Prolonged Grief

Hospitals along with it's the forgotten corners with empty stretchers strategically placed there, will always remind me of my husband's motionless body. For a split second, I thought it was all a cruel joke. He hardly looked like a corpse. 

His eyes were closed and his lips were slightly parted. I shook him violently, forcing him to wake up. But he paid no heed. That moment changed everything. The sinking feeling of being completely alone for the rest of my life, hit me like a boulder falling off a cliff and crushing everything under its impact. 

Prolonged Grief; a state of still being in utter shock and disbelief over having your world ripped in two. You're basically an empty Easter egg without the chocolatey goodies inside. You have nothing to give to the world, except darkness. You're Wednesday Addams with a better sense of dressing. 

Prolonged Grief; it takes your breath away, when you least expect it. You find it staring back at you when you catch a band doing sound-check in a mall and when someone at work says, "Close your eyes and be grateful for just being alive" and my brain immediately retorts, "But why should I, a widow with a toddler to fend for, be grateful? My life is hard. I see fairy tales all around me and larger than life weddings, while my partner of 14 years just dropped dead. So no, I'm not grateful"

I have the best parents in the world. They have rooted for me every step of the way. But even with them by my corner, I feel shattered. I never want to be let down by another human being ever again. I've cello-taped all the pieces of my heart to never experience that pain again. 

They say time heals, they lied. They say, the memories fade, they lied again. The reality is, I'll always be the person whose presence makes all the lights in the room, go off. I'll always feel sad and carry the burden of my husband's absence. And that's okay. 

Life is not a bed roses. It is infact hard, horrible, abrupt and bone crushingly final just like death. 

Forward

A little over a year, since Riaan and I found ourselves in this new reality. My young husband's death, was equivalent to the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. In the months that followed, my toddler and I faced terrible side effects - physically and mentally. 

The debris in both our minds, will probably take years to clear. But we're moving forward, with immense help from immediate family and well-wishers. 

In times of crisis, it becomes crystal clear who your real friends are and were all along. Expect nothing from anybody. No one can help you, unless you want to help yourself. 

The choice to overcome any hurdle and create a reasonably driven life, is in your hands. While I've always loved working, becoming a mother and having someone to call my own, gave me greater purpose. 

I push through hard days at work, for my son. I stopped wallowing in self-pity after abruptly becoming a widow, for my son. Everything I do, is for my son.

So that's what I'm going to do for the rest of my life - be a mother. I'm not "brave" or "strong", I'm just a mother, doing right by her child. I've left behind the anger stage of my grief, for my son. He doesn't like it when my voice is raised and when I sound aggressive.

If there is a God who can orphan my child of his father, I'm sure he will give us something else to cling on to. Right now we're clinging on to each other. Me, a little more than him. 

Forward, that's how we must lead the rest of our lives. With or without, a father and a husband.

365 Days Of Grief

Close to a year, since I became a widow, had to double up as two parents, transformed into the Hulk; learnt to keep that rage in check (a little) and found my way back into the world of the living.

I died too, on December 6th at 4.30pm. And I continued to die multiple deaths on the days and weeks that followed. During those initial days, my baby kept asking me, why his Baba didn't take his suitcase with him, when he went to God. And then I caught him hugging that suitcase to sleep one night.

The more my son asks me why his father left without saying goodbye, the more I want to live, for him. One parent has irreversibly broken his heart. Psychologists claim children without fathers are aimless, anxious, insecure, clingy and troublesome. 

So I better be alive for his rebellious teen years, his know-it-all 20s and his back-breaking 30s. I'm not going anywhere! Infact, I'm going to hold him to his promise of making 10,000 babies - 5000 cars and 5000 tiny humans (his words, not mine).

My 2.11 year old shook me out of my lunacy/grief/depression. His scared little face and podgy fingers vigorously wiping away my tears, cemented my heart. Going forward, all my decisions will be cold, calculated and self-preserving. 

