“People love. People lose their loved ones. It is so distressing and hurtful for them to call closure. They will find their own ways and in their own time. Some later, some sooner.Some alone, some with support. Not without tears. Not without heart aches not without feeling loneliness. But at the end of the day they must. And the final call is made alone”.
The smells and fragrances are fading away in the home we lived for 26 years. I sniff hard to get the last lingering aromas of perfumes, au de colognes, after shave lotions, that he loved, and a must have part of his daily routines in the morning, after bath and breakfast. Bedtime meant a liberal spray of talcum, that he said was a habit inculcated from early childhood by his mother. The house is small. The smells hover over the bedroom and it is almost as if has followed him everywhere he went. His cupboard, his clothes, the things he touched. The pleasant odours has permeated into the very walls of the house. It has wafted into the car!
I first sensed the change when the house appeared to look a different to look at. It had become silent. But that was expected considering that he is not here now. Everywhere there is a sense of emptiness. The space has expanded. It is only me now. But over time our home started to smell different too. Totally different. It then dawned on me that I was no longer getting the now familiar wafts of perfumes, some strong, some mild, some intense, but always there. And it finally sunk into my troubled mind that the smells of scents colognes and powders were getting fainter and fainter. I inhale deeply trying to breathe in his presence. The aromas were most intense in his clothes cabinet. In desperation I open his cupboard and shove my head into the cupboard and breathe in deeply. Goodness! Its almost gone. I persist and spray some from the dwindling bottles into his very few clothes left behind. Almost all his clothes have gone away. Given away to people who wanted them. Except his blue blazer, the grey pair of pants, the blue shirt and Regimental tie. Into them I spray his last bottle of Polo and Musk. The faint smell refreshes the cupboard. For a while. But it is not the same heady smell. It has lost the body intimacy. It seems quite lifeless. A strange stillness also emanates. Mine is a losing battle. My head tells me to stop trying, my heart says, ‘one more time’. I have no more perfumes. I now understand what body chemistry means. I know that Couples living together in closeness develop this affinity to each other’s body auras.
My hands hang on to the cupboard door, I am reluctant to shut it. A deluge of memories overtakes me, and I can feel the rivulet of drops trickle down my cheeks, on to the lips and trickles into my mouth. It tastes salty on my tongue. Unknowingly I am crying. I wipe my tears, gather my courage. It is time to shut the cabinet door and say goodbye for the final time. It was not just the perfumes and powders. It was the person who used and wore them with such élan that took on a whole new personality and character and left behind an impression that is indelible. This was the person, I loved and who retuned that love so deeply. With determination I locked the cabinet door and tell myself, this is the moment in time to close this phase of grief.
“I used to laugh at him when he would tell me “dear girl, we have a great chemistry going”
The kind doctor whom I had visited at first had, besides counseling, asked me to google “grief”. What do you mean Google “grief”? I am paying you to guide and help me. I was disgusted and angry. My son gave me two sheets printed matter. The answer was well defined. Google advised that the minimum period for the beginning of healing stage was one year. Sometimes more! This was for me and so it must be for so many, broken hearted people out there, trying desperately to close chapters on grief in their own private ways. Calling Closure. I recently met some old colleagues, dear friends of mine. One amongst them was young when she was widowed. Her 2 children were small. Now both doctors. Her husband, an army officer was gunned down by the LTTE in Ceylon. (Sri Lanka). They fought the rebels with their hands tied down. He was awarded a posthumous Vir Chakra. We were discussing plans to see places, and as it was the first time we old friends were thinking of traveling together, we thought of the nearest place Sri Lanka. The minute we mentioned Sri Lanka, my friend went pale, and we could see her trying hard to contain her tears. She said “please not there”. We realized the faux pas we had committed. An avid traveller, she did not want to go to Ceylon. She said the very thought of that place, where her husband had lost his life, rekindled her anguish. She could not face it. She was scared and much saddened. Her wound was still raw.
A thought came to us, that maybe we friends, together could help her to overcome this acute angst. We were with her when she was bereaved. We were a band of close knit teachers. We had taught her children and taken special care of them. Why not all of us travel together, hold hands and help her close the chapter. Who could understand and feel for her better than us, her comrades Be with her when she when she makes a final closure. She has considered it. God willing, we will do it sooner than later. Beyond us no one will remember. He gave up his life fighting in a foreign land. Such is the life of soldiers. My husband gave up on his parents and siblings, who left for the UK after independence and stayed behind in this country, that he loved and fought to safe guard. A veteran of 4 wars since 1948. He did not see them for the next 40 years.
Maybe one reaches into the depth of one’s soul, takes recourse from that One Supreme Being, that transcends all earthly powers, and tells oneself that grief cannot be forever. Memories last, sorrows dim. I have lost loved ones before. I loved and lost my husband. He wanted to see his sister and family one last time in the UK. While there He suffered a severe heart failure and passed away. Crossed over to the other side, as they say. His wish was to be buried here in Bangalore alongside with his ancestors, since the time of East India Company. In a strange paradox, he died in the country where his parents had lived. We brought him back to be buried in the country which loved and served for 60 years.
It is now almost two years since. I decide one more time to visit his gravestone. I carry a big bunch of fragrant roses. I tell the driver to wait at the gate. I walk in along. It is a large graveyard. It is a very old one. Since 1850. British. Very few are well maintained, unlike in foreign countries. I reach the rather large tomb of his great, great grandfather, buried in 1910. I gently place the flowers on it. The huge Gulmohar tree looms large over it. The roots have spread out and look gaunt. It reminds me of a very very old person. I try not to look at them. In the months of April and May, the orange-red May flowers fall and cover the stone like a carpet. His favorite colour. I look around. There is not a single man or animal nearby or anywhere. There is a stillness everywhere. At some distance I can see the humble house of the grave keepers. I don’t see anyone. Strangely I am not afraid amidst these peaceful souls. I tread gently, lest I step upon a twig and startle them. I do not want to disturb the tranquillity, the calm, their eternal sleep.
The cemetery gate faces the MEG Centre and School. I cannot see the soldiers, but I can hear sounds of the MEG band playing a marching tune. They have a wonderful band. Most regiments do. The Indian soldiers are always busy. They are never ever idle. I admire them. It is late afternoon. The buglers sound the last call. The same last call they had played for my husband. A rare honour for a retired soldier. The ultimate soldier, he rests in near proximity to where he can hear the Army reverberations daily. He could not be in any better place. I am truly happy for him. Rest in peace Hector.
Gently the cold monsoon winds begin to blow. It carries away the last vestiges of the perfume from the roses. The evening is beginning to set in. I feel the chill around my neck. The rains will come and the lilies which I have planted there will bloom for a short while. I put my arms around the headstone. It feels cold. There is no life there. Life is to be lived. But on the stone, carefully etched are the words, chosen with much love and care by my children and their spouses.
Col William Hector Grant. AVSM. A great soldier. A leader. A teacher.
“From those whom you loved so dearly and who love and admire you always”.
“To live in the hearts of those you love is not to die”.
It is a closure for me. At this evening time, I must fill my life with whiffs of new aromas. Life is about moving forward. Not stagnating, not going backwards.I hear the command, loud and clear
In the army it is “Peeechyye mooodh.” Aabouuut turn. And “Aageeeyyyyye chhal” “Forwaaaaard Mmarch”
His last thought would surely have been” Jai Hind, Amen.
I turn around, towards the gate and walk forward to my waiting car.
As written and contributed by Sita S. : Silver Surfer, Blog Contributor
We sincerely thank Silver Surfer Sita for opening up her heart to share her story. One that we hope will inspire many who have loved and lost, to call on closure.
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