There’s not a single person who hasn’t experienced loss (via death of a loved one) or wouldn’t do so in his/her lifetime. Who we lose and how … the situations differ and yet, it is rare to come across someone who has never grieved. Sometimes the loss is unexpected, or traumatic, or takes place in circumstances that change us forever.
We would like to thank each and every one of you who has shared or is in the process of sharing your deeply personal experiences with us.
Why should one do a series on loss and grief? For one, these experiences are central to our lives. There’s not a single person who hasn’t experienced loss (via death of a loved one) or wouldn’t do so in his/her lifetime.
Who we lose and how … the situations differ and yet, it is rare to come across someone who has never grieved. Sometimes the loss is unexpected, or traumatic or takes place in circumstances that change us forever. It takes time for us to acknowledge and process the impact of that loss, and how it has shaped us.
There are no tailor-made solutions or one singular way to cope with loss. Sometimes writing it down helps, sometimes sharing helps, and at other times, all that we need is for someone to listen without judgement and with empathy.
Swati and I wanted to do this series for years now, but how do you ask people to share some of their most intimate, vulnerable experiences? We have both been moved to tears while reading some of the experiences that people have shared with us, and one in particular.
As it so happens, much before The Good Story Project came to be, one of us had reached out to this person two years ago and asked if she was willing to be interviewed or write a piece on her loss. That piece finally came to us this year, and once it was in, we realized it had been such a big ask from her. Writing about such a life-altering loss is always difficult and more so when you are going to share it with someone else and open it up for so many other people to read.
I should know this. It took me several years to write about losing my father and how it affected me, and even though I could write about many things under the sun, every time I tried to put in words my father’s last moments and the last hour leading to his death, I would end up staring endlessly at a blank screen. Though my father was calm and dignified when it was his time to go, his death and the aftermath affected me deeply and writing about it has also been one way to honour his memory as well as acknowledge my grief.
So we would like to thank each and every one of you who has shared or is in the process of sharing your deeply personal experiences with us.
And we cannot take without giving. Therefore, I am sharing links for a piece that I had written in 2019 and also for one that I wrote in 2020. These pieces are deeply personal and deal with my own sense of grief; having written them for my personal blog.
You can find the 2019 one here and the one I wrote more recently here.
In the first part of our series on ‘Stories of Loss and Healing’, read Mumbai-based sports journalist Nitin Naik’s story here. Naik lost his wife to cancer in 2015.
In the second part, read Lakshmi Kaul’s story here. Kaul lost her only daughter to a freak allergy incident in 2017.
In the third part, read Darshana Shukul’s story. Shukul lost her mother when she was a child.
Continue reading the fourth part and fifth part of the series. These stories deal with the grief of losing a parent.
The sixth and seventh stories are about losing a loved one to Covid-19 and mourning a loss during the 2020 pandemic.
The last story in our series is on loss and what it feels like – 19 years from when it first happened and what one can do help someone who is grieving.
In this first-person account, Eshwari Shukla, a journalist, talks about the day her father passed away in an accident when she was only 13. She mentions how, initially, it was strange for her to see her mother in a white saree. Her empty forehead would remind her of the sudden vacuum in their lives, but, gradually, the mother-daughter duo became each other’s silent strength while coping with their common grief
It’s been 12 years. At times, it feels as if it happened yesterday and, at times, it feels as if one lifetime has passed. The date was February 29. The year was 2008. The landline rang in the morning and my grandfather got up to receive the call. I was around 13. I was sitting there, aimlessly flipping through the pages of a newspaper that was in front of me. I don’t remember very clearly what happened next. Those moments are still somewhat blurred. Sepia-tinted. My grandfather would lovingly call my father ‘babu’. Suddenly, while talking to someone over the phone, he started referring to my father as ‘body’ and not ‘babu’. He kept the receiver down. We were told that my father had passed away in an accident. The car he was travelling in had collided with a truck. My father was no more. It didn’t really sink in at that moment.
Soon, the house was full of people. Arrangements were being made. I could see stunned, teary-eyed faces around me. I could hear the hushed condolences. I was quite numb, but I could hear the conversations.
