Tuesday, March 18, 2014

Funerals for Suicides


There has been an alarming wave of suicides reported in the media recently. I wonder if these reports further fuel the culture where ending one's life is the natural outcome of ones personal anguish. Who knows what the troubled mind endures before it reaches the conclusion life is not worth living.  

It reminds me of the times when suicide touched my little bubble of existence. It is,  unsettlingly all too common. This post is not however on what leads to suicide  (The Sense of an Ending,  the book, had a very engaging discussion on it). I do not know enough to comment on these things. 

I've been thinking about the response to funerals of suicides though. People's reaction, how it differs from the usual funeral of any other type of death. How the family of the death by suicide person is shunned. Seemingly close friends sit in judgement of the dead,  as they most likely did, when they were alive. People hesitate to attend these funerals. I suppose for various reasons that harbour on superstition,  judgement and fear of the unknown. 

I truly believe though,  funerals are for the living. For those who suffer immense suffering and anguish at the death of a loved one. A sense of betrayal and loss. A loss they must live with for the rest of their lives. Who are we to abandon them in that time of immense grief over something they did not have any control over. Of course people know exactly what should've been done. Only Ifs floating around freely in hushed conversations. 

Perhaps in these moments if we can demonstrate love, kindness and compassion,  if not to the dead,  for the living. Show they were loved when they were alive,  that they will be missed. And the family left behind,  they are not alone. And these things, there is no one to blame but deep rooted issues that will not be solved so easily. But they are not alone.

Some small comfort,  perhaps. Compassion and love is the role of the bystander in these times,  and not gossip and judgement. 

Ten years later,  I remember a certain happy go lucky,  cheerful girl who died in the ICU, of unexplained burns. Our bodhi poojas,  more for the living grieving parents, than for the dead. A funeral we laid flowers to rest, with as much care as we had done together in all those school functions. To have been there for the mother that wrote a heart wrenching poem that begged her to be reborn as her daughter in every lifetime to come,  and no other mother to feel the pain she feels. Small comfort for her perhaps, but not alone. Never alone. 

Funerals are for the living,  the dead are long gone. The dead do not need us, they are free. 

Friday, March 14, 2014

The Pickle

What do you do when childhood dreams are now coming true. Then,  you realise life is bigger.
While getting what you'd like to have is a nice validation and confirmation of certain insecurities of self worth,  common sense and reality taps me on the shoulder,  matter of factly. It's the reminder to take a step back and see the big picture.
It's nice to be certain the big picture is exactly what it is. The pieces,  they make sense and the open road still offers limitless possibilities.
Cheers to the bumps in the road,  and the road that doesn't seem to end at all. Thankful and partly wary of these choices.
Silent thanks to all the gods that might be and the family that supports,  unconditionally.

Sunday, March 9, 2014

The Road.

We're all travelling to and from things all the time.

I suppose in a way, we're all time travelers. Memories are what take us back and forth.

The good,  the bad and the ugly,  if you will.

I have a lot of little adventures I want to share as posts and will try to do that in the next few days. The important thing is to keep sharing something,  and I am trying to be a regular here.  Keep a journal of my life in an abstract sense.

This space has been good to me, over the years.

Saturday, March 8, 2014

Mocha Cup Reflections

I stare deeply in to the premonition like reflection in my Thursday morning coffee/chocolate mocha and pretend it is really tea. I am aware, almost guiltily how impatiently I anticipate Fridays. Too eager to welcome the weekend.

Probably why I am always disappointed when the weekend ends, and it was full of chores and empty nothingness. Oh well, need to have a talk with myself about low expectations. 

Sri Lanka is winning the match - lots of rathinchchnya tonight.

Coffee creamer,  between you and me tastes like crap. Nothing like some good old kiri piti. Maybe it's healthier. Who knows, inevitable old age and time will eventually be the judge. I hope either way,  70 year old me doesn't feel too bad when I'm taking all those pills.

My black and white stray cat is happily feeding away. He seems to enjoy tuna the most. I call him he but he could very well be a she for all I care. Maybe I should call him/her IT instead. A smart one, that.

I forget what this post was going to be about. 

Thursday, March 6, 2014

The Case of the Lunu Kenda

The Mister has been sick. 

It started with a text message lamenting the fact he was slowly dying. Then as the day increased his lamentations of impending doom grew and I ended up going home early just to spend a few hours more attending to him.

It is curious how the common cold affects us all in different ways. Dare I say,  it is a well known fact the common cold affects each particular gender even differently. Our male counterparts feel the wrath of the angry cold,  debilitating any normal functions and leaving them helpless and almost childlike. However the female individual,  struck by the same bug will be able to withstand the worst and continue along their daily routine simply because if they do not cook,  no one will. I had firmly resolved to ensure this phenomenon truly ended with the generation of our parents.

And yet,  I find my stone cold heat melting at the sight of the individual with a fever pitifully lying on the bed after requesting very spicy chips (claiming to be the only food he can consume and contemplating throwing up). 

So ensues my Wednesday evening after work,  multiple grocery shopping,  and hours of checking the stove for the first attempt at a lunu kenda. The recipe I checked did not state there was a portion of salt,  which I assumed to naturally mean the portion was irrelevant. Lunu kenda. Hello! So of course after hours and hours of worrying the new brown rice was a flop,  the kenda almost turned out. Except for one tiny flaw. The lunu tasted like sea water salt kenda.

Just goes to show, there is, I'm sure something greatly significant in this - to our lives and an even greater lesson to be learned. Years from now,  I'm sure I'll figure out what exactly that is. Until then,  I for one have resolved to definitely go easy on the salt.