Happy days can just transform into days of tears and heartache overnight. Small family traditions that you took for granted can just remain as an entry on your diary. Elders, who once guided you, fed you, cried for you and became the roof under which you stood in bad weather, can one day just disappear from your sight.
If only I knew that death would snatch your person from us so suddenly, I would have taken the time and told you,
‘Thank you, Tamo for being my brother in this lifetime.’
As the family gets together to observe the first month since your demise, I let my mind wander to how it used to be.
The day my sister got married to you, it was me and my cousin sister Peto who sat beside your bride in the open car that slowly drove down all the way from Sinjamei to Sagolbandh in Imphal town back in the year 1998. It was November, freezing and in a bid to look good, we didn’t wrap ourselves with a woolen shawl over the fancy traditional costumes we wore. My sister cried like every bride cries on leaving her home and her family and partly because of the fear of going to a new home and a new family.
That had been the first wedding in our family and my first experience to see a sibling start a new life. I was the youngest among three of us and I was not sure what my role was. I only knew our lives were changing.
When we reached your home in Sagolband, half frozen out of winter cold and half thawed by all the crying, I found you among the sea of faces of strangers, relatives and clan. I had met you just about 3-4 times before the wedding. I remember how unsure I was about approaching you but I summed up my courage and asked you to look after my sister. Your reply had been simple but reassuring.
‘I will look after your sister. Don’t worry.’
In the 18 years of marriage you looked after my sister so well like nobody could have and everything that was hers, including us- her family.I called you ‘tamo’ and believed you were my brother.
And now we face your death as the biggest personal loss that could ever be. We will never forget the million things you did for us in every possible capacity. We will always remember how deeply you had been involved in our lives. It will take a long time for us to come out of this grief and look back at the memories without pain and sinking. We celebrate the person you were, the life you led, the people you helped and the love you leave behind in us. But for now we struggle in wanting to hang on and knowing we must ‘let go.’We know our lives are changing.
Your body arrived in Tulihal Airport from Delhi in a coffin. There were so many people to receive you, even people we did not know. Just the way you would be there with my sister to receive me every time I came home to Imphal for a holiday.And when I would return, my suitcase would be filled with local food items and jar carrying smoked pork prepared by you especially for me. I would eat that pork little by little to make it last till my next visit home.
Few days ago my sister told me you would say, ‘ Let us give Nanu all the food items that are not available there in Bangalore, cook special Manipuri dishes that she won’t get to eat there and make her have a good family time’.
Now I see that all the good times I had during my visits to Imphal had not been spontaneous but had been planned lovingly by you and my sister.
I still have the jar with the smoked pork in my refrigerator, the many family pictures you shared not so long ago, the video recordings of my daughter’s birthday, the songs I took from your music archive in my laptop, the many power point presentations on Swach Bharat Mission and government schemes and a view of your ‘last seen’on your WhatsApp number.I can’t believe you are gone.
It seems like just yesterday we had been home, screaming out to our children to not squabble over petty things, deciding what to cook and eat, going for a long drive after dinner in your black Bolero playing loud music, discussing how best to save our money and how we would celebrate Christmas this year. And along with these sweet memories come the ones that cause pain. I remember running besides your stretcher while they were taking you for doing some tests and X-ray. I remember seeing your face had been etched with discomfort and exhaustion from medical treatment, wanting to leave everything and just go home. I knew how you loved ‘being home’. I ran alongside you. I understood how it is to face the unknown and how it helps to have family next to you when that moment comes.
We saw you slip away slowly but you were a fighter till the end. You lived your life and you lived it well. People flocked to your house when they heard about the news. We never knew you touched so many lives till we saw so many come and grieve for you. The house still has your presence only we cannot see you with our human eyes.
As the customary rituals must have begun today in Imphal while I am here in Bangalore observing the first month since your demise, I wish you live happily in the world that you have now gone to.
‘Chatloko, Tamo’.
(Mr. Vivek Khuraijam lived an exemplary life of a husband, father, brother, son, friend, colleague and brother-in-law. An officer of the Central Government in the Department of Field Publicity, he was committed to bring benefit to the poor by linking people to government schemes and provisions. He is survived by his wife and son.)