Grief is like an annoying pigeon, that poops on you, on a bright Monday morning. It comes in the form of management consultants who sit behind you all day at work, who closely resemble your late husband. Same clothes, same banter and the same sleep deprived, tired looking faces.

Then there's the short, slightly podgy, black T-shirt donning chap at the mall, who eerily resembles your late husband. Infact, my child ran behind this fellow, screaming, "Baba! Baba!"

I'm subject to, "Bring Baba back" and "Baba is my favorite" everyday. His baby-brain has wiped away memories of his father's motionless body. He doesn't understand the concept of death, which makes his grief so much more painful than mine. 

In the middle of a screechy, stompy 20 minute, toddler meltdown, he admits, "I'm sad that Baba is gone. He should have stayed with us forever" 

Grief, it multiplies when friends leave your side and when you're told to "quickly move on" and "forget". But grief also irreversibly changes you, a newer, more confident version of you emerges, because you have nothing to lose anymore. So might as well break a leg and unleash your madness into the world.

In the words of Rajnikanth, "En vazhi, thani vazhi"

The Physical Pain Of Bereavement

The pain of bereavement is not restricted to just the insides of your head. It travels all over your body. You feel it in the pit of your stomach, you feel the heaviness in your chest and you feel it on your lower back. It's like carrying a ton of bricks that you never wanted to hold in the first place.

Therefore therapy doesn't work. I realised this very quickly, two months into my grief to be precise. I had to bid goodbye to my very sweet lady therapist after eight weeks. Talking about it, wasn't helping. It was doing the exact opposite!

An illness I thought I had gotten rid off, came back to me with full force. That's grief. When you try and suppress it with forced laughter and piles of work, it comes back to haunt you as a painful disease. My colleague and work mentor, Shina warned me about this from the moment she saw me. I'm a living testament of her warning, "The pain needs a place to go. If you don't release it, it will eventually sit inside you and kill you".

I can't live for my child, unless I learn to live for myself. "You can't rush the process. After a year, you can't beat yourself up, asking why do I still feel so low?" adviced Mary, another work mentor, I look upto. It will take days, months and years, to feel "normal". This is my "new normal" now.

My husband's death broke my child and me. There's no undoing that damage. My child is always anxious and insecure. He keeps asking his grandparents and me, if I'll disappear at work, like his father. He expects me to not come back from work, just like his father. And he expects, that I will forget him and choose work over him, just like his father. 

I don't know how to fix my child, because I don't know how to fix myself. No team outings, no boozy sessions with colleagues and no amount of holidays can make me forget. My late husband slips into my head, sneakily and without warning. 

I thought of him when I went through an MRI machine last week. I recalled that he went through the same machine, one month before he died. I recalled walking with him and the baby at a local mall in Powai, on a Sunday afternoon, just before knocking off to sleep, two nights ago.

I'm trying my best to uproot these memories from my head, but they always come back to haunt me. These memories don't evoke joy anymore. They remind me of a life I once had and can never experience again.

I've been told to get married from the moment I've sprinkled my late husband's ashes away, into an obscure looking tank in Bombay. "Get married, you're too young", "Get married, for the child's sake", "Get married and you will be happy again" and the icing on the cake, "Did you not check your horoscope before marrying this boy? This tragedy could have been avoided then" The last remark was made by a fellow widow!

I've watched "Beauty and the Beast", more than 40 times as a child and have scoured through every last Mills and Boons novel in Madras Gymkhana Club's library. To call myself, a romantic fool would be the understatement of the decade! My relationship with my late husband was a Bollywood movie. I'll just leave it at that. 

Pain, it's completely physical. I don't know how to fix it, but I will fight it. I will stand up to it and I will push back. In the fight and the war against pain, I will always win. 

I've been cut up and heartbroken ever since my husband passed, but I've never allowed myself to feel depressed. In the first week of his passing I folded my hands across my chest and walked shakily through the hilly roads of Chandivali, wondering, "Who will protect me now?"

