Keeping Father Alive

Trying to make sense of the permanent void, attempting to find answers to the many unanswered questions, and striving hard to keep his memories breathing—how am dealing with my father’s death

- Jey Sushil

FATHER passed away, just the way he would leave the house every morning for the factory—quietly, without disturbing anyone.

Everyone must leave this world one day. Yet, we yearn to fill the void, despite knowing well it can never be filled. Father was ill. He wanted to leave. We all wanted him to leave. But after he left, we felt incredibly empty. Everyone wanted me to come (from the US) after he died. For no reason. Is being a son reason enough? I came, but my arrival did not feel like coming. It felt very shallow and superficial. Yet, I did everything that was expected, and I went back; carrying with me an empty space and a heavy heart.

My paternal grandmother died many years ago and that’s when I came to know that people cry when someone dies. I did not cry. Rather, I was happy that she died. She used to beat up my mother. I vividly remember one of my brothers coming to school. It was the sports period and I was playing on the ground. My brother asked me to come home. “Grandmother is no more,” he said. I told him to go back home and that I would join him after the sports period. I had no sympathy for my grandmother.

After reaching home, I started eating grapes kept in the kitchen. My mother stopped me. I told her I was hungry. “Eat, but make sure no one sees you,” she said. I did not feel like looking at my grandmother the last time. I never liked her wrinkled face. Whenever I visited her in the village, she used to hug me tight and cry, making me feel awkward. I used to despise her wrinkles, but I loved my maternal grandmother’s wrinkles. I don’t have any explanation for this.