Void / Faith
It’s been a while since I had a good night’s sleep, and I suspect I’m under the spell of a mild drugless high that the long hours of the night tend to evoke. In my defense, my perch harbors a view of the skyline that could enchant even the blindest of souls. This isn’t to say that I sleep under the illuminating majesty of starlight, quite the opposite in fact. The view of the universe from my floor is usually a dusty neon-tinted sky painted by the bustling humdrum of Kolkata. The sporadic glimpses of the stars amidst the sauntering clouds and the bedlam of the fumes lends itself for a captivating canvas of the universe and my place in it.
As I was gazing at the sky while Nick Cave was playing in the background, I realize that it has been exactly 5 years since my grandfather was killed.
He was fatally struck by a wild intoxicated driver — a Doctor, in a pale sedan, on a dark, muted night in Hyderabad. He suffered critical spinal cord injuries that left him paralyzed from the neck down for a couple of months, before he inevitably succumbed to the severity of his injuries. I sat by his side during those days, as he lay still and dying in the hospital bed. I always wonder what was going through his mind during those long and winding days. Perhaps he was lamenting his condition — his incapacity to enjoy those long meandering walks or combative rounds of chess against me; or perhaps he was staring down the barrel of mortality, confronting his past and ruing the sick and twisted caprices of his fate. He was, after all, a War Hero who was robbed of his life by a philandering, alcoholic doctor with a history of narcotic charges and other run-ins with the law to his credit. Suffice to say, the idea of karmic retribution is not something I’m quite inclined to regard.
My grandfather died at a time when I was a bit confused, but relatively optimistic, about life. I had just graduated from school and was in the process of heading into the next phase of my life at college. In the wake of his tragedy, my heart was left in a vacuum, mortified with the darkness of nihilism, vengeance and fear. I was incensed at the higher powers of the universe for its cruelty, and was cynical about any bit of good or evil. My mind was wracked with a yearning for vengeance against that Doctor, whom I now deemed the principal antagonist of my life — a human metaphor for all the evil in the world. By then I was heading into law school but had little faith in the law to bring him to justice — he was promptly out on bail, living comfortably on his own accord. I began living under a quiet assumption that I was constantly on the brink of a looming tragedy. This perspective compromised my capacity to experience happiness and made it seem like happiness could itself be a harbinger of doom. I was under the shadow of an existential grief, and I believe my years at NUJS have in some ways been about confronting this grief.
My Grandfather’s death drastically transformed my views on morality. Although I grew cynical of karmic sensibilities and the existence or the benevolence of the powers that be, I compensated by adopting somewhat of a puritanical code, positioned in diametrical contrast to the Doctor. The fundamental cornerstone of this moral code was with regard to the consumption of alcohol. I made a promise to never consume alcohol, taking into account the Doctor’s absurdly high degree of intoxication when he crashed into my Grandfather’s car that night. Alcohol represented the motley of evils I most resented — the loss of control, evasion of accountability, and an abject disdain for other people’s well-being.
I believed that by shunning alcohol, I was actively defying the Doctor, and that the consumption of it would be a betrayal to my Grandfather — my own axis of morality. It was not particularly difficult for me to keep my promise. I avoided attending social events which involved alcohol, and kept myself insulated from parties and other rambunctious gatherings. I stayed away from many a gathering and celebratory moments I would have ideally wanted to be a part of. I thought I wasn’t getting the best out of my social life in college, but this was a trade-off I considered acceptable — something of a token sacrifice. To my credit, I was successful in keeping my promise for four years up until a desolate night in March when I blew it all away.
I took to alcohol in a moment of weakness, when I was a far cry from my usual self. I was dazed by the notification that the college would be shutting down once again, right after reopening, owing to the second wave of the pandemic. I was looking for something strong to cope, and found my anchor in alcohol of all possible recourses. Although I consumed alcohol in ardent moderation, my buzz was tinged with guilt that I had betrayed my Grandfather. However, I also found bonhomie among my friends and seniors who were on the verge of graduating. For the first time in my life, I found myself reveling in college parties and made a fuckton of memories I’ll never forget. Conversely, every episode of my consumption was under the spell of a broken promise — a reminder of my weakness — a betrayal for a bit of hedonism.
I spent the summer living a spartan lifestyle, alone in the solitude of college. I decided not to return home for reasons which will remain unsaid here. I spent the second wave of the pandemic as the solitary student in college — interning, research-assisting, volunteering for COVID-relief services, working out at the gym, playing carrom with the dadas and tending to the dogs on campus. My austerity over the summer more than compensated for all the overindulgence at the dawn of the second wave.
Over the previous semester, I’ve had several occasions to drink with my batchmates. We celebrated our jobs we’ve long slogged for, as well as our return to a semblance of normalcy of college life. But beyond a point, the more I enjoyed my revelry, the deeper I burrowed in guilt once the revelries were over. My sense of guilt further accentuated the long years of grief that left me wary of feeling happy and good about the future. I was slowly returning to my trappings of cynicism and paranoia which had plagued me in the aftermath of my grandfather’s death. I did not regret drinking because my consumption was in moderation and involved money I had earned myself. It was just the symbolic notion of betrayal, a fuzzy sentiment that I had let myself and my Grandfather down threatened to vex me.
A few days ago, I was a bit buzzed on a bottle of beer and found myself staring blankly at a mirror. The face in the mirror seemed different; someone I could not quite recognize. I came to a realization of how much my appearance had morphed over the span of last few months because of my spartan lifestyle. Rather perplexingly, perhaps for the first time in my life, I could see a bit of my Grandfather in myself. He was still alive, albeit in a different form — in me. I am his Grandson after all.
I have indeed broken my promise but I refuse to remain a prisoner of the Doctor by having him on the axis of my conscience anymore. To do so would mean an escalation of symbolism to the point of sabotaging myself through a narrow prism of morality. While I cannot deny the influence of alcohol as a contributing factor to my Grandfather’s death, I’ve come to a reckoning that I cannot let alcohol supersede and abdicate the accountability of the Doctor himself. As opposed to basing my conduct by running from the Doctor’s actions on the night of the car crash, I must choose to emulate my Grandfather for the reasons I admired him, in order to truly overcome the grief of his demise which has long overshadowed me. I know that I will be a greater man than what the Doctor was or ever will be.
Grief is an unceasing scuffle between the past, present and the future. I have reached a stage in my life where I’m keen on moving forward, more than ever before. I’m done brooding over the past, besmirching my present, and being paranoiac about the future. As far as I can see, grief can either be transformed into something or held on to, eventually making its way to others. To transcend grief and transform it to a positive force is an alchemical act of defiance so as to rehabilitate the world. I have come close to losing everything I hold dear a few times in the past but am fortunate enough to be here. This could be the sign of the Universe I’ve been waiting for, an affirmation that all this while the wind has indeed been carrying me. Amidst all of the grievances I may harbor against the past, the fact that I’m still here, alive and kicking, reflects a beam of hope that I do not have to be a hostage to the past. Even if I’m mistaken to believe so and the future’s bleaker than my delusions, to blacken the present — this transcendent moment in time, would merely heighten my misery for no import. I must channel the childish optimism of having a great future ahead of me.
As I’m done writing this post, I can see the Sun rising in front of me, with my eyes to the wind. I take a bit of gratification in being named after the Sun. This is the conclusion of my Schlimazel writings, and the beginning of a new dawn.
