Amma

Last month was the hardest of my life. My sense of self was challenged in a way like never before. I was questioning what I believed to be the very core of my being:

Am I loved in the way I love? Do I even deserve to be?

Living life this way, is it worth it?

Why does it feel like I’m failing everyone, including myself?

Some of these thoughts were already floating in my mind — incipient even before the new year. But it all came to a head when, in the first week of January, my grandmother was diagnosed with leukemia. It had been five years since I last saw her. Five years of telling my parents that I’ll join them on the next trip. Five years of telling myself that I’ll definitely apply for a new visa as soon as possible. Five years of thinking that there would be more time. But now wasn’t the time for regrets, though there were many. I had to be there for my parents, for my mom. But, on the very same day that we heard the news, I had my flight back to NYC. So I left. Just a day prior, I was excited to tackle the new year with gusto. Shore up on my lack of discipline and move forward with purpose. Instead, I was aimless. Alone in grief and in guilt.

My mom and my brother were able to immediately fly to India to care for my grandmother. Back in my apartment, I had never felt less at home. The next couple weeks were a confusing mix of ups and downs. I knew I had to do something, get past the guilt, be there, at least virtually, for my family. I knew that, for as much as it hurt for me here, it was hurting my mom and brother even more. Every day they watched my grandma, our Amma, suffer. Her health deteriorating before their very eyes. This woman of boundless energy, always easy to laugh and so unconditionally caring to all who met her, was a shell of her former self. And all that time they were forced to hold it together. For each other, for my grandfather, and for Amma herself. There was no time to think, much less to rest or process. 7000 miles away, however, there was little I could do but think and think and think.

In a process that was as convoluted as expected, I went to the Indian consulate and was approved for an emergency visa. Finally, something I could feel a little good about. I booked my tickets for the following week. We planned it so my brother would fly out of India on Sunday, pass the baton of care to me, and I would fly out of NYC on Tuesday. Though I was far from my best self, at least this was something: a plan.

This post, though one full of grief, is not one of sadness. My first lesson in joy and in love happened in those initial weeks of hardship before I left for India. When I was losing faith in myself, the people in my life held me, heard me, and consoled me. I am privileged enough to say that I have been able to lead a life of happiness. I am positive and optimistic, a “bright-sider” perhaps to the point of annoyance. So when I wasn’t, I felt unmoored and off-balance. I felt inadequate for the people around me. But, and this is the simple lesson, the people who care about you don’t think that. They want to help. Let them. My greatest joy in life is being able to support the people I love. Shouldn’t I give them the same opportunity? It was not a simple task. Some days I felt hopeful and loved and then the next I was spiraling again. Growth, recovery, they’re rarely linear. But, little by little, I was lifted. I will never forget the love I experienced in those weeks. I am eternally grateful — not just for the care but for the confidence it gave me. This way I’ve led my life, well I must be doing something right to receive this love. And I needed it, every moment and every ounce of support, right up until the day I left. I really believe that. Mentally, I was finally where I needed to be so that I could best support my mom and grandma.

My brother gave me the run-down of all he had been doing to care for Amma and for my mom. It was a lot, but I was ready. I took the 15 hour, nonstop flight to New Delhi. Not sleeping a wink, unusual for me. I had read that customs and immigration can be a nightmare at this airport so when I was booking my flight I opted for the five hour layover instead of three. I’ve had a history of missing flights but there was no chance I’d miss this connection. Everything went smoothly and a short flight later I was there. As I waited for my bag to arrive I confirmed to myself that I was ready. I’m good at caring for people. I attribute that nurturing nature to my mom who I’m sure would say she got it from hers. Amma’s legacy. And, as I waited, hyping myself up, my phone buzzed. Good, the eSIM is working. I see a missed call from my brother but I figured I’d call him back right after I grabbed my bag. Then, “Call me, if able,” he messages.

So there, at airport baggage claim, I learn that my Amma has died.

I always knew that this was a possibility. She went from walking around, mostly normal, to bedridden in less than a month. But to realize that I missed her by mere minutes. To realize that, as I was landing, just 5 miles away she was drawing her last breath. Still, I didn’t have the time to linger on these thoughts. Just one anguished cry on the phone with my dad and my brother and then I was off. I needed to be strong for my mom. And I was.

