Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn't something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn't get in, and walk through it, step by step. There's no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That's the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.
And you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You'll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.
And once the storm is over you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won't even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won't be the same person who walked in. That's what this storm's all about.
― Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore
Dear Readers,
Since my Papa departed, I've ceased to care about knowing what day it is. Each day blends into the next, with the mercury rising as if the world is descending into a pool of molten sugar. The heat grips the Indian subcontinent with tyrannical force. There's a profound sense of displacement worldwide, where life's priorities for survival seem to shift massively. The quietness of this subtle transition is alarmingly frightening.
I observed at least a dozen newly hatched recluse spiders and grass spiders crawling across the walls and crevices of my parent’s home. They appeared to be in a rush, perhaps feeling the urgency of summer's grind to gather more food before entering diapause. Little do they realize that summer here tends to linger. Or maybe they do, yet anxiety still overwhelms them. I'm unsure if such complex emotions can be perceived by their meticulous survivalist minds. Do they even possess minds? Like the house gecko that split its tail while chasing one of the grass spiders along the iron handrail of our staircase. I watched it pause instantly and seemingly reflect on its loss. Perhaps they do have a sense of self after all.
Most days, I wake up engulfed in sorrow, feeling like an empty shell that lingers, and I struggle to reconnect with my body. But before this process can complete, it's time to go to bed again, and the cycle restarts in the same manner. The journey back to myself is slow, yet I push out a few words, smiles, and conversations just to grasp onto any semblance of normalcy I can find. Everything remains unchanged—the oppressive heat, the vendors with their new sale offers, the neighbors going about their daily routines, and kids determined to play football before the first school bell rings. Life carries on as it should, while my mother and I feel stalled, bracing ourselves for each successive wave of grief as we huddle beneath its weight.
So many thoughts flood in before the wave crashes, and I'm ready to capture them in coherent sentences. But after each passage, I find myself distanced from the person I was before, disconnected from my former self, constantly morphing into someone new. Was I always meant to become this person—the one I'm evolving into? Or is it merely an awakening to the harsh truth that we're all desperately trying to grasp, a truth whose nature is as fluid as water? There's no holding on; there will be peaks, there will be valleys. All there is lies in existing amidst the ebb and flow, breathing one breath after another, simply being alive—until we aren't.
In moments of solitude at night, I resemble a beast, so closely intertwined with the darkness that I melt into its shimmering, velvety embrace. I become an anticipatory creature, seeking solace in silence and comfort in the soft blankets of melancholy. Grief changes people. That seems like an understatement; let me put it this way: Grief contorts our immediate reality, which in turn drives newly formed perceptions and altered responses. Since his funeral, I have met Papa in dreams almost every night. Sometimes he talks until the dawn breaks, and at other times, he is just silently there, lovingly holding space for my sorrow as my body breaks under the pressure of all the love that I contained for him, all the love that now is struggling to find a new place to go. I don't wake up the same person I was before drifting off to sleep.
There's no clarity that I've reached, at least not yet. I understand that being a writer brings expectations of delivering wisdom born from the depths of one's tragedies. But forgive me today, because I come empty-handed, expressing sheer vulnerability. I can't offer you more right now—neither clarity nor the wisdom my mind is too exhausted to conjure. I'm too raw to revisit the trauma; I'm constantly living through flashbacks. It's very difficult at the moment, yet I wanted to be here. I wanted to show up authentically, without pretense or facade, just as I am, to be with you, to connect with you as a fellow human.
I also feel incredibly caught up and distracted, and I absolutely despise missing out on engaging with my favorite writers and their work on Substack. You know who you are, and please keep a light on for me as I navigate through this stage of life. I feel like I owe so much more attention and time to all of you, but I'm so tired and exhausted, longing for deep rest. I'm immensely grateful to this community and all of you who have been my anchor in this destabilizing storm.
Also, on another note, I have been struggling to save a couple of stray puppies from perishing in the intense heatwave, and as they live on, I invoke the ghost of Emily Dickinson.
If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.
Until next time…
Love,
Swarna
The wisdom is in your empty-handedness. ❤️
Sending so much love to you. The only thing you owe to anyone right now is indeed that deep rest. You may think you didn't do much for your readers, but peeling and sharing these complex thoughts on grief and loss is a gift to anyone who reads this. Grief is one of the most transformative human feelings and it has to take its natural trajectory. Rest and be kind to yourself 🖤