Half of one dies with better-half’s demise
Why do vices in the companion come to a naught and the virtues get magnified as we bid adieu forever? Losing my better-half jolted my conscience to such an extent that it sliced the better part of my existence into half, be it my identity, peace, contentment, delight, including the number of teacups on the tray and biscuits in the bowl.
Her absence instantly doubled my pain, responsibilities, present trials and future adversities. Nevertheless, whatever stage of life one is in, it’s heartrending to come to terms with the truth that solitude awaits with open arms for the rest of the life. Feigning theatrical toughness and normalcy in the public sphere, especially in front of the children and grandchildren, becomes the order of the day. Tiffs over which side of the bed to stake claim to don’t exist any longer for the double bed shrinks to a single-sized cot.
Tracing the name of the departed lover on the pillow, inked in tears in the dead silence of the night, turns out to be the only way to counterbalance the ache of a whole range of all-weather memories gushing through the mind in unchecked catharsis. The pangs of separation fanned by the suppressed internal urge to have had a company of a coeval partner tends to prick the soul even more mercilessly when one is old and past the prime. The lonesome dynamics of the morning and evening walks lack the stirring element worth goading the person into sloughing off the lethargy for physical and mental fitness.
Negotiating a new middle path to while away the rest of the life becomes an uphill task that often seems too tough to overcome in the face of the fact that one’s sons and daughters-inlaw are too busy making ends meet, while the grandchildren are too young to empathise. It’s an amusing paradox for now passing working days seems to be a hard nut to crack, while weekend recreational soirees at the nearby park with peers in the same boat provides much-needed solace. However, that soulful sense of living derived out of long-winded gossip sessions bordering on the quirky vagaries and vicissitudes of our past and present life, bracketed with uncertainties lurking in the future, stays short to our utter despair and despondency. The melancholic vista of the setting sun on a Sunday evening knocks hopes to the ground, as the thought of the run-of-the-mill routine approaching with its abstract threatening stare in the coming week palpably freezes the body to a motionless figure for a moment.
A long list of melodious songs of the bygone era, which we used to listen, lip-sync, or sometimes watchfully croon together spells an effective salve to soothe the wounds of the conscience. The favourite among them was a duet sung by the Mohammad Rafi and Lata Mangeshkar: “Yeh dil tum bin kahin lagta nahi, hum kya karein.”
Aging with the partner would not have been as hard-hitting as it is now. Perhaps, the cosmic divinity has other plans for one between the two is called back to the heavens, leaving the other to long wistfully and forlornly for the lost partner. How beautiful and mesmerising the transfigured landscape of the life of the aged would have been had the Almighty pondered over devising a method to allow the couples to live together till their last breath and call them back only in pairs?
TIFFS OVER WHICH SIDE OF THE BED TO STAKE CLAIM TO DON’T EXIST ANY LONGER FOR THE DOUBLE BED SHRINKS TO A SINGLE-SIZED COT