Because she would want me to write this...

I don't know how to begin this. It's not one of those tales that starts with "once upon a time." And I am writing this not for reading pleasures, but because I need to, I have to. The waves of sorrow are turning into a storm in my head. I must let it go, and this is the only way I know.

Yesterday was a Sunday, the first one in years when I didn't have to call my grandmother. Well, "I couldn't" would be a better choice of words. I can call her number, sure, but she won't pick it up. And that, more than anything else, is breaking me into million pieces. Does that make sense? Surely there are a lot of things to be heartbroken about when your loved ones die. Then why am I most sad about the regular phone calls? Perhaps, it's because, she waited for me every Sunday, expecting a call, and I never disappointed her. No matter what I was doing, or where I was, I called her and she would pick it up with a world of happiness in her voice. And then there was the last Sunday. I dialed her number and found her phone switched off. She died later that night, without receiving the expected call from her oldest grandchild. Yes, THAT is why it's haunting me.

It has been seven days, and 10 hours since the phone call brought that news. No news at 5:15 in the morning can be good. It's not like she was too sick or that we were expecting something like what happened. But, somehow I knew. As the metallic urgency of the rings woke me up, it was the first thing that came to my mind: It's Thammi, and it's the worst news possible. And then came the crying from my parents' bedroom and my darkest nightmare came true. The two hours long drive to my hometown was the hardest of all. The following hours flew away without me noticing. I was numb, sad, and scared. I kept looking for a pulse. I sat there, beside her, and kept searching for a sign of life... Any sign of life. Two hours later, they took her away. I had to let go of her hand. It became the thing hardest of all.

And it took me another twenty four hours to finally gather courage - in want of a better word - in my heart to enter her room. Everyone had dumped their luggage in there, making it impossible to reach the bed. It seemed almost like a deliberate attempt to block the bed, to maintain its sanctity. I swam through the baggage and climbed up onto the bed. I placed my body on the spot where my grandmother supposedly had taken her last breath. I buried my face deep into the soft mattress, hoping for a familiar smell. At first, I recognized the strong smell of medicine, and then came the smell of dry dust. And, in the end, I found what I was looking for: A faint smell of my grandmother. It brought back memories... Memories that were supposed to be happy, but they pained me. That woman is my entire childhood, and suddenly she wasn't there anymore.

And it bothered me that I didn't know how. My uncle found her lying on the bed- her legs hanging from the edge and her hands stretched on both sides. There was no sign of struggle in her face. We don't know if she was trying to get off the bed or get on it. We don't know if she had tried to call for help. We don't know if her life had flashed in front of her eyes in her last moment. We don't know if she had seen our faces. We will never know the answers to these questions, and yes, realizing that caused me a lot of annoyance. But it made me think: Why some people have to know the cause of death? Does the reason change anything? It could have been a heart attack, or a stroke. Knowing wouldn't change the end. She isn't there anymore. Perhaps we need to justify death to accept it, because, even with thousands of years' experience behind us, we haven't been able to accept death as we have accepted life. Then again, the hard reality inspires acceptance better than anything else. One look around her room should have been enough to make me swallow the truth: Her presence is everywhere but she isn't. Her body doesn't exist anymore. No matter how much I want it, I will never be able to touch her again, or hear her voice, or eat something she made for me, or assure her that everything's is going to be alright. No, knowing the reason wouldn't stop the tears I then had felt running down my face.

Everyone kept telling me to not be sad, that she wouldn't like that. I didn't really believe that. For one, the lady was my entire childhood. She told me stories and made me fall in love with stories. She deserves my tears, my sadness. Secondly, I know this for a fact that she would love people to cry for her. My grandmother always loved the attention. And everyone crying for her was the mother-load of all the attention. Add to that the fact that she didn't want to live much longer anyway. She had been telling me that on the phone for some months. I always tried to help her with positive thoughts, but her voice sounded genuine every time she said "aar, Dada, aar bachte bhalo lage na."

As that memory came back to me, I realized that I can't call her ever again. And that, as I have already mentioned above, became the hardest realization to digest. I can never, ever, dial her number and hear her voice on the other side.

Update: I wrote this on 11th October. I am sharing this today because someone told me that it will help me get the load off my chest and enjoy Saptami. Well, it doesn't help. Not a bit.