It was very strange for me to accept his sad and sudden end. Just two years before my father passed away, we had lost our grandmother. That was the first time I had dealt with the sadness of someone leaving this world. But my father’s death was quite unreal. People who had gathered in the house were saying things like my grandmother loved my father so much that she called him to be with her within two years of her passing away. Those conversations scared me. I was 13. I was not a child, but I was not grown up enough to understand the complexities of death or such conversations. It felt as if someone else was about to die that day.
The news came in the morning, the body arrived at night. Those hours were full of anxiety. When I heard a vehicle approach our house, my heart beats started racing. The ‘body’ was home. As it was an accidental death, a post-mortem was conducted. His eyes were partially open. There were bloodstains on the plastic sheet in which he was wrapped in. His body was covered with a white cloth. He was kept on a mat beneath the mango tree that was in our courtyard. My elder sister sat near his feet. She was occasionally touching him, probably to ensure it was indeed him. I sat next to her. I have never mentioned this to anyone ever, but I did not touch my father’s body. I just could not. There was a moment when a helicopter (a flying insect) sat on his foot. I touched his foot to shoo it away. That was the last time I had touched my father.
His death was so sudden that we didn’t even know how we were supposed to deal with the loss. We were just not prepared. I remember my mother would play Ludo with us all day long. She would read the entire newspaper … from the first printed word to the last. She was well-versed with everything that was happening in the country then. This was how she spent her days. To be in a zone, far away from the reality … that was probably her coping mechanism. It was strange for me to see her in a white saree. I thought I would have to see her draped in a white saree all my life. She stopped putting her bindi. Her empty forehead would remind me of the sudden vacuum in our lives. Her hands would look strange without the colourful bangles. She gave away her toe ring, a tradition which married women in India follow, to our house help.
There are things we take for granted. Until my father was alive, I never bothered to think about what kind of father he was. I don’t think about it even today. He would fulfil all my wishes. He bought me a Barbie watch and high-heeled sandals. He bought a payal for me and some makeup when I took part in a school function. What more can a 13-year-old girl ask for from her father? He was working elsewhere and would come home on the weekends. He was a little strict. But I remember he would tell me stories at night and take me on rides on his scooter. But, for me, he was just that … my father. It was nice to have him around, but I wouldn’t miss him much when he wasn’t. My eyes would always search for my mother. Her comforting presence was an important essence of my life. It still is.
After my father passed away, my mother moved to Lucknow. She had to explore ways to be financially secure. There was a time when I could not imagine living away from my mother. And now she was in another city and I had to get used to that. Life, as they say, is an amazing teacher.
I dealt with the grief of my father’s passing away in a strange, but mature way. I stopped taking part in school functions to cut down on expenses. I stopped wearing Barbie watches. I became a quiet person. I wanted to be with my mother all the time, so much so that I even hated going to school. As a child, it was probably the fear of losing her as well. To be with her, to spend time with her, to touch her, to hug her … these were probably my coping mechanisms. Now, I am grown up enough to understand the complexities of life … and death. She continues to remain at the core of my universe. I do miss my father. I sometimes wonder how things would have been if he were alive today. One thing though has remained consistent in all these years. My father would fulfil all my wishes. After he passed away, I have not asked for anything from anyone.
Eshwari Shukla’saccount is a part of our series on‘Stories of Loss and Healing’. Read Gurudas Pai’s story here. Pai lost his mother to cancer in 1989. Four years later, he lost his father on the day of his wedding.
(Disclaimer:The views, thoughts, and opinions expressed in the account above belong solely to the author, in this case,it being Eshwari Shukla and not that of The Good Story Project or its co-founders.)
Gurudas Pai’s life suddenly changed in the span of four years. He had no option but to face these adverse situations, but, according to him, those intense episodes of darkness were also the best teachers. What keeps him going? It’s a poem by Walter Wintle. Read his first-person account
The darkest moments in life are the ones wherein you see the person who you love the most go through an unending agony and gradually slip into the claws of death. What’s worse? There is nothing that you can do but to see them sink every single day.
In 1989, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. It was in the last stage. Though she was operated upon, cancer managed to spread to her lungs. To see her smile through the agony for our sake was heartbreaking. She battled the disease for 10 months, but breathed her last at the age of 52. I was 25 then and my sisters were 22 and 17, respectively. All of us pitched in to take care of the household. Keeping ourselves occupied helped us deal with the painful emotions. My father and the youngest sister would slip into depression if they saw the two of us struggling, so we would not bring up any such topic that would make any of us upset. We were each other’s strength. There was a great deal of sorrow but we would laugh once in a while to overcome the intense episodes of darkness. That gave us the strength to deal with the loss of our mother. Amma, I love you.