Close to 12 months since he died, I realise, "I, me and myself". I'm the only saviour I need, I'm beauty and the beast, I'm Rapunzel and her charming prince. I'm my own knight in shining armour. 

My Big Brother

My big brother,

Is like no other,

Growing up with him was both interesting and scary,

I was always a little wary,

Of all his whims and moods,

He has the most profound taste, when it comes to food,

Zomato and Swiggy have a ball, when he's in town,

He can bring the roof down,

With the everyday festivity of food and drinks,

In two blinks,

We become round, happy souls again,

And our clothes begin to strain,

While all of us lounge around and sleep with the food overdose,

Big B rushes to the gym, looking groggy and morose, 

That's his secret to always looking young and pretty,

While the rest of us remain round as ever, but hopefully witty,

If I have to be honest, I've taken him for granted,

But some of my best ideas, he has planted,

He is awesome, 

Under his guidance, you're sure to blossom,

A word of caution though, the man is full of ammo,

So try to keep up and don't be slow,

Today is his birthday,

So let's all wish him, on his special day.

Ambivalent

The perks of living at home,

Equates to being the emporer of Rome,

I doubt Ceaser, made as many demands,

As Riaan baby, wringing his grandparents' hands,

Such a pleasure living with mummy and daddy,

After bidding adieu to my husband's motionless body,

If this dreadful year, has a silver lining,

It has to be my parents, who encourage me to keep climbing,

No crisis is too large,

All you have to do is fearlessly take charge,

Look at pain in the face,

And command it to vanish without a trace,

All is right with the world,

Despite the father of my child, being in the netherworld,

I'm no longer a ghost,

I'd rather raise a toast,

To all that has passed and is yet to come,

So why be glum,

When you can choose to be ambivalent instead 

The Dynamic Duo

It took me sometime to warm up to the boy,

But now he's my favourite person to annoy,

The woman is a diva,

She's entered my heart and crossed complicated borders, without so much as a visa,

Together they are a force to reckon with,

A dynamic duo, with whom I don't need to politely wordsmith,

We're loud, we're inappropriate,

We scandlize families, that look prim, proper and quite appropriate,

You probably don't want to sit next to us for dinner or lunch,

Or maybe you do, because our words pack quite a punch,

We oscillate between reality and fiction,

We speak without unabashed restriction,

When we unite there is magic in the air,

I even turned my boring black hair,

Electric blue, 

To look brand new,

Sho and Kiron, Kiron and Sho,

My love for them just shows. 

A Letter To My Son

My darling Riaan,

In the past 11 months, mumma has been called "brave", "courageous" and "inspirational". We've just lost your father and we're re-building our life from scratch. I feel far from "brave", "courageous" or "inspirational". I live for you. You are my glimmer of hope and will continue to be, until my dying breath.

In one hour, it's your father's birthday. His name was Rajarshi Bhattacharyya and he would have been 36 years old today. I'm not sure what you will remember of him, when you are 36 and have kids of your own. Just remember, that he loved you and he didn't want to leave you or me. It was just his time to go. God has some maniacal plan for you and me. I'm not sure what it is, at this point in time. 

Know this, mumma will never leave you. I'm not going to drop dead in the middle of a working day. Instead, I'll drop my career in a heartbeat for you. I've done it in the past, just to give birth to you and I'll do it in the future, without a moment's hesitation.

I love you, more than your father. This is the hard reality of our life. Something I've already digested and something you will learn to live with and overcome. You will be a better man. You will make wiser decisions. I'll make sure of it. 

Ever since your father died, I've developed a strong liking for the great big outdoors. Long walks, hour long swims and lounging in your grandparents' balcony are my favourite things to do. Nature heals, like no human being can, because nature is non-judgmental and has a numbing effect, to the volcano of pain bubbling inside you. 

I'm almost healed now, thanks to nature. Almost. I saw a golden ray of light, pass through a dense tree cover this morning and it instantly reminded me of you. You have been that ray for me, ever since I became a widow at 34. There is no me, without you. 

