How Does One Mourn From Afar

I am sitting at my laptop, flipping from one excel sheet to the next. I glance at the time. It’s coming close to half 5. Just a few more minutes, I tell myself. I put my head down, fingers begin flying across the keyboard as I swiftly try to finish up my work for the day.

My sister enters the room. I look up to see the baby snuggled up close to her. I smile, just a few more minutes and I can give him the biggest hug.

Then I notice the tears streaming down her face.

‘Thasni, vellima passed away.’

What.

—

What was I hearing?

It made no sense. Only hours had passed since our conversation with our mum. She looked calmer, more at ease is what we were told.

So what am I hearing?

—

I wasn’t planning to write anything for the next week or so. If I wanted to write anything, I wanted it be about my grandmother, about what a strong and kind woman she was. About how little I did for her, yet how much I knew she cared for me.

But the words didn’t want to flow right and so I decided to write nothing instead.

But today… I needed to write.

—

It’s been a weird few days. Over the past week we’ve been getting messages from family and friends, giving their condolences. We’ve had people drop off food so we don’t need to cook. We’ve had phone calls to give us comfort.

Everyone around us keeps telling us to take our time mourning.

But when the front door closes, and when the phone clicks back into place, the world inside this home continues.

My sister continues to cook the chicken for dinner. My father continues to work through his emails. And I continue sitting at my desk working through Excel sheets.

It’s almost as though we’re living a lie, telling the world outside that we are in mourning but continuing our lives as usual inside.

It’s only when the day slowly comes to an end and we all settle in the front room with our cups of tea. We begin talking. Talking about her, her final moments, small memories with her but mostly, how we wished we did more.

Is that what mourning is?

—

I haven’t seen my grandmother for more than 3 years.

How does one mourn for someone they care for so deeply, yet is so far away in both time and space?

Maybe it’s not possible. To mourn from afar.

Maybe it’ll only hit me when I land in India and we drive through the narrow roads to the last house on the street. When I push open the rusty gate and make my way towards the empty veranda.

Maybe it’ll only hit me when I take my shoes off and push open the heavy oak door. When I see the lights turned off, hear the pin-drop silence of the fan remaining switched off.

Maybe it’ll only hit me when I don’t see her chair and walker by the sofa. When I’m not greeted by the sight of her sitting there, smiling, beckoning me over for a hug as she kisses me on the cheek and asks me how is everything.

Maybe that’s when I’ll begin to mourn.

—

Or maybe I am in mourning now but I just don’t know it. Maybe it’s the heaviness in my fingers to pick up calls and reply to messages. To interact with the outside world with people who knew nothing about her.

Maybe that’s my way of mourning from afar.

—

Thank you my friend for reading through this jumble of thoughts. I appreciate it.

Please keep my grandma in your prayers.

إنَّا لِلَّهِ وَإِنَّا إِلَيْهِ رَاجِعُونَ