This, however, was not it. Life had some more tricks up its sleeves. I have no words to express the sorrow of suddenly losing my father, that too on one of the happiest occasions of my life … my wedding day. He died a lonely death just four hours after I got married. He went to take a nap in the hotel room, suffered a heart attack, was taken to a hospital, but could never return home.
My mother’s death had probably created a vacuum in his life which we could not fill. The weight of many responsibilities and a lack of companionship bogged him down. He was a diabetic. He was not an alcoholic, but he enjoyed his drinks, and occasionally smoked too. My younger sister got married in 1989, eight months after my mother’s death. I got married on August 26, 1992. The same day I lit my father’s pyre. My father, 64, was gone forever. Anna, I love you.
After his demise, we felt as if a storm blew away the roof over our heads. The situation was bizarre and delicate. The suddenness of the situation led to some conflicts in the house — I was newly married and could not give enough time to deal with the situation, my wife had walked into something very unusual for a new bride, and my youngest sister, who was still unmarried, was dealing with a lot of insecurity. My father had started looking for a prospective groom for her while he was still alive. So, it wasn’t difficult for me to take over the responsibility. My sister got married when she was 20 and moved to the US.
Adversities are the best teachers. I have learnt this the hard way. Losing my parents and dealing with that grief in a way prepared me to deal with the ups and downs of life in a better way. Hence, in 2018, when my wife and I parted ways after 26 years of our marriage, I was better equipped to deal with those painful emotions. It was heart-wrenching to see our children put up a brave front and smile through our separation process. Today, we are cordial with each other and my daughter’s wedding was a perfect example of this. At times, one has to live with the guilt of not having given a ‘normal’ life to one’s children.
Pain, separation, heartbreaks and setbacks are various chapters of life. Every person is wounded in some way or the other. What I have learnt from my experiences is to face your demons and make peace with the fact that things happen because they are destined to happen in a particular way. Acceptance is the key. Never run away from the setbacks. It’s probably the reason I found love again and remarried.
While coping with my grief, these are the important lessons that I learnt.
Always remember to get up and get going. There are people around you for whom you are precious. Identify them. Share your joys, sorrows and experiences with them. Be kind to others as everyone is nursing a wound. Never hesitate to ask for help. If you like someone, walk up to him/her and tell him. Lastly, be passionate about something in life. For me, my political activities keep me going. I am determined to make a difference, and I will.
This poem by Walter Wintle has always helped me deal with my emotions in a better way:
If you think you are beaten, you are If you think you dare not, you don’t, If you like to win, but you think you can’t It is almost certain you won’t.
If you think you’ll lose, you’re lost For out of the world we find, Success begins with a fellow’s will It’s all in the state of mind.
If you think you are outclassed, you are You’ve got to think high to rise, You’ve got to be sure of yourself before You can ever win a prize.
Life’s battles don’t always go To the stronger or faster man, But soon or late the man who wins Is the man WHO THINKS HE CAN!”
Gurudas Pai’saccount is a part of our series on‘Stories of Loss and Healing’. Read Darshana Shukul’s story here. In 1986, Darshana lost her mother soon after her baby brother was born. She was just five.
(Disclaimer:The views, thoughts, and opinions expressed in the account above belong solely to the author, in this case it being Gurudas Pai, and not that of The Good Story Project or its co-founders.)
Darshana Shukul, a corporate communication professional, lost her mother soon after her baby brother was born. She was just five. She still remembers seeing her mother lying on the hospital bed, pale and lifeless, and the strange deafening silence between the two. In this first-person account, she talks about how, while growing up, she wrote stories, sought solace in God’s grace, and befriended books, weapons that helped her battle the painful emotions of losing her mother
Life sometimes brings joy and sorrow wrapped in one gift parcel. Such experiences leave you speechless, numb, and empty. And, when such surprises are thrown at you in your childhood, you are left with no option but to accept the gift with a heavy heart and teary eyes.
I was all but five … naughty, demanding, and a brat … but everything changed soon after I was blessed with a baby brother. While my younger sibling arrived as a bundle of joy, the arms that wrapped him were that of my father. My mother chose to head to heaven instead of coming back home along with my brother.
