The uncanny déjà vu of that fateful morning revisits me at times. Amidst the jinxed eeriness of wee hours and thus forthcoming eventuality of loss and life, our moments of spirituality had engraved forever in time. From your final goodnight bid (apparently final words as well to any member of your extended family hierarchy) to the last few breaths of your mortal existence, we share a limbo of eternity – utterly irrelevant to the world you knew, yet surreally real somewhere in anonymity – ever since that night broke when I was supposedly stationed at your sides in case of emergency. The emergent void indeed grasped you in cold hands as the morning dawned in, while we simply played in to the rings of despondency.
The morning walks, the gentle caresses on my back, the pre-independence anecdotes, the demeanor of wisdom and authority – few of these memoirs from childhood what define ‘Ata’ as we all grandchildren called him. Lives have moved on far and fast since his existential relevance ceased on us. The priorities of remembrance too changed course to be overhauled by our more contemporary earthly counterparts. Today, our moment of commemoration has withered to subsist on one sole annual event burnt alive on the spirited endeavor of few long term theosophy incumbents, friends and truly attached family members. For most of us embarking on our worldly existence miles away, I wonder how strongly this moment bears on our consciousness. However, a brief tryst with the lost memories of my grandfather (on account of a memorial write-up) manages to flare up few epiphanies as to the philosophy of life, death and that mysterious thing called love.
