ground Zero

She came into his thoughts repeatedly this morning. It wasn’t her birthday or their wedding anniversary or anything else. Just…

They had always respected each other’s space-in their bed, in their wardrobe, their dairies and in their minds and spirit. It had taken them years to forge a lasting bond. She seemed to have done most of the effort to nurture the bond and to keep it well glued. Their interests were different, so were their beliefs and goals. Their personalities were opposite. He was the analyst, the down to earth male, comfortable with his newspaper and affairs of the world, noted and forgotten. The day to day type. She was the all rounder, extrovert and ‘philosopher who instinctively applied the smallest knowledge to a bigger background and deduced her own conclusions on life from it.
If it had all been in preparation for that ultimate truth, it had been the ultimate irony too. She had passed away in her sleep, for no valid rhyme nor reason, time nor season. His wife of 45 years had passed away 6 months ago.
How he had coped with the suddenness of the event he wouldn’t be able to tell. He was only used to analyzing financial and political pulse, not emotional. Fumbled somewhat no doubt. Or lots maybe. When his friend’s father had passed away after a sudden illness and left the mother terribly stranded, he had thought it wise to educate his wife on the practicalities of solo surviving. He had encouraged her to learn money management and kept her abreast of their finances, to the nearest thousand rupees. Who would have thought that it was he who should have learnt the finer points of maintaining a cockroach free kitchen? He had slowly learnt the ropes of solitary living, which seemed mainly about how to go about getting three meals a day. He tried the neighbourhood caterer, got ready to eat food items. Ultimately got used to benumbed taste buds and an adjusted stomach. Not much of a social creature, he did not have many friends to turn to for company or guidance. TV and computer aired his mind somewhat. When the flat felt searingly empty, he just went out for a stroll. Saw the colours of the world, heard the sounds without involvement or longings. The maid continued to clean the flat, happier no doubt for the total freedom she now enjoyed. Unchanged curtains, dimmed brass curios and withered plants would have suggested to a visitor the absence of a woman.
He had left her belongings as they were, like in a museum. Never meddled with them in half a year. Nor either while she was there.
Today though, he feels like paying her a visit.
Gingerly he opens her wardrobe. The scent, now somewhat faded, of her perfume, does something. He doesn’t know what. he feels through her clothes. Then the articles she had cherished. Her books. Her journals. Beyond dutifully gifting her a diary every new year eve, he knew little of how they were used. He