I had a dream the other day where I was all alone in a wooden house and when I walked out of it, I was in a world that was painted by oil paints. Everything was a canvas. The sky, the greenery and the birds. However, they were only shades of red, yellow and black.
How does one deal with grief?
I pondered on this for a long time until I started asking others around me. I had assumed people in particular would resort to drinking or smoking. I was wrong, while there had been people who did resort to this, I found some beautiful exceptions.
When I’m grieving, I talk to myself out loud. I was nine years old when my grandmother passed away. I stopped talking to everyone for sometime. I would only talk to myself. Whenever my brothers would bully me, she would come to my rescue. Now that she’s no longer here, I started telling myself what she would say. A seed was planted in my conscious, whenever a moment as such happened where I was devastated or hopeless, I would talk to myself. 15 years have passed by and it still helps.
“ Neel don’t be sad, I’m here. As long as I’m here, no one will hurt you”
नील दुखी मत हो, मैं यहां हूं कोई भी तुम्हें चोट नहीं पहुंचाएगा
Nikhil’s coping mechanism was a result of a bond that he shared with his grandmother. That he couldn’t just replace it and couldn’t live without it either.
My late husband loved अचार. He always preferred home-made ones. He borrowed his mother’s recipe and would make one of the best pickles, that I had ever tasted. From mangos to red chillies to kaphal. He was always proud of that fact that he was better than most of peer and friends. Of course he was better than me any day. I never admitted it to him, I would always say that there was still room for improvement. He knew I was lying because there were days when he would find me eating some big bites. Of course I would do this when he wasn’t around or he was sleeping. I would quietly get the jars from the kitchen shelf, pour out some and eat them then and there. He would sneak up on me from behind the kitchen counter when I would almost finish eating and say “I know I’m the best, Jugnu”. I would deny it every time but he knew it was my guilty pleasure.
After his passing, I would often find myself sobbing at odd hours. We did not have any children, and I chose not to leave the place because it reminded me of him. I make pickles too now and when I eat them in the kitchen I only hope for him to sneak up on again. It’s been the same all these 10 years after he left. I eat it at odd hours, not because it tastes good but because I hope that this time when he says “I know I’m the best”, I would reply with “Yes, you are. You are the best.”
When I’m grieving, I only dream in certain colours. I wait till the days when I see all colors again, to know I’ve healed. To know I’ve moved on or become stronger. Especially if I’m unable to shed tears, I do so forcefully. When emotions flow down my face, I feel like a jar is overflowing and I do so till there’s no overflow. Till it doesn’t feel like a burden, till it doesn’t feel heavy.
It is okay to feel, to open up and to share your grief. Most of the time all we really need is for someone to just listen, not necessarily empathize. I may not be speaking for all, but a little sharing in your worst days would help you. Always have someone you can talk you, it can be a friend, a family member or even your pet. Moreover one must find a way to cope, to start afresh and become stronger