Five years to the day when my world came crashing. I didn’t expect it to happen so soon. I thought he’d be around for a little longer. Maybe five years, maybe ten. You see, grief is a strange thing. It comes in waves. You reconcile to loss and move on. You find love. Happiness. You have people to care for you. And you think you’re over it. And then it happens. It comes back with a vengeance, like a tidal wave, threatening to engulf you and destroy your very existence.
As time goes on, the grief seems to get more unbearable than before. A sense of despondency surrounds you and before you can stop yourself, the tears begin to flow. Appa’s loss is something I’ll probably never be able to reconcile with. As I sit back and think about the years I’ve spent without his constant, reassuring presence, the stronger the sense of loss seems to get.
Perhaps his is a void that will never be filled. So, today, as I remember the man who made me who I am, I recall his most favourite of Tagore’s poems.
”This is my prayer to thee, my lord—strike, strike at the root of penury in my heart.
Give me the strength lightly to bear my joys and sorrows.
Give me the strength to make my love fruitful in service.
Give me the strength never to disown the poor or bend my knees before insolent might.
Give me the strength to raise my mind high above daily trifles.
And give me the strength to surrender my strength to thy will with love.”