions of the loss.

Apart from the dementia, my Dad is a fairly healthy fellow with no aches and
pains and a zest for life. When he turned 75, he told my daughters he still
had at least 25 years to go. Amazingly, he's more than half the way there.
He just needs 12 more for his century. Even today, in a state of dementia,
he tells us he did well at school, was highly respected in his job and
exercised relentlessly, so there's no reason why he should not live to be a
hundred.

Though it is difficult to get through to his Alzheimer's blocked mind, I can
say with pride and confidence that he is the progenitor of my sunny
worldview. Many friends say that I am wildly optimistic in a righteous sort
of way. I consider it a compliment and have only now learned to attribute it
to my father. His memory is compromised but he has the heart and soul of a
40-year old; he frequently says that. And he will live to be a hundred or
even more.

He now lives with us. He is doubly troubled: dementia as well as a the
dysfunction of a displaced person. We brought him with my mother from their
home in Ahmedabad in March this year. My mother died and he has no way to go
back to his comfortable life in the house he's lived in since the 1960s. He
is unsettled and still lives out of a suitcase. We just have to deal with it
and can only hope he stays independently fit.

I've never been big on yoga and Hinduism. But if ever there was a Karmayogi
contest, please welcome my Dad to the Hall of Fame.

copyright rajiv desai 2008

 
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