I'm so grateful to God for having become your mumma. I love you maniacally, my darling child. You're the most handsome, almost 4 year old, I've ever laid my eyes on. 

I want you to work very, very hard and make something of yourself in this world. You became the man of this house at 2.11 years old. I know that's a very heavy burden to bear, but you've got this, because I've got you. 

Together, we can do anything. The world is our Oyster. So let's kill it sweetpea!

Love,

Your mumma 

Shina

I always knew the girl was special,

The perfect vessel,

To dump all your life problems on,

She listens intently, without a single yawn,

Her heart's in the right place,

Her personality is ace,

Strong and confident on the outside,

An empath and a deep thinker on the inside,

Who knew, she would be more than a friend,

After a decade, she has decided to lend,

Her ears and her problem solving skills,

Sans a fuss or frills,

A teacher, a friend and a boss,

My personal life may have taken a royal toss,

But under Shina's guiding light,

Everything seems bright,

Just like her luminous smile,

That she flashes once in a while,

She has opened doors for me,

And my little bee,

Just when I thought my life had ended,

She took me under her wings and reassured me, that life has merely taken a bend,

There is no end,

Only lots of love, light and positively to send,

Towards the universe and my inner self,

I can always be myself,

With Shina, my one and only,

Superboss, who makes me feel far from lonely.

Riaan The Menace

Riaan the menace, 

A lethal animal, deadlier than the original blonde-headed menace,

He can destroy spotlessly clean houses in seconds,

He is a toy-destroying, savage weapon,

A killer of peaceful minds,

A powerful gust of neverending wind,

That can't stop,

Won't stop,

You can cry, scream and shout,

He will still continue shamelessly, on his path of destruction, without a second of doubt,

Dennis had Mr Wilson,

Riaan has multiple Wilsons,

To pick and choose from,

Who are both overjoyed and frightened, when he comes sticking out his tongue,

His naughty face,

Never out of place,

Moments before something breaks,

And everyone shakes,

Their dismayed heads,

Swearing to be faster next time, instead of being at loggerheads,

With the master menace,

Our only and only, Riaan the menace.

Our Boys

Who knew, our peaceful house,

Would be turned into a mad playhouse,

By two lollypop eating munchkins,

Who've turned the entire house into their unruly, toy dungeon,

There's no reasoning with the two,

They can fight back, until their faces turn blue,

If I have to be honest, I adored the big one,

So much, that I manifested one just like him and created a little bun,

But when I popped him out of my tum-tum, I realised, "Whoops! What have I done?",

Babies are fun,

From afar,

When the little devil is yours and demands for a million toy cars,

You better be loaded,

For, having a baby means being eternally goaded,

By a tiny being,

Who will slowly and steadily have you agreeing,

To every unreasonable whim,

Let me assure you though, your happiness quotient will be overflowing from the brim,

Your house will always be a mess,

But without them, your life will be full of stress. 

Lava Cakes

The curious case of the decadent, lava cakes,

That Mohan uncle and I, desperately attempted to grill and bake,

Our efforts were in vain,

For the cakes did not moisten, despite turning up the griller's heat, over and over again,

So, cold lave cakes we ate,

With hard centers of freezing cold, gooey chocolate, which we did not hate,

The experience was interesting,

Our taste buds were left tingling,

"What are your intentions for the six lava cakes uncle?", I asked,

He replied, "I'll relish them and have a blast",

I hoped beyond hope, he would offer me a few,

But he greedily amassed them all, leaving me feeling blue,

Now I'm back to reality,

Jealously envisioning uncle's chocolate stuffed glee,

So many lava cakes for one man,

Does not sound like an ideal plan,

I miss those lava cakes,

Just like thirsty animals miss large lakes. 

My Beloved Aniyan Maamen

Aniyan Maamen, was not really our Maamen, he was our appuppan. The naughtiest of our appuppans infact. When we got married, he was very interested to interact with all our mothers-in-law. His sense of humour was wicked. There was never a dull moment with him around.

