The beginning of this week slapped the euphoric joy that had somehow lodged itself into my existence after my friend R’s engagement-do at her local Guju mandir. For a second, I felt it. I actually felt tremors of something run down my spinal chord and it was good to know that I can still feel things (lately I’ve been forgetting how that happens). That moment of infinite joy as you see someone walk into the phase of life that they so desperately dreamt of for years and years and years – is heady to say the least. This girl was the die hard romantic even at the worst of times. She truly, madly, deeply believed in the power of love culminating in the union of two. So after a few fumbles and falls, it was nice to know that the universe does conspire to make some things happen – as they should. Bliss.
Earlier this week, I fell smack dab into two funerals. My old age must be gaining on me because I’m starting to find that viewings take a toll on my psychological health. I get there, I stare into tear filled eyes and I subconsciously place myself in their shoes. Size 8 or not, they fit. And once again, I feel something. This time it hits my core. Imagine a linebacker vs. a rag doll. Yup. That’s what it was. That’s how it is. I hear their wails and my unmoving lips wail like ventriloquists do. Gutteral. Hurt. Displaced. I peer into the open casket and I see familiar faces of grandparents passed on, an appapatti surviving the ride, a dad that doesn’t care enough to control his diabetes – and it begins. The eyes fill up and overflow because they can’t contain the hurt the heart feels. It doesn’t seem to matter who it is – I put myself there and I cry for them as much as I cry for myself.
Leaving sucks. Being left behind sucks even more.
On my way out of the funeral hall, I ran into a family friend. A strong Sri Lankan woman who recently lost her father. Sure, they weren’t on the best of terms. Sure, she didn’t even live with him. Neither did her mom. Yet, when I saw her. I felt her grief. Or maybe it was my guilt that came rushing through. Guilt for not taking the time to even make an appearance at the viewing. Guilt for not reaching out when she could’ve used the extra shoulder. And it hit me again. Maybe it was just guilt I felt thanks to the selfish me.
The ride home that night was filled with us four women freaking out. And boy oh boy, what a sight that was! Nobody exaggerates things more than we do. As we drove away from the funeral parlor, you could hear are unspoken thoughts – thank god, it wasn’t one of ours. Thank god, that our close knit family is still just that – close knit and alive. I do this every time I hear about inner city violence, or the sound of squealing tires followed by sirens, or my eyes glance through the obituaries. I think it – tinged with guilt, it smarts on its way up – but I continue doing it. I broke down a conversation that I had with my cousin at the viewing where she reaffirmed that very same sentiment in hushed whispers.
Thank god, it wasn’t one of ours.
I wonder what the karmic retribution for that selfish thought is. Whatever it maybe, bring it on world because I’m certain that I will think it again.
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4 comments:
we all would feel that and think that when those type of occasions come up. i dont know what karma has in store for us for thinking but im thinking its slight, since so many people, im sure, feel this same way.
it doesn't make the thought any better, but i'm sure we all think to ourselves about how we're glad we're not the ones mourning. try not to beat yourself up over it. it's a natural reaction. at least you're empathetic enough to feel the pain of those suffering.
But is it really about feeling the pain though? Or is it just crying because you're thankful that its not you mourning?
*shrugs* either way, such is life i suppose.
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