The year was 1986. Memories of that day are still fresh in my mind even today. I remember jumping into one of the cars that was heading towards the hospital. When all the relatives got off from the car, I pretended to be a part of the crowd. And then I saw my mother lying on the hospital bed … pale and making every effort in the universe to hold on to life. Our eyes met. We looked at each other as if we were strangers and time stood still between us. I was too young to have a proper conversation and she was so exhausted that she could not say anything. But, in those silent moments, we communicated with each other without actually saying a word. In those silent moments, I promised her to be her Atta Girl! I promised her that her daughter will be a force to reckon with. In her faint smile, she knew her girl will hold on to life, a luxury she no longer had.
Life changed overnight for this little girl. For a few months after my mother passed away, nobody in the house held me or calmed me down. I spent months crying but, in my brother, I saw a ray of hope. He was my gift, the reason why I wanted to live. So, at five, I became a mother. My world had ceased to exist the way it was, but his world became the center of my universe.
My father, in the interim, got married. Being a child, I could not understand the concept of calling another woman a ‘mother’. One day, I was introduced to my stepmom. We did not connect. She was my father’s new wife, and I was his biological daughter. Even at that tender age, my instinct instructed me to distance myself from my papa. His world had changed for the better and he had embraced it with an open mind and a smile. For me, I was left to deal with life all by myself. I lived in a joint family set up. I think I just grew up on my own. There was no support system. Unlike other children in the house, I had no one to throw tantrums at. There were no wish lists, no fancy birthday parties, or a room to call my own. When I cried, no one hugged or comforted me. Even in those lonely hours, the divine force within me held the strings of my heart.
Then there was this promise that I had held on to … the promise I had made to my mother that I would be her Atta Girl. I started to write stories, build an imaginative world and sought solace in God’s grace. And then, absentmindedly, I befriended books. It was from here that my dreams began to germinate. Every book, every author was akin to my mother. The world of words held the reins of my life, my mind, and my dreams. My world started to reverberate with rhythm, verve, and vitality. The dimpled smile was back and, like a possessed soul, I took the world head-on … like a warrior.
I began to dream. I began to fall in love with the idea of love (thanks to Shahrukh Khan and his romantic movies). I made friends who found my innocence endearing. My teachers, both in school, and college were great mentors. They believed in ‘Darshana’ and encouraged me to appreciate my work. There were times when my answer sheets were discussed and applauded in front of the class toppers. It was in moments like these that my heart would swell with pride and life gave me reasons to smile.
These little spurts of encouragement helped me pave my way in the otherwise competitive world. From clandestinely working for a local agency in the initial years to getting an opportunity to work with one of the biggest newspapers in Asia, life was finally beginning to be kind. I felt normal; as if I belonged, and the financial independence that came along with these jobs gave me wings to fly and live my dream.
There was a time when my brother and I had just started working. We would go to small eateries near our office, scan the menu and order the least priced item. But we were still happy that we were in a position to treat ourselves. We soon graduated from this phase to a phase where we could enter a fancy eatery, say a Pizza Hut, not look at the price and order whatever we wanted. That gave us the confidence that soon we would start living life our way.
I am now married and so is my brother. I am reliving my childhood through my daughter. Her little arms are my entire world. Her smile, her hugs, and her unconditional love have erased all the pain. There are no bad days anymore. In my daughter, I see my mother. It’s as if she has come back to heal me. My husband’s passion for life and music is infectious and he has given me the stability that I had always dreamt of.
Life continues to challenge me. The rides get fiercer, but my spirit stays buoyant. Even the murky waters and rough terrains could not take away my innocence. However, somewhere deep inside my heart, a faint hope is still alive … a hope that I would meet my mother someday. I feel as if she is hiding somewhere and I will get to hear her, touch her and hug her. Perhaps it’s this hope that keeps the ship sailing. The real treasure of life is not buried under the deep sea, but it is right there in the boat that you are sailing in … it is the little thing called ‘life’ that beats in your heart.
Darshana Shukul’s account is a part of our series on‘Stories of Loss and Healing’. Read Lakshmi Kaul’s story here. Kaul lost her only daughter, aged nine, to a freak allergic incident in 2017.
(Disclaimer:The views, thoughts, and opinions expressed in the account above belong solely to the author, in this case it being Darshana Shukul, and not that of The Good Story Project or its co-founders.)