He told my late husband, that I was the naughtiest child in the family and that I must be handled with care. 

Ani Maamen passed away today. Like one of my kunjammas mentioned this evening, it's almost like Ani maaman waited for all of us to come visit him one last time, before he breathed his last.

Aravindakshan from Nallumukku with his distinct personality, his generous hospitality and his large, kind heart, will be missed everyday. 

Ani maaman's people skills were fantastic. He had a knack and a flair to deal with difficult situations and people, with utter ease. Bashed a car without a driving license, and drove on the wrong side of the road? Ani maamen will sort it out for you. Roadside romeos troubling you on their bikes, post college? Ani maamen to the rescue. Have a wedding hall to decorate overnight? Not a problem, with Ani maamen by your side. 

Yet another chapter of my childhood just closed today. My Ammumma's Aniyan has finally reached her in heavenly abode. May their sibling fights continue in uninterrupted bliss. 

You may be out of sight, but never out of mind. Our children will be regaled with your stories everyday, Ani maama. If any of them, have even half your sense of humour, we will know that we have raised them right. 

Happy Birthday Daddy!

Happy Birthday to the world's best dad,

You hate seeing me or anyone else sad,

We are exactly alike,

Our personality, our likes and our counterstrikes,

We can both talk a mile a minute,

But I hate to break it to you daddykins, no one finds our yapping cute,

Except maybe my son,

And your grandson,

Who can beat us both hollow, when it comes to nattering,

I'm sorry your prim and proper household is such a mess, with toddler toys and endless clattering, 

You've had to step into the role of grandad,

And dad,

All over again,

And let me tell you, you're doing a fabulous job at both, with utter dignity, grace, a little goofiness and zero complaints,

We are lucky to have you,

You've never let go, especially when things got murky, dark, messy and blue. 

Mom Guilt

Two missed calls from my son's pre-school,

Seconds before my presentation. Life is cruel,

I thought, then it got worse,

"Riaan is crying", said his teacher, my mind instantly decided to traverse,

"He is missing you", she continued,

I wanted to flee from my workshop and quickly discontinue,

The two and a half day event,

"Distract yourself and make the presentation, quickly put your mind out of torment",

Guided my boss,

The moment, I wrapped up my part, I called my baby, who sounded far from cross,

He was happy and content,

He was in no mood to vent,

While he can talk a mile a minute, my boy doesn't open up and speak his mind,

A disturbing trait, that leaves me feeling helpless and blind,

Time, something his late father never gave him,

I'm slowly creeping down the same path and it leaves me feeling grim,

I pray, he has a happy childhood,

One where he always feels understood,

That's all I want for my baby boy,

An abundance of joy.

Center Stage

The stage, my favourite place to be. Being the center of attention and trying hard to be the life of the party, are two obsessive behaviours, I can't seem to let go of. "Well behaved women, seldom make history", said Pulitzer Prize winning historian Laurel Thatcher Ulrich. I don't agree 100% to this quote, I agree 1000%

It took me a decade of being a communications professional, to make me realise I love people. No scratch that, I'm infatuated with people. Big crowds, excite me. Not only do I love interacting with strangers and dissecting their personal and professional history, I also want to champion their voice, drag them into the limelight and give them the recognition they rightfully deserve.

Thank God and my mother, for pushing me into P.R and Corporate Communications! Growing up, I was the youngest on both sides of the family. So family gatherings automatically meant I sang in front of large audiences, got molly-coddled beyond recognition and was throughouly pampered by all the adults and the children of the family. 

I was a hideously behaved little baby, who then grew up into a hideously behaved teenager and a woman. I'm loud, I'm rebellious, I'm stubborn and I'm opinionated. I'd like to thank my parents, grandparents, my siblings and my sister in law today, for just letting me be. 

Had these individuals not fostered an environment where I could just speak my heart out, I wouldn't have had the confidence to rebel at work. And rebelling at work is a great thing! You're recognised for your madness and for never sticking to the rule book. 

