People wondered why I was so collected, so self-controlled during my husband’s funeral services; no person said a word about it, but I know they all thought I should’ve shown some emotion, any. They expected a wounded, ugly looking widow who was sobbing. Well, folks, no! No time for tears, no apologies, and no regrets. Not then, not now, not ever again. God knows I did what I possibly could and beyond, I’m clean.
I profoundly mourned my husband’s death and the consequential termination of our marriage long before his physical tragic end. The burial was literally the final nail into a self-made coffin, the end of a painful journey that surreptitiously but decisively began ten years prior to his final departure. By the time of his posthumous homage I had shouldered more than my fair share of grief already. I was fully awake, on alert mode since my concern was to safeguard my daughters; bearing the brunt of friends offering grossly foolish condolences.
It was years ago while in India that I came to acknowledge the extent of the damage to myself and my family. Tirelessly driving along the colourful, dusty and infinite roads of Rajasthan, I began to get a full and clear perspective on what had become my life and the perverse impact it was having on my children. A shadow of my former self, I had turned into a ludicrous trophy-wife holding onto a relationship that no longer existed. I was no more than a high-maintenance employee trying to prevent mental illness from taking over, and the ground from collapsing and completely lost myself in the process. No one was to blame for the break-up except for the two of us; he couldn’t help it and I couldn’t take it any more. The unique and loving feeling that once united us drowned; and our lifestyle, privileged and surreal couldn’t disguise the growing void at the core.
Experiencing first hand the chronicle of a death foretold is no fun; this is a trip I wouldn’t wish on anyone. And yet, in retrospect I affirm that everything learnt through this winding path has been a blessing in disguise. It was written in the stars for me to lose almost everything I had and start all over from scratch. Thus I learned the art of wisely and timely surrender and simply let it be…. and reborn.
Months afterward and the future seemed quite uncertain, it was India again which brought me further to my senses. To my own astonishment I found out in India that even under precarious circumstances life still existed and was eagerly waiting for me. Unexpected grateful events nurtured my ever-hungry spirit, and filled my heart with hope. By then I naturally began articulating the first sentences in Hindi, as a child would do. Thought and language in dialectical symbiosis. Good Omen.
A few days ago while waiting at traffic lights I was weighing the idea of accepting a generous invitation to visit India by the end of the year and devote a few weeks to my artistic projects there; or stay in my country earning money and face another hideous Christmas alone, full of obligations and surrounded by false joy. Cars were starting to drive when I noticed it: two cars in front of me, same colour, same size, side by side; one of them a few feet ahead of the other showing the exact same letters and the exact progressive numbers on their license plates. C‘mon, there are 5.3 Million vehicles in circulation in my city!! The Universe works in mysterious ways.
“Move forward. There is a continuum, a next chapter in India”