Immortal

Thatha

Aug 12, 2012

Tears flow through my heart
when I try to remember all our moments together,
only to be wiped away with the comfort
of knowing that you now live through me.
You molded me every step of the way,
into the man that I am today.

To the man who taught me everything I needed to know
about life, language, and mathematics…

Cheers! And thanks for everything!

I received the news of my grandfather’s passing while I was in the crowd watching Justice end their live set at Outside Lands. I vividly remember the text and call from my aunt in India, and not knowing what to feel as I made my way out through the crowds in Golden Gate Park. I walked back home that night, all the way to my apartment in Hayes Valley, and went to bed to sleep off all that I got to sample at WineLands that day. It took me a mere 2 days then to process my grief and pen my feelings in a short Facebook Note afterwards.

As an atheist, I don’t have the luxury of comfort that many get from a belief in the afterlife. But, it was easy for me to come to terms with my grandfather’s mortality.

Although he was no longer with us, I knew that the idea of him would still live within us, and it would continue to leave an imprint on the world through our actions – the actions of those who have been touched by his kind, curious, and perfectly flawed soul.

Growing up, I had spent enough time with my grandfather to get to know his true essence. Yes, he was flawed. Yes, my grandmother, my parents, my uncles, my aunt, my sister and myself have each complained about him from time to time. Some of us even hold grudges towards him still to this day. But if you had spent just a little time with him, you would know that he always meant well.

Was he perfect? Far from it. Even the gods aren’t. He was only human – a mere mortal. And so are we, flawed mortals navigating an imperfect world.

I have come across many versions of the “three deaths”, but the one that struck me the most went something like the following:

Every man dies three deaths.
Once when his biological self dies.
Yet again, when the last person he knows dies.
And lastly, his real death occurs when his name is uttered for the last time.

I found comfort in the knowledge that he was still alive and well in our collective memories.

Then this year, after enduring through his cancer diagnosis for over two years, my dad passed away on April 7th. And, I couldn’t find peace in the same thought that had given me calm during my grandfather’s demise.

Appa

April 9, 2021

We had been expecting this day for a while.
Yet, when it finally came, it all felt so hurried.
As the long night drew closer, I was growing worried,
that after this last mile, I would never remember your smile.
That my feelings will forever lay burried
beneath our strained relationship, muddied.

Will I only remember you as a cynic?
Will I still be your harshest critic?
Will I only lean on you,
for what not to do?
Will you fade away misunderstood?
Like I was to you, no good.

I couldn’t trust my memories to be a true reflection of the man he was. In the ~months~ years leading up to his death, he had become increasingly reclusive and distant from the rest of us – or, at least from me. There were increasingly more negative interactions, both first and second-handed, than positive ones. And, even during the last month, when I got to spend more one on one time with him in Houston, there were more confrontations and disagreements than consensus and trust.

I had referred to him as “The Petulant Parent”, “Imsai Arasan 24th Pulikesi”, etc. albeit jokingly. I even got so frustrated at one point that I had settled on “In Service of Assholes” as the title for my non-existent autobiography. (Please save the Sir Mixalot jokes 😎)

Near the end, we had gotten into many arguments about our politics, and our ethics. We were almost polar opposites in how we viewed the world, and our headbuttings only became more frequent as we both knew we were running short on time to convince each other of our ways. I was worried I won’t be left with any good memories to carry forward in life.

But all those worries faded away after he passed away.

I realized that though we were different, there was so much that we had in common – From our unhealthy disregard for authority, to our unbounded curiosity and urge to understand how the world really works beneath the way it presents itself. We are both humble in certain aspects of our lives, and elitist smarter/holier-than-thou dickheads in others, though, there isn’t much overlap between us in the things we were humble about and not.

And, where he was being difficult towards me, he pushed me to take a step back and gain a deeper understanding about what I’m doing wrong, or why I’m certain about being right.

That is the part I miss the most – having to live up to the unattainable demands of a petulant parent. Watching him hold on to his convictions and view points, no matter how wrong they were, or seemed to be, had forced me to be aware of my own mistaken views of the world And if I have to be honest, that is the part that worries me the most – that without his push, my life will become stagnant.

My grandfather taught me how to lead life with purpose, and to find purpose in service to others. But my dad imparted in me the importance of acting and doing, even when there isn’t a clear purpose.

I hope I am lucky enough to always find purposeful avenues to express myself. But when I don’t, I hope that I can follow my father’s spirit and push through blindly.

All along until now, I was placing the utmost importance on the legacy I will be leaving behind. On how I will be remembered. How I could become immortal.

But his passing’s biggest lesson has been this: Our legacies are the concerns of those who come after us, not ours. We may be wrong, but we should stake our position and act. Our time here is short. We’re mortal.

I’m mortal.

Happy Father’s Day!