Astral Angel

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When I was four, I slept between my parents every night, scared of the darkness around me. When I was eight I slept between my parents holding both their hands knowing I might never get that moment again. It started when I was six years old, when my dad’s mother arrived from New York, I had never seen anything like her. She had “perfect pink nails”, which always seemed so perfectly manicured without a scratch anywhere, she always smelt of Christian Dior. She wore that pink lipstick, and her eyes, piercing, with the black mascara and eye liner. I used to look up at her and think she was tall, slim and strikingly beautiful. She always had that look on her face like she didn’t belong here, or time was moving way too slow for her in this country and she wanted to go back. Or maybe thats what I thought, she might have felt differently. I don’t think I saw much of her. I actually don’t remember her that clearly, but strangely enough I remember this day vividly. I remember picking her up from the airport with my parents and sister. We took her for lunch, I remember so clearly what she ordered. I probably couldn’t stop staring at her. Cause she looked nothing like me or my dad. She was so beautiful, even at that age, she looked so young. After lunch it happened, my sister and I were sent to buy carbonated water for my grandmother. Not long after that we were driving to the hospital, which my grandmother must have thought was completely unnecessary. And then she died. No one told me she died. My sister was crying , my mother was crying, my dad didn’t shed a tear, he made “the phone calls”. I then asked my sister, “when is dama coming home?”. Thats what we called her “dama”. My sister told me “she is not, she is gone”. But gone where? I didn’t understand. We were to drive home that evening, we did drive home, they first tried seat belting my “dama” in the front seat next to my dad, but I guess that was not feasible so they put her in the back with me, I looked at my sister and said “You lied she is coming home!”. She was wearing a blue nightgown, one of those silk ones which I only saw in the movies. She had cotton buds stuck up her nose, how was she going to breath? I only understood what really was happening until she was lowered in her bright pink saree into her grave. I was six, too young to understand, and too old to forget.

My dad’s mother’s sister, left New York and came to be with my dad as soon as that happened. She left the city that she loved, which was probably a very big step for her. She was one of those “cool” grandaunts, who used to listen to the same music as I did, who kept updating me with celebrity gossip, we used to talk on the phone for hours. She used to keep giving me sips from her scotch glass, at an age of seven, even though it earned her nasty stares from my mother. She was quite a “hottie” in her days. She was very intelligent, she was a second-mother to my dad, she was always there for him. I think she liked me too. For the last one month I was thinking, I’m more like this grandaunt of mine, than anyone else I know in my life. She was labeled as one of those “wild types”, never wanting to get married, extremely successful in her career, doing whatever she pleased with her life, knowing that she didn’t have to think of a second person while taking these steps, but her heart was always in the right place. She opened my eyes to a prison I had been born in, she showed me the extent of freedom I could posses if I bought a flight ticket out of my country. She was as confused about life as I am at right now, switching religions like she was changing clothes.

I was sixteen years old, and was playing the piano all alone in my house, they had gone to see my grandaunt, her brother flew from Canada to visit her, it was supposed to be a weekend of celebration for them. She lived all by herself, and my dad had bought an antique rajput sword for her, he marched into her apartment expecting to see her and her brother, but instead there at the door her brother stood with that look on his face. I remember that phone call…I stopped playing the piano and went to pick it up, it was my mother, after she told me what happened, I went back to play my piano, like nothing had changed. The next day, I caught a train to see my parents, it was “funeral time”. I remember when they brought her body into her apartment, all eyes in the room were filled with tears, the only agony I felt in my heart was my dad had lost another mother. It must have been painful for him, I looked towards him, there he stood, looking straight at her with dry eyes. When I rewind back to go through memory lane again, I remember my hands on my mothers shoulders as she wept, I remember a smile growing on my face, as I felt peace grow inside me, she was in peace, finally. She was no more alone. Before lowering her body, my dad kissed her cheek, and her brother followed, then my mom, and then my sis. At that moment I remember thinking I did not want to kiss her on her cheek, that was not her, she was no more in that body, she lived in our hearts now. Today I cannot remember whether I kissed her that day, but I remember the peace I felt in my heart. I know she is in heaven. She was the only one who remembered my birthday. Each time I see a pair of fair hands perfectly painted in pink and get a whiff of Christian Dior, I know I remember, I remember what its like to be hugged by both my grandmothers.

My mother’s mother, was admitted in the hospital less than a month ago, my mother stayed with her every night during her last week. I was there when she died, it was twelve thirty in the night, she had multiple cardiac arrests, my mother asked me to go see her, I wasn’t there to see her before she died, I was there for my mother. This grandmother of mine, my “aachie”, as I would call her, wasn’t close to me at all, she was very different from me. I chose not to be close to her. But I felt unconditional love from her, thought I never showed it to her, it was mutual. She lived all her life in the same town as I did, but I rarely went to see her. I don’t regret not spending time with her, I just wish my mother doesn’t carry around the guilt the she didn’t either. She had a glow of kindness, which she left behind for us to see. When I saw her being lowered into her grave, I looked towards my dad, there were tears in his eyes, and as usual my eyes were dry. I just know she is in a better place right now. She was an inspiration, they were all an inspiration.
Today I don’t have any grandparents sending me Christmas, Easter or Birthday cards. I’m not jealous of those who still do either. I never got to meet my grandfathers, but I did get to spend time with all “three” of my grandmothers. I don’t visit their grave stones. I don’t need to, cause they visit me everyday, they are the angels sent from above to watch over me. They are always with me and I will be with them one day.

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Filed under Elation, peace, tribute

Tags: death, family, funeral, life, loss