Women’s Web is saying Goodbye! Please make sure you read this important notification.
Women are not permitted many things in our society. This woman had to fight for her right to perform the last rites for her father. #GoodwynTea contest winning entry.
This month, we invited you, our readers, to participate in the writing contest sponsored by Goodwyn Tea. You had to write a story either fiction/real, in response to the cue: “A woman is like a tea bag; you never know how strong she is until she’s in hot water.” A quote attributed to Eleanor Roosevelt.
Here is the first winning entry, by Pooja Sharma Rao. Pooja wins a gift hamper from Goodwyn Tea. For the taste of a perfect steep, visit www.goodwyntea.com and try out one of their high quality tea bag collections.
Just a day after my 36th birthday, I was in the worst space I had ever been in all my years. The doctor from across cities wanted my consent to make a last attempt to save my father’s life and put him on life support.
The chances were dismal, but I took them, almost like trying to grasp one more breath for him. He didn’t wait, not even till I could reach his deathbed and see him alive one last time.
It was not an easy battle struggling for my right to perform his last rites being his only child, or to come to terms with the fact that my grieving did not fit the clichéd loud public display of emotion.
I was labelled cold-hearted, insensitive, haughty and what not just because despite being a married daughter I stood my ground to perform all his last rites alone. Not to prove a point to anyone, but to keep a promise to my late father and myself, that the equality of gender with which I had been brought up I will stretch it to the last test.
I was determined to even put my colossal grief aside for a while so that I could exercise this right of mine to perform my father’s last rites the way he wanted me to, not ‘like a son’ as the cliché goes but as his child, his only child.
Of the many gifts in life from my dad to me and his only grandchild is also his passion for tea. Somewhere in our home in Shimla lies an old chipped mug with this inscription –
“A woman is like a tea bag; you never know how strong she is until she’s in hot water.”
Now I know for sure what it really means.
This is the account of my journey on that tough day and a few days after that.
THE FINAL TEST
from the cold, hard deathbed in a hospital he uttered a monosyllable into the phone I knew it was the last fragment of his voice for me.
No I was not hoping against hope as the kilometres lessened I knew the distance between papa and me had extended to a fixed forever that would never change
The sunset that day was special he had not waited long enough for it and it was the first of the many for me without him breathing
I walked in he lay there a corpse for the world for me my dad still I was thinking about was mom’s medicine and phone calls to be made
I didn’t stop my tears there weren’t any I was aware he was gone but all I felt was a deep hollow inside me emptiness and calm
His body was being bathed ritual after ritual tie the toes fold the hands the smile gone the eyes closed I ran my fingers through his hair one last time I am sure he liked it so did I
My child touched his forehead kissed his cheek she had been told he will always love her I know she will always know Karmic connections
the van was shaky I had put my hand on his chest the chanting was the only rhythm my heart was as still as his.
He was placed on the pyre He had once told me about the five elements I knew what I had to do fire was the final test.
Most people had left two more pyres were afire I kept looking at the flames long and close enough to feel the ash on my skin in my breath peace, peace, peace I knew much later I was chanting.
The beauty of the moment of letting go is the clarity about who I am and what I want
I had read somewhere nothing ever goes away until it has taught us what we need to know I washed a few pieces of bone and put them in a pot I learnt the meaning of life
thunder and lightning a journey within a journey darkness and flickers of light every one travelling none of them know
all that remained of his eight decades was a mud pot and a handful of remains I was not listening to the priest the stairs on the Ghat were cold with my freezing hands inside the water He and I touched freedom
The house was the same the world wasn’t I lay in his bed I packed his medicines touched his papers his clothes life had to go on I kept asking why
Yes I was smiling laughing aloud because he liked me that way and I wanted him to know I was fine
some fond memory and mummy would smile for a few seconds before she broke down again he knew I was trying
rituals, visitors cheque books, bills lawyers, offices papers, decisions only in the pauses I closed my eyes and we met
finally me and mom alone nothing to tell each other she made me some tea I combed her hair
my little one plays stone-paper-scissor a death is a litmus test so many real faces revealed
grief is a long lonely road I look for Rumi, Buddha they were right the wound is where the light enters the journey is actually the destination
one journey has ended another lonely one continues in a sacred fire all my fears melted memories cling like a fragrance now I know everything is temporary so why worry
Congratulations from the Women’s Web team, Pooja Sharma Rao. You win a gift hamper from Goodwyn Tea.
Published earlier here.
Image source: sad young woman by Shutterstock.
Pooja Priyamvada is an author, columnist, translator, online content & Social Media consultant, and poet. An awarded bi-lingual blogger she is a trained psychological/mental health first aider, mindfulness & grief facilitator, emotional wellness read more...
Women's Web is an open platform that publishes a diversity of views, individual posts do not necessarily represent the platform's views and opinions at all times.
Stay updated with our Weekly Newsletter or Daily Summary - or both!
Please enter your email address