Kala - An Unfinished Odyssey

A post by my Chitappa on Amma...

“It is all over”, read Mala’s cryptic text from Chennai, that fateful Friday (9th September) when hope died. This hit in the plexus was barely registering in me, when confirmation came in the form of a teary-call from Sharmada. Typically, she was focussed on leaving asap to Chennai. We were in our private journeys of grief through the flight.

The unthinkable had happened. Our Kala had been snatched away. A silent blade that had slipped into her (god knows when) got discovered last October, defied surgery and chemo to prove fatal. While it had been a tough march since then, she had fought valiantly the considerable pain and weight loss. Also against pessimism, including from many doctors. Indeed, there was no hint of give-it-up-itis.  And she aappeared to be winning, with our support and to our applause. Sridharan, Archita, Latha, Shyamala and Mala, anchored by Amma’s anxious but comforting presence, had chipped in with sustained selfless effort and commitment, others rooting for her from outside. Immunotherapy and the Shimoga intervention started a few months earlier, had lent additional confidence. Thus, it had never really occurred to us that the battle would be over so suddenly. And I would lose one of my heroes.

Into the house, after a torturous ride, brought the tears into an overflow. The sorrow of those present was palpable. In the face of this profound loss, mindless functioning became the vocabulary of grief hiding in plain sight. First thoughts were uncontrolled sorrow and burning anger in equal mix. Anger at the unfairness of it all, at the medical system, at the doctors and yes, at the almighty, whose very faithful servant Kala was. Trying to find a meaning in all of this was shaking this very faith. A person's character is their fate, wrote a famous author. Her's parted company that day.

And yet, a mere look at the casket, serenity acquired a new definition. Gone was the pinched look of the past many months. Kala's face had filled up, with no lines under the eyes or on the forehead. She appeared serene, eyes closed, face totally composed and comfortable (not seen since her surgery last October). In her death, she had won a small victory. In the powerful words of Dylan Thomas: “Do not go gentle into the good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” This rage had translated to the graceful in her long sleep.

How does one remember Kala? The go-to person for the family and extended family in all actionable matters. Rajdhani Express was the title bestowed by her Bank of India colleagues in Calcutta,many of whom had benefited from her presence.  She was all that and more. She was a bundle of energy, action-oriented, will to chip in every way to any demand beyond the normal call of duty that came her way. Discomfort to self was a mere spot to be brushed aside.  Geography or demography never held back her involvement or efforts.

The bouquet of her involvement that I am personally aware of included: 

·         a ticket booking, a pick up and drop in Chennai, hosting somebody for you. 

·         stay and pick up of an outstation  elder  and bring them to Chennai (anybody, not necessarily a close relative )

·         hospital visits, nursing stays and related running around 

·         buying of books, payment of fees, tuitions to the deserving and  the not-so-deserving 

·         making and bringing daily breakfast for a pregnant, economically weaker colleague 

·         coaching colleagues for office work, goading them to write exams for promotion etc. 

·         taking  executive  responsibility in functions of relatives& friends 

·         prayers and temple visits for anybody you were  connected with (many she had never met)

And mostly, on her own initiative.

The tan-man-dhan mix served a wide range of people who came into contact with her. The shopkeepers, servants, students she helped, ex-colleagues   relatives, elders, the list is a long one. I learnt from Latha only this trip that Kala had practiced speed writing in Tamil and became an exam-writer for physically challenged children before she got grounded last October. Very few people I know, rejoiced and took so much pride in the achievements of others as she would. Even fewer are those that pray for such success.

There was not a pretentious bone in her. She hated hypocrisy and manipulation. Her trademark frankness and righteous anger often grated.  I remember (with extreme fondness) that many of my long conversations with her were high, on both decibel and disagreement levels. And yet all of it was quickly subsumed by the generosity of her actions which just flowed and flowed. The memory play list now stands cruelly shortened.

The one thought that brought a shade of smile into my face that night was imagining her coming out of the casket and scold us for the slipshod display in the room.

It is astonishing that all these traits are remarkably well-preserved in Mala as well. This thought too brought some smile.

In the effort to toggle out good memories, I recalled Anand's statement of 2006, which had delighted Kala. When asked whom will he meet first, on return from a long, overseas trip, he had said 'chithi.' Mala and I were equally pleased. She had mothered him during 2001-05 college years. I had never seen my own mother so affected since Kala’s surgery. She too had offered plenty of prayers. The visit that my brothers and manni made during the 10 days also conveyed respect to a noble soul and some gratitude for whatever prayers and temple visits she used to readily commit. Responses from other relatives from my side were also plenty. For me, these provided instant succour. 

The real tribute to Kala was in the wounded eyes and words of several couples who described her as their daughter (Mala too has a dozen of such claimants). This return from the recurring deposits made by her over the years in the ‘relationship bank’ account was but one indicator of the magnitude of loss all of us felt. A tearful Shastrigal (pandit ji) said he was doing last rites for a member of his family. Sridharan's, 'I have lost my best friend', was as eloquent as they come. Sridhar's reading of Kala's letters to him going back to 1978 was also cathartic.

For all this, Kala was somewhat reluctant to seek or accept help. ‘Sabra’ is the term I would use to describe her – prickly outside but all heart inside. This prickly and tough desert fruit gives sustenance to the living world around it. Like she did.

The great reality is that we will never be the same again. We will, of course, recharge ourselves from the fund of wonderful memories she has left behind. Kala’s children Akshay and Archita have shown the way with their courage and calmness, while learning what was it to lose their mother. She was, and all of us we were, looking forward to travel, grandchildren and pulling more people into her orbit. Yes, she did pack into her 59 years what people do over a few lifetimes. And I want to believe she is in a better place, but the heart rebels. I am reminded of a poem from a famous Irish poet:

We are sheep without a shepherd when the snow shuts out the sky.Oh, why did you leave us Owen? Why did you die?   

Oh why did you leave us Kala? Why did you die? Your odyssey was far from the finish line.

To paraphrase,

Dil ko kaun sambhale, oh duniya ke rakhwale?

Sivaram