Collective Losses

TW: Bereavement, Grief. Tread lightly.

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Here’s a Reddit comment from May 2011:

Alright, here goes. I'm old. What that means is that I've survived (so far) and a lot of people I've known and loved did not. I've lost friends, best friends, acquaintances, co-workers, grandparents, mom, relatives, teachers, mentors, students, neighbors, and a host of other folks. I have no children, and I can't imagine the pain it must be to lose a child. But here's my two cents.

I wish I could say you get used to people dying. I never did. I don't want to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don't want it to "not matter". I don't want it to be something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can't see.

As for grief, you'll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you're drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it's some physical thing. Maybe it's a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it's a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.

In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don't even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you'll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what's going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything...and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.

Somewhere down the line, and it's different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O'Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you'll come out.

Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don't really want them to. But you learn that you'll survive them. And other waves will come. And you'll survive them too. If you're lucky, you'll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.

I must’ve read this a hundred times. It has helped me understand and process pain that was previously overwhelming. The drowning metaphor, especially, is so apt.

Every grieving person I’ve shared this with has echoed my thoughts. It has also served as a starting point for conversations, which can be so awkward otherwise. We tend to see mourning as a private, solitary task – something to endure and stumble through alone. Why, though?

Much before I had experienced or understood loss, my only frame of reference was Hrishikesh Mukherjee’s Anand (1971). Even there, Amitabh Bachchan’s character processes his grief through his writing – a private, lonely mourning.

Mahesh Bhatt’s 1984 Saaransh was a poignant depiction of parents grieving for their young son. In a life that has lost all meaning, the aged couple find purpose once again in each other. We see them lay bare their pain and emptiness. It is hard to believe that this was Anupam Kher’s film debut. Or that he was just 29 at the time.

A Jagjit Singh song from 1998’s Dushman next gave the vocabulary for a younger generation to understand and communicate their grief:

There are a million reasons why Neeraj Ghaywan’s 2015 film Masaan was so good. First off, it is set in Benares, which means Death is a constant presence, a common thread through all the stories. And in this setting, we witness Deepak’s journey through the stages of grief – denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance.

In my absolute favourite scene, we see Deepak and his friends sitting around a fire, drinking. They have known him all his life. They know his pain. But they don’t know how to make him feel better. Does he need time? Does he want to be alone?

He finally breaks down, asking why his pain won’t end. His friends embrace him. Nothing has really changed; the pain is still there. But there is healing too. And hope. Far, in the distant future. A tiny glimmer.

The writer, Varun Grover has said that the scene wasn’t written this way. Deepak was supposed to cry only once he tosses her ring in the Ganges, signifying closure. It was improvised by Vicky Kaushal, who really was inebriated for this scene. That’s just how grief is, isn’t it? A wave hitting us when we least expect it.

I did not believe I would see a better depiction on screen of an Indian man grieving, with just his friends for support. I was wrong.

Panchayat’s second season finale had an off-screen death: Prahlad, one of the leads, loses his only son at the frontlines. The season ended with a scene of Prahlad breaking down, and his friends being there for him. I won’t try to mince words – I bawled when I saw this. You feel it all. His pain, his loss of purpose, his friends’ helplessness. His emptiness.

If you haven’t watched either Masaan or Panchayat yet, sorry for the spoilers. But you really should. Panchayat’s Season 3 just dropped on Amazon Prime. Among other things, it shows the role of a good opposition as a check on even the most benevolent dictator.

But for me, the best part is that S3’ portrayal of Prahlad’s loneliness, and his depression. How awkward everyone is around him. With a light touch, we see him getting a little better, emerging from his shell as the season progresses. He’s not alright by the end. And the depiction of his loss is never voyeuristic. But it is honest, and true – as only someone who has experienced this pain can convey. The wave that catches you when you least expect it.

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EDIT: To everyone who reached out to me in the comments or via DM, I’m staggered by your resilience and courage. If anyone reading this does not have a support system to lean on or needs help, please click here for a crowdsourced list of mental health professionals who can help. There are online/offline and paid/free consultations available. Since the list is crowdsourced I can’t vouch for any professional personally, but I’m sure a quick google search will be illuminating.

We’re all in this together.