Loss and Love
Dear readers,
Hello! I spent a long time putting together the 4th episode of the podcast - Handmade Love, it is about love and loss and I wanted to share the text with you, along with the link. . Here it is, listen and tell me what you think.
Through Handmade Love we put a little more love in the world. As some of you may know I spent the last 7 years, doing what I term people-powered projects, I invited and inspired people to share their experiences around dating, intimacy, gender based violence, their bodies, their experiences of having breasts and their experiences with penises which in turn I showcased to a larger audience through my art. This year, I wanted to invite you who consumed my art into another layer of art making by not just sharing your experiences of love anonymously but also lending your voice to some of these stories.
So now you know, this podcast is made up of people's experiences of love that they have submitted anonymously. It is also interspersed with my own experiences. The stories have been recorded by some fantastic Volunteers and you are likely to hear a bird, the fan or the autorickshaw in the background because we are all novices in love as in this podcast and this has been recorded in our noisy homes.
We are discussing love and death in this episode and it features two people's experiences around love and death, one, on the death of a close friend and another of finding community when they lose their abusive father. They have been read by Aalisha and Neha Anvar.
This particular episode has been a profound journey for me, one that unfolded slowly due to the many emotions it stirred within. Since we are talking about love and death, I wanted to make sure I was being sensitive and I approached this episode with a certain fear. I'll start with my personal experiences of life and loss.
My upbringing introduced me to discussions about death, but it wasn't until I turned 16 that I attended my first funeral. The memory of this event is etched vividly in my mind. It happened during my cousin sister's wedding in Kerala. I am someone who is unable to enjoy wedding feasts, so post the wedding, I found myself back home and hungry. My aunt, noticing my hunger, began serving me payasam. That's when the news arrived – my grandfather's younger brother had passed away.
Setting aside the bowl of payasam, we hurried to their house next door. While I wasn't particularly close to him, I held a deep affection for his children. Though I didn't witness his final moments, the mental image remains clear. After the wedding, he complained of chest pain. My uncle rushed him to the hospital on a scooter, but upon arrival, he was pronounced dead. Family members later spoke of his "good death." His last meal had been at my cousin's wedding – a lavish affair. He had met with relatives, and then, he departed quietly and was spared prolonged suffering.
I recall crying copiously with my aunts and uncles. I can't forget the scene of my grandfather, weakened by a paralytic attack, paying respects to his departed brother. Despite their strained relationship and his inability to communicate, his silent entrance moved everyone to tears. It was the first time I witnessed my grandfather weep.
The chettiye manga acchar, or mango pickle, they served with rice the next day of his passing remains etched in my memory. I often remind my mother about it, but she would gently discourage such discussions. Her closeness to him meant she shared a wealth of stories about their time together over the years – tales of fairs they attended together, the treats he bought them, and how she mediated disputes between him and his wife.
Recently, as I sang an old song, "Kaayalarikathu valayerinjappol," she shared that it was a song he used to sing. Despite the passage of time, she maintains the belief that he had a good death.
While my mother discourages any discourse about the meals consumed in the wake of his passing, she nonchalantly broaches the topic of her own departure, subtly preparing me for the inevitable. Every time she leaves town, she meticulously imparts details about her gold holdings, investments made in my name, and the whereabouts of the keys to the safe. I struggle to pay attention, as it unsettles me, deeply.
Conversely, my father, whenever he battles a cold or endures more than two days of sickness, ritualistically outlines his preferences for his own demise—no religious ceremonies, a preference for electric cremation, and explicit instructions for handling his remains. While my parents engage in conversations about death, I often choose to tune out. Yet, the fear of their eventual departure haunts my nights and I toss and turn in bed. After such nights, a sense of urgency prompts me to appreciate my mother's cooking, extend kindness, engage in more meaningful conversations, and commit to documenting my father's life in a book.
My parents, in their wisdom, remind me that birth and death are inseparable facets of the cycle of life. It sounds simple, but the simplicity dissolves when death touches those we hold dear. When faced with the grief of our friends' loved ones passing, we grapple with a profound sense of helplessness, nobody teaches us about what to say and do. I've shared this poem with friends before when they have lost someone close, but the reception was not always warm. And I understand it. Despite this, I want to read this out.
When you lose someone - Arno Kotro
Translated from Finnish
When you lose someone
in that someone
you just don't lose the one
there disappears a whole miniature civilization
habits
words
customs
places
gestures
expressions
one secret world
dear and conceivable
in the middle of this inconceivability
it is the doom of two indigenous people
extinction
it can't be reborn with anyone
once destroyed
will stay destroyed forever.
