On the 30th of June, a usual Sunday, my day started off by cursing myself for scheduling a barre class at 8 a.m. Why would I do this to myself on a weekend?
I check my phone. Half asleep at 7:30 am, I see a text from my brother asking if I am awake. I was surprised at his text at this time of the morning and didn’t think much of it. When I came back from the loo, still cursing myself for not being able to sleep in on a Sunday, I heard my partner speaking to my father. My brother and father broke the news to us that my grandmother passed away in the early hours of June 30. I was now awake, though I wish this was just another nightmare.
I am not good with these calls. I don’t know how to process such news. I went to my barre class. The whole 45 minutes I listened to the instructor and was present in that moment, not for one moment thinking of my grandmother, my late grandmother now, my Thamma.
I finished the class, drank some water, and booked a one-way ticket to Kolkata. A city that is synonymous for me with my Dadu and Thamma. There is not a tear in my eye yet.
I reach Kolkata in the early hours of July. I have missed the cremation. I hugged my brother, but there was still no tear. I have not processed this yet. I am also increasingly becoming aware of how guarded I am, guarded of showing how soft I actually am. The next day I go to my Dadu and Thamma’s house; none of them live there anymore. It's a first for me to be in that house without any one of them around. There is no one to pamper me, to make sure my favourite chicken and mishti pulao are made, or to ensure there are at least four different kinds of fruits in the fridge at all times.
I go hug my father, who lies on the same side he used to when I would video call him when he would make me talk to Thamma. Her side was empty; it felt like my childhood ended that minute.
I don’t understand loss. It seems extremely selfish to me. Am I mourning her, her life, or how she made me feel? Am I mourning the fact that I won’t feel like a child again in that house in Kolkata?
I grew up in multiple cities all over India, but my grandparents’ homes in Kolkata and Delhi are the only permanent homes I have known. They would always be in Kolkata and Delhi, and we would always be children in their homes, at 13 or 30. They were the only roots I knew I had.
Processing grief is hard and weird. In May 2020, my Dadu passed away. I was stuck in a different country and couldn’t travel because of COVID. I remember thinking then how mourning was so personal, yet I wanted to be around the community. I did not want to cry around them but just be there, in the same house, where I spent most of my summer vacations.
My Thamma was quite opinionated, at least with us; she and I hardly ever met eye-to-eye on anything, but we were connected. There are photos of her I see, and I almost feel like I am looking at myself. She introduced my brother and me to churan, ice cream, fish, and rice—basically some of my favourite things in life. She was a fantastic cook, and she made the best Benagli food I have ever eaten. For me, her food was and will always be the most authentic Bengali food I have known. Fish and rice won't ever be the same without her.
I am part Bengali, and with her, I felt most Bengali. In the past few years, she has been my strongest connection to my surname and my roots. With her gone, my sense of belonging is shaken up a little. I don’t know much about being Bengali; she made me Bengali; she was my connection to the food, the language, the smells, and the stories.
It’s been a little over 2 weeks since her passing, and I have laughed, smiled, and also cried since. I spent 4 days in Kolkata, and on my flight back, when I took out my journal and started to write, my tears didn’t stop. It was a good hour of crying, and I felt lighter. I have had moments between then and now where I’ve thought of her and welled up. I am grateful that I got to spend so many days in my 30 years of life with my Thamma.
I now light her favourite incense stick every day, and I instantly feel a warm hug. Kolkata won’t be the same, nor will fish and rice, but I’ll try to keep her alive in small ways every day and speak in Bangla whenever I can.
Very touching and relatable. Made me think of long lost loved ones.
So beautifully written ! Very honest ! :)