The trip was nothing like what I had planned for. Rather than being a caretaker, I was helping with funeral prep and participating in rituals I didn’t understand. India has always brought a sense of isolation to me. This country that has claim to me but is not mine. This time, I was surrounded by the shared grief of my family but even in that I felt alone. Everyone else had the chance to see her, talk with her, touch her hands while they were still warm. Say goodbye. I only had the memories of years ago, of a happy and healthy Amma. Maybe that’s special in its own way. It’s how she would’ve liked to be remembered.

This post, though one full of grief, is not one of sadness. Life is precious because it ends. Remember to love freely and to love vastly. She always did. Amma means mother. This was more than a mere title, it was a quality she embodied wholly. Though she only had two children of her own, she was everyone’s Amma. For anyone to call her anything else just wouldn’t make sense.

A week into my stay, my mom and I heard someone yelling but we couldn’t tell from where. “Sister! Sister!” a woman cried. Finally, we noticed her on a balcony of the apartment complex next to our own. “Where is Amma? I’ve been searching for her through the windows but haven’t seen her!” That was my Amma. She had struck up a friendship we didn’t even know about. I don’t think they ever met outside of going out on their respective balconies to chat once a week or so but that was enough. This woman knew all about my mom and dad and the various misadventures of the household. Typical Amma, magnanimous and gregarious, finding friends wherever she went.

When my mom told the woman that Amma had passed away, I could see her heart drop. To her, this wasn’t just losing her friend on the balcony — it was losing her Amma. And for a moment I was sad but then happiness eclipsed and a lesson emerged. This was yet another example of how amazing Amma was to all the people around her. She cared so genuinely and was simply mother to all. I was inspired and proud. I, too, have tried to live my life by this example. To nurture, care, support, and sacrifice for those around me for no reason other than to see them happy. It can be hard and I often fail but seeing joy in another and feeling like you contributed a tiny part in it is so much greater than any joy experienced alone. If Amma is the outcome of this path in life, it is one I will wholeheartedly walk.

And in those moments I was filled with so much. Sad that this woman would never be able to talk to Amma again. That I never would. Sad that my mom had to keep breaking the news to so many people like this, that can’t have been easy. But so proud of Amma and who she was. Proud that I could connect parts of myself to my mom and to her. And in holding all these emotions, I felt lucky. We, as humans, have the capacity to feel so much. It’s clear proof as to how much we care about this world and everything it contains. Sometimes, all of that feeling can be overwhelming, but I would never trade it away or silence it. I really do care. I really do love so deeply. The grief is just evidence of that.

On this trip, I learned of the many sides of devotion. Though all of us were processing our own feelings of loss, I imagine my grandfather — my Tata — was hurting the most. Just two days prior to Amma’s passing, they celebrated 60 years of marriage together. How do you move on from that? Especially in the past few years, both of them lived wholly for each other. Expertly in tune with the other’s needs. I saw a softness in my grandfather, ever the rational man, that I hadn’t seen before. And though their souls are forever intertwined I can’t imagine the void he experiences now. Even so, I am envious and inspired by the relationship they had. To know and be known so deeply gives a strength that can’t be described.

Tata gave me one piece of advice before I left. A secret to his success. He told me that each night I should reflect on the day’s events, especially the conflicts that might have transpired, big and small, and ask myself “What part did I play? Could I have been better?” I’m certainly no stranger to reflection and introspection, maybe even to a fault, but this was a new angle of focus that resonated with me. One of my greatest beliefs is in our capacity to be better, and I want to be better for all the people in my life. They deserve it.

This post, though one full of grief, is not one of sadness. Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter. I see Amma everywhere. In the knitted shawl she asked my mom to set aside particularly for me because of our shared love of crafting and of giving. I won’t be able to knit with her again but I know she’s right by me every time I pick up my needles. I see her every time I make food for the ones I love. We both enjoy cooking but our true love is in feeding others. Knowing that by our hand we brought some joy, some satisfaction, however little, is immeasurably fulfilling. And I see her so completely in my mom. In her devotion to caring for everyone even knowing that half her efforts go unnoticed.

The night before I left India, Tata saw that I had finished crocheting a hat. He was impressed but then suddenly had a request. The week prior, he had put one of his sweaters in the washing machine on accident and a few stitches had unraveled. He asked if I could repair it for him. This was the very first sweater Amma had ever made for him. It was over 50 years old but he wore it regularly. When he asked me, he was almost bashful. He’s not a super sentimental man. In that, we are very different. I could hardly contain myself; it felt so fitting. Connecting with Amma one last time on this trip by working on what she made so many years ago. By literally adding my stitches, my love to hers.