(sigh)
Aalisha reads about losing a close friend sent in by someone anonymously.
https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/induviduality/episodes/Love-and-loss-e2djd5o
Having lost a close friend whose birthday is coming up, this struck a chord deep within me. My birthday is on December 14th and his on the 21st. Since I moved out of Delhi in 2015, we had a cherished tradition, we would have an annual birthday meal. "Are you coming to Delhi?" he would ask. "No, you come to Bombay," I'd counter. However, the December of 2017 kept us apart, and it wasn't until the Kabir festival in January 2018 that we reunited. It was during this event that he presented "Dastaan Dhai Aakhar Ki," his Kabir Dastaan—a dastaan that held a special place in our hearts. Though he had performed many dastaans before and after, this was the first one he wrote and performed and I had the privilege of witnessing more than one private performance during rehearsals, where I could interrupt and seek explanations, and he would patiently oblige. I admired how he skillfully interwove his own story with that of Kabir's. Particularly touching was the part where he recounted his mother's initial disapproval of his choice to become a Dastango, a storyteller. I could almost hear her saying, " "Tune na apna future kharaab kar dena hai." 'You're ruining your own future."
My connection with Ankit dates back to November 2012. We met at a children's literature party. My memory fails me about how we got talking but in no time we were talking every day. I was grappling with depression, yearning to be with someone who had moved on from my life. Nights were the hardest. He worked in the nights, I'd ping him. He'd say, "Tum soyee nahin?" "Nahin. Mujhe rona aa raha hai." "Mai phone karoon?" "Haan." He'd call, we'd talk, he'd make me laugh, tell me stories and I'd fall asleep. As we spoke, he'd weave in what he was working on with all the daily mundane stuff and gossip. I would eventually fall asleep.
"Dastan Dhai Aakhar Ki" marked my true introduction to Kabir. How could I not resonate with it and with Kabir himself? It had the perfect lines for my impatient heart, "धीरे-धीरे रे मना, धीरे सब कुछ होय, माली सींचे सौ घड़ा, ॠतु आए फल होय |" Literal translation "
Slow my heart slow,
Slow is all becoming ,
Though the gardener pours a hundred cans,
The fruits their season bide."
Translation by Farah Yameen
His untimely departure left me angry, questioning why he, so young, had to leave a life unfinished. Yet, with time, I found solace in his books, in Kabir, in my memory of him but i still avoid looking up his live performances, and keep my distance from his house, a stark reminder of his absence. Nevertheless, in my heart, he endures.
Like Kabir said:
"What is it that you seek to learn? All that is to be known is within you. All letters are within the inkpot, Not the inkpot within the letters."
Translation by Farah Yameen
Moving into our second narrative, where the storyteller reflects on discovering a sense of community in the aftermath of losing her father. Neha Anvar lends her voice to this heartwarming tale.
https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/induviduality/episodes/Love-and-loss-e2djd5o
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When the writer says "And as someone who had always been insecure about relationships and felt that people only contacted me when they needed help, this experience was truly eye-opening. I hadn't sought out help, and I'd always struggled with asking for it, "I wondered if they were talking about me. I wondered if they were scared of relationships and feel a little worthless. I say this because I feel the same. Just like the writer, I wrestle with the fear of being forgotten. I grapple with the fear of being forgotten by others, constantly striving to ensure they remember me. There's a sense of validation when people seek my help, but it stings when I'm in need, and they aren't there for me. This anxiety surfaced during my recent trip to Delhi, questioning if friends would remember our plans. Surprisingly, they did without reminders. Yet, my trauma-induced mind insists on anticipating neglect, as if I'm inherently forgettable. It happens so often
Sometimes I tell myself of this incident that happened in 2012. Fresh out of an abusive relationship, I found myself in Delhi, attempting to win back an ex who had rejected me. Alone, depressed and living in a non profit in Faridabad where I worked, I was looking for new home in Delhi on Flats and Flatmates.
I barely had any energy and finding a flat was a scary thing. I didn’t trust myself to do it. I remember how I mentioned in a post that I was coming from Faridabad and was looking for a house in Delhi and got a personal message from a girl with a very Malayali Christian sounding name who said she was in Faridabad and would be happy to accompany me in house hunting in Delhi. I felt very relieved. We were to go the next day. She had taken the day off.
By evening she had found a house but told me that she told me that knew the distress well and said she would still be happy to come with me. I was so scared to do this or anything alone, I didn't say no to this kind stranger. We met at Badarpur metro station, she was reading Where the Rain is Born: Writings about Kerala. I had read the book and thought it was strictly okay but I didn't say anything. We got on the metro, talked, ate at KFC and she spent the whole day with me, going from house to house, none of which I liked. By the time we reached Faridabad it was late, I couldn't go back to the village I lived in and she asked me to stay with her. I stayed. She made me some Maggi. In those very troubled times she made me feel I was not alone, like the universe was taking care of me. It felt so comforting. I want to believe I will not be forgotten.
She continues to be my friend and someone I met while I was in Delhi. She has had a difficult year and she says I often think of you and tell myself, maybe I can do it too. Look how much Indu has changed.
That's it for now, if you want to send in your story | or want to volunteer to read, look up my Instagram post , my email is bodyofstories17@gmail.com. And if you like this podcast, don't forget to share, recommend and buy me a coffee. See you soon. Bye.
<3
indu