The unseen grief
Some experiences remain locked in our memory forever. Some days leave a lasting mark. We may forget which day of the week or what date, but we never forget what the day had to offer.
It was the last Monday. I had hosted two back to back small parties at my flat over the weekend. I had used up my utensils till the last spoon in the kitchen. Somehow in the morning, I managed to have my breakfast and rushed to the office. Most of the time this is the norm anyway, "the maid will take care of it". However, the pile of unclean utensils was much much bigger this time. So when I returned to find the same unclean pile in the evening, I was naturally upset. How come the maid didn't turn up? Or rather how dares she without informing!
Though I like to cook, I hate cleaning the dishes. I always consider this activity doesn't fall under cooking. With a sweating forehead (due to my anger or Hyderabad's heated temperature I am not sure), I cleaned half of the pile, again pushing the remaining to the 'take care' kitty of the maid. All the time, I was wondering how the maid manages to clean the kitchen without losing her smile, when I have lost the ability to manage my life on my own even for a single day. Am I starting to live a parasitic life? Or already I have been? The many vibes of doubt, self pity, disappointment started eating up the remaining hours of the day..
The maid is not more than 42 years, but looks like 55 old woman. Next day, she arrived in time. I could see her natural self, the same composed and calm face. Not a single sign that something had gone wrong, that her truant day had offered me a terrible day! Inevitably I shot out, "Why didn't you come yesterday? Don't you know you have more works on Monday?"
She speaks only Telegu which I don't understand. She said a few words. I didn't get all. But what I got was saying, "Babu, my mother died yesterday."
My anger evaporated into shock, shock vanished into sadness, sadness into self pity of my own callousness. How could I be so hollow in thoughts!
Just a few days ago, an anguished, emotional footballer's pictures had been splashed across all the media. Frank Lampard's heroic contribution had led Chelsea beat Liverpool in the Champions League semi-final. Only Six days previously he had lost his mother for good. The media called him "Hero". I agreed.
Now right there, right in front of me there was a person standing who was not less courageous than a Frank Lampard, whose unseen grief would never make to any news, nevertheless whose loss was not less than anyone else. Just because someone earns a few bucks more than her doesn't make her grief any less than him or her. Just because that someone is me doesn't give me a right to treat her grief to be shallow. Everyone needs time to grieve. I told her she can take a leave as long as she wants, that I can manage for myself. Not that I was doing a favor to her, rather I was doing a favor to my own compassionately dead brain cells.
But she refused.
