The Many Shades of Grief: Losing a Friend

How does one deal with the passing of a friend? It's been 11 years since S passed, we are still figuring out. But there are strange consequences of death and S's had a few too.

Bhaja Muger Dal (a classic Bengali dish of roasted yellow lentils) became a part of my regular meal after October 2012. This is not as flippant as it sounds (especially here). This was the consequence of the death of S, my dear friend, in 2012. One of the consequences, at least. And this is one of the many, many, many things I remember him and Thaamu by.

***

S died in his sleep on 2nd Oct 2012. He was about 34. When I received the call, it was around mid afternoon and I was just pulling into the parking lot of an exhibition hall in Central Delhi. I was just marvelling at the open space and easy parking when A at the other end of the phone said “S died”.

I parked. Pulled the hand brake. Unfastened the seat belt. And pressing the phone harder to my ear asked “Who S?”

It took me a few seconds to understand the enormity of those words. I imagine my ears were flaming red; they were certainly hot. Iron hot. My head was about to explode; sweat began to break out on my forehead. And it felt that my stomach (and I imagine every other organ of my body) had been put through a wringer.

He continued “We will pick you up from home”. I mumbled some estimated time. And while my head was still spinning, I started reversing the car from the parking. At that moment, I could barely remember how to drive a car.

I Braked. Accelerated. Braked again. Shifted gears. Accelerated.

I stopped a couple of times on the side of the main road on the way from Aga Khan Hall to Mayur Vihar.

First time I stopped to cry.

Hold my trembling hands and cry.

Hold my trembling hands, cry, and understand where exactly I was on the map.

The second time I stopped, I was smiling through my tears. ‘This is a practical joke. Today is a holiday and this is some cheap joke and A and S are in on it. Has to be.”

New house-housewarming party-national holiday.

For the next 15 minutes that I was on the road, I had convinced myself it was a practical joke. I don’t remember traffic on the way.

I reached home. A was waiting in the car with his wife. His eyes were red. He had cried. I reassured him, “this could just be a joke”. I sat in his car. I don’t think much was spoken but I did say a couple of times “it is a bad joke and I will beat him up”.

***

We reached the end of S’s road in Noida. My ‘practical joke’ theory shattered in to a thousand pieces. As we walked those 50 metres, faces of friends and relatives (we had met at parties and dinners at S’s house) started to become clear. The faces had cried. The faces were in a daze. The faces were grappling with death. I could feel my heart get heavier with every leaden step. And this heavy heart was pounding against the rib cage. It was so loud and deafening, it drowned the ambient noise!

We walked in and on the right in the drawing area was S. In a freezer box in a pair of corduroy’s I think. Or was it a corduroy shirt? I think it was something blue. He seemed fast asleep. I was still hoping he would open his eyes and say ‘Gotcha’.

It was heart breaking at so many levels. There were pockets of sobs, of silence, and of murmurs (of disbelief). Thaamu, S’s mom, sat on a chair in the dining room. Vacant eyes.

C, his wife sat next to the box. She had just arrived from her parent’s home where she was attending a wedding over the long weekend. Our sadness and shock was nothing in front of hers. NOTHING.

We were imposters in that very moment (and every moment, hereon) of her grief!

Through the evening, we moved in and out of different rooms and spaces to understand, grasp and deal with what had happened. S had had his usual drink at night and perhaps worked into the wee hours. He was designing a book cover. The deadline was near. At some point he left. He left behind his mum, wife, and a daughter. T was a year and nine months old then.

***

S was my good friend. Not my best buddy but a good friend. He was a brilliant photographer.

During the Kumbh in 2010, S and I went around the lanes of Haridwar & Dehradun (and inside homes) clicking photos. This was my tutorial weekend. Photos: Author

I didn’t know what I was supposed to do or what I was supposed to say or if my being around would mean anything or would it just be more hurtful. I don’t know if it was the fear of death, some form of survivors guilt, or a sense of responsibility that I wanted to be around.

I remember talking to my boss back then who said — “Be there. It is not about you. It is about them.”

***

I was there, practically every second day. They let me into their lives. They adopted me.

My frequent visits meant I was there either for lunch or dinner. And Thaamu knew exactly how much I loved food. And this is when Bhaja Muger Dal, which was so integral to every meal at S’s, became a regular at my home.

Thaamu gave me her recipe. Which was to roast the moong dal and wash it with one water before cooking it with some grated ginger, a few peppercorns, a cinnamon stick (and of course turmeric and salt); temper with ghee and cumin and garnish with finely chopped green chilies and coriander.

She would make sure there were at least two varieties of vegetables, some chicken, some fish, rice, curd. Even if there were two pieces of potol left it would be brought out for me. She ensured that everything that I liked was served.

There has to be so much love in somebody to take care of others despite insurmountable, incomparable, unconsolable loss!

Thaamu passed away four years after S’s passing. Also in October. When I met her in March 2016, for her birthday, I almost knew deep inside of me that this was the last I was seeing of her. Her will to fight was missing.

A few months later she left for Chennai. She died in Chennai. I didn’t see her in the end and somewhere I still believe that she will come back. That she is around, somewhere.

I miss her cooking. It is another matter that I could get to the dining table only after being scolded for being late. “Savvy you are always late”, she would always say.

I was never on time.

This annoyed S to no end. I was never on time to pick him up for office. I was never on time for dinner.

Never.

He on the other hand, was always before time.

Always.

***

A version of this piece was what I had sent when I wanted to enrol for the Ochre Sky Writing workshop. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's Notes On Grief gave me the courage to publish it. I hope to write more on grief and the strange consequences of death and loss.