* This article was originally published on the Imphal Free Press
Link: http://ifp.co.in/page/items/35476/one-month-and-a-lifetime
If only I knew that death would snatch your person from us so suddenly, I would have taken the time and told you,
‘Thank you, Tamo for being my brother in this lifetime.’
As the family gets together to observe the first month since your demise, I let my mind wander to how it used to be.
The day my sister got married to you, it was me and my cousin sister Peto who sat beside your bride in the open car that slowly drove down all the way from Sinjamei to Sagolbandh in Imphal town back in the year 1998. It was November, freezing and in a bid to look good, we didn’t wrap ourselves with a woolen shawl over the fancy traditional costumes we wore. My sister cried like every bride cries on leaving her home and her family and partly because of the fear of going to a new home and a new family.
That had been the first wedding in our family and my first experience to see a sibling start a new life. I was the youngest among three of us and I was not sure what my role was. I only knew our lives were changing.
When we reached your home in Sagolband, half frozen out of winter cold and half thawed by all the crying, I found you among the sea of faces of strangers, relatives and clan. I had met you just about 3-4 times before the wedding. I remember how unsure I was about approaching you but I summed up my courage and asked you to look after my sister. Your reply had been simple but reassuring.
‘I will look after your sister. Don’t worry.’
 |
| One November freezing night in an open car |
And now we face your death as the biggest personal loss that could ever be. We will never forget the million things you did for us in every possible capacity. We will always remember how deeply you had been involved in our lives. It will take a long time for us to come out of this grief and look back at the memories without pain and sinking. We celebrate the person you were, the life you led, the people you helped and the love you leave behind in us. But for now we struggle in wanting to hang on and knowing we must ‘let go.’We know our lives are changing.
Your body arrived in Tulihal Airport from Delhi in a coffin. There were so many people to receive you, even people we did not know. Just the way you would be there with my sister to receive me every time I came home to Imphal for a holiday.And when I would return, my suitcase would be filled with local food items and jar carrying smoked pork prepared by you especially for me. I would eat that pork little by little to make it last till my next visit home.
Few days ago my sister told me you would say, ‘ Let us give Nanu all the food items that are not available there in Bangalore, cook special Manipuri dishes that she won’t get to eat there and make her have a good family time’.
Now I see that all the good times I had during my visits to Imphal had not been spontaneous but had been planned lovingly by you and my sister.
I still have the jar with the smoked pork in my refrigerator, the many family pictures you shared not so long ago, the video recordings of my daughter’s birthday, the songs I took from your music archive in my laptop, the many power point presentations on Swach Bharat Mission and government schemes and a view of your ‘last seen’on your WhatsApp number.I can’t believe you are gone.
It seems like just yesterday we had been home, screaming out to our children to not squabble over petty things, deciding what to cook and eat, going for a long drive after dinner in your black Bolero playing loud music, discussing how best to save our money and how we would celebrate Christmas this year. And along with these sweet memories come the ones that cause pain. I remember running besides your stretcher while they were taking you for doing some tests and X-ray. I remember seeing your face had been etched with discomfort and exhaustion from medical treatment, wanting to leave everything and just go home. I knew how you loved ‘being home’. I ran alongside you. I understood how it is to face the unknown and how it helps to have family next to you when that moment comes.
We saw you slip away slowly but you were a fighter till the end. You lived your life and you lived it well. People flocked to your house when they heard about the news. We never knew you touched so many lives till we saw so many come and grieve for you. The house still has your presence only we cannot see you with our human eyes.
As the customary rituals must have begun today in Imphal while I am here in Bangalore observing the first month since your demise, I wish you live happily in the world that you have now gone to.
‘Chatloko, Tamo’.
(Mr. Vivek Khuraijam lived an exemplary life of a husband, father, brother, son, friend, colleague and brother-in-law. An officer of the Central Government in the Department of Field Publicity, he was committed to bring benefit to the poor by linking people to government schemes and provisions. He is survived by his wife and son.)
* This article was originally published on the Imphal Free Press
Link: http://ifp.co.in/page/items/35476/one-month-and-a-lifetime
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