I get into roaring arguments with my bosses. Luckily, I've always worked with great ones, who give in to me 50% of the time, as they understand there is no changing me. I'm a rebel without a cause and always will be. 

Everyone has a calling and a place in life. A rejection somewhere is an acceptance elsewhere. "So stay sharp and stay focused", as my big brother always says. 

Naughty Baba

"Show me naughty Baba videos", said my tot,

I'm proud of him, for processing his loss, instead of letting these thoughts rot,

I pray, he always opens up to me,

Even when he's not such a little bee,

His mind has aged rapidly, in the last ten months,

He has decided to confront,

The truth of our life,

Instead of letting it cut into him, like a razor sharp knife,

He will fight this,

He will reminisce,

All the happy moments with his father,

As always, I won't allow his absence to ever be a bother,

My boy's got this,

Because, he has chosen to stay away from the comfort of lies and ignorant bliss. 

Celebrating You

"Our boys had a peculiar taste in music. So each time you hear their favourite bands playing on the radio, you know they are around. It's a sign from them", said a fellow widow ten months ago. I didn't internalize it so much then, until it happened to me - multiple times.

Last week on my way back home from work, my Tamil-music loving driver, kept tuning the radio and stumbled upon "The Weekend - Blinding Lights". It played for a good 50 seconds, until he finally changed it. I was stunned. 

The same track played today at Soy Soi, one of my late husband's favourite Chennai restaurants. The last time I went there I was five months pregnant with my very much alive husband. Going there today, was bittersweet for many reasons. I told Riaan this was his second visit to the restaurant. We ordered all his father's favourite dishes - Chicken Bao, Pad Thai and Nasi Goreng.

The minute we exited the restaurant, a Blue Ignis parked in front of us. The same car, which he drove for five years. It was almost like he was standing alongside us, in the blistering heat. I could hear his playful laughter, ringing inside my ears.

Another time, while walking through my office lobby, my colleague and I were deeply embroiled in a conversation about our respective husband's; the lights inside the elevator blinked menacingly. She just looked at me, smiled and said, "Yes, it's him". We exited the elevator, walked between buildings, came back to the lift lobby, still in conversation about our husband's and the lift doors automatically opened. They are not automatic doors. You need to call for them with a foot pedal. My colleague, just smiled at me, once again and said, "This is probably his way of saying sorry, for giving you a hard time by dying. This is his way of making upto you."

But my experiences are not unique. Anyone who is a widow, like me, who lost their partners abruptly, have had these experiences. It's their way of telling us, they're okay and they're watching over us. I'll take it. Today and everyday. 

I can't even begin to put in words, how much I miss him. There is a physical ache inside my heart that is permanently incurable. This feeling of emptiness will never leave me. All the professional achievements in the world and all the fanciest clothes, from the biggest brands, won't be able to fill this hollowness inside me.

I am learning how to live in the sunshine of your life, instead of the dark shadow of your death. The thing is, my foolish heart, is hoping beyond hope, to bump into you, in every corner of every room. Every cell in my body, refuses to belive that you are no more. I'm in denial and will be for a very long time. 

You were a beautiful soul, inside out. No wonder I fell head over heels in love with you, despite the long shaggy hair and the hideous body odour, thanks to your hostel bathing habits. 

Your son and I miss you. Everyday. 

Chennai, My Beautiful Misunderstood Chennai

Eight years. Eight years is the time it took me to understand what an under-rated gem of a city Chennai is. While Mumbai has ten malls in a 5 km radius, Chennai might have one or zero. While Delhi gorged on McDonald's and Nirulas in the early 90s, Chennai had Buharis and Woodlands. 

There has never been a dearth of talent from this humble city. Indra Nooyi, Sundar Pichai, Shiv Nadar, Mallika Srinivasan, Mani Ratnam, A R Rahman - the list is endless. The problem is, we're quiet, we're humble and we keep our heads down and just keep working hard.

As a decade old PR professional, my only advice to my home city, is to speak up, show off and brag a little bit about our achievements. It's about time, don't you think? 

Chennai, the fourth largest metropolitan city in the country. My darling Chennai, home to Stella Maris College, D.A.V Gopalapuram, M.O.P Vaishnav College, IIT Madras, Asian College of Journalism, Madras Christian College and Madras School of Social Work, which has given birth to some of the finest brains in arts, science and professional streams.

There is nothing we Chennaites can't do, if we set our minds to it. Why is it then, that "outsiders" hate our city so much? Is it the weather? (Delhi is hotter) Is it the people? (Mumbaites are all Salman Khans, with a lot of love to give, but from a distance). 

Is it the food? Nope. I draw a line when it comes to food. Not only do we have the best South Indian restaurants, we have been home to the most authentic Thai, Pan-asian and sizzler restaurants, before I could even step out of my diapers. So let's not even go there.

While residing in lonely Mumbai, for eight dreary years, I got violent anytime an "outsider", made fun of my precious Chennai. How dare they?! Chennai is mine and mine alone. Only I can make fun of my city. They had no right!

Chennai is a big city, with all the feels of a small town. Chennaiites are warm and genuine. The pressures of the corporate world, go hand in hand with raising a toddler. You are appreciated as a woman stepping out to work, with a toddler at home. Corporates in Chennai are big on family values. Something that soulless large organizations in Mumbai can't even begin to fathom or understand. 

There are plenty of opportunities in Chennai for ambitious students and working professionals, for the quiet stay at home folks and even for retired folks (like my restless 71 year old father!) There is something for everyone here. 

Chennai, where the traditional goes hand in hand with the modern. Chennai, the land of kutcheris and discotheques. Chennai, the land of masala dosa and Belgian waffles. Chennai, the land of freshly brewed filter coffee and CCD/Starbucks/Mocha. 

Chennai, my sweet sweet Chennai. I'm so glad to be back home, after so long. You will never hear a goodbye from me again. I promise. 

Grief, Through The Innocent Eyes Of A Toddler

Ten months, since Riaan's baba "disappeared". Maamaa looks "just like baba", when she's dressed up for work and maamaa will "disappear at work too". That's grief response, for a three year old.

Has he forgotten his father? No. Does he remember everyday of his life, that his father went to work in the morning and never came back home. Yes!

Babies don't "get over it" and "move on", when someone as important as their father just stops existing. It's absolutely impossible! I'm subject to "Tell me Baba die story", at least once a day.

"Baba should have stayed with us forever", "Baba will jump down from the stars and his die will disappear" and "When I die, I'll give Baba a pinch on his big fat tummy". My heart breaks all over again, listening to my three year old.

What a pity, he had to experience death at such a tender age. From the moment my gynaecologist placed him into my hands, I knew my boy was nothing short of special. He was a rebel without a cause, even before he was born.

My morning sickness, lasted all through the day and practically for all nine months, of my pregnancy. I survived on potato chips and road side chaat. He was born pre-term, at exactly eight months. My labour was sudden and super-fast, just like his personality. He can't stay still for a minute. He is hyper and natters endlessly through the day. 

There are moments, I catch him holding back his tears, little jaw shaking and tears being suppressed. I encourage him to cry immediately. The age old adage of "Boys don't cry", can be shoved up, where the sun don't shine!

I'm raising a sensitive human being and releasing him into the world, not a macho man, with a machine gun. That guy looks good only on the big screen. No thank you! 

As an expert on all things grief, I tell my equally grieving baby son to "cry it out", each time he misses Baba. Baba is never coming back. But Baba loved him. 

I know in my heart, his 35 year old father, is always watching over him. If that man had any regrets in life, it's leaving behind a child who was only 2.11 years old. That's his unfinished business through the end of time. More than me, he will protect his child. 

As for me, I'll always have mixed feelings about his death. What a sudden, abrupt and strange way to go.