My very first reaction to death was anger. Anger at the unknown who had the right to decide when a life was long enough. Anger at the world for not caring the least bit. Anger at other loved ones when they either ennobled it or deified the one who passed away. My father was not a saint, he was not superhuman and he was not a perfect man. He was my father.

My mother keeps referring to him as the saint who walked with mortals. In reality, my dad had a pretty bad temper and a very big heart. He was a good man – I have yet to see a better one. But he was not a saint – he didn’t have to be one to earn my grief. He didn’t have to be perfect to earn my love either. I don’t remember being a very good daughter – I was probably the easiest to bring up though! I only wish I had been kinder & softer with him when I knew he was dying. I walked around with the feeling of a big weight on my shoulders – a burden I couldn’t put down, a load no one else was ready to bear. I knew he was dying but I didn’t realize it. A semi-paralyzed bedridden father was not an easy character to live with & I was one who would get flustered easily – but I was his best bet. I have an elder sister who stays in the Gulf and everyone knows that getting on to a plane and flying a few hours automatically absolves you of all responsibility. Of course there were calls and e-mails, but day-to-day life was so difficult sometimes with moments when you wanted to walk away from it all and couldn’t and anyone who was far away at the time didn’t get my sympathy. My younger brother was simply of no use under the circumstances. He probably was the favorite child, but indeed he was too young to be able to handle so much dying. The other almost-favorite, my sister, preferred to bury her head in the sand and think the worst at the same time – this may sound confusing but its true – she could be perplexingly paradoxical and only a complete idiot would feel at home with her logic.

But we all pulled together after my dad died. I wouldn’t have made it through without my brother who suddenly matured or my sister who suddenly took over everything. I did the work when he was alive but collapsed into a blubbering mass of emotions when he died. I hated everything. I hated that people whom I judged to be unworthy continued to live and prosper. I hated it that my in-laws didn’t even have the common decency to be present at the 16^th day ceremony because no one went 20kms to invite them personally to come on that day. I hated my husband for not thinking that very day important enough for a trip from Bangalore to Kerala. I hated my relatives who sat and gossiped in the corners instead of helping my mother to cope. I hated the neighbors who came to gawk and I hated everyone for being so alive when my father was reduced to ashes floating in the ocean.

The uselessness of death was another thing I couldn’t cope with. No one around us cared. We grieved but had to move on though it took me a year to stop crying at night and two years before the veil of hatred started lifting up a little. Death is private. Only the dying one is transformed – you are left behind. Religion was my father’s biggest strength and support – yet I felt that it failed him because he kept insisting he’d get better but he didn’t. His faith could move mountains but not his own little toe. His belief which he cherished for 28 years – where was the reward? Was it that he died at an auspicious time? Was it that he looked radiant even in death? Was it a reward that I couldn’t ever comprehend? Why did a 63 year old good man have to die of cancer? Why did it have to be my father?

The only people I felt like sharing this with had no such experiences to compare and they kept quiet. I had to struggle hard before something like acceptance happened. To keep silent and accept – the lot of Indians over the ages. Never question God’s will – He’s too big for you to do that. Never think that He is responsible for anything bad. All the good in your life comes because of His grace, but you and your past karma caused all the misfortunes that you have to face. If that is so, what are the odds of Him intervening to save you from your own karma? If He can’t override karma, why believe in an entity that takes only credit? My father couldn’t answer any of these questions. He felt that you had to leave your intellect somewhere else and rely only on faith to give you that God-experience that would be the answer. It might be true, but it takes a lot of work to detach your questioning mind and accept blindly – it also takes a certain amount of strength to surrender completely and await God’s will. I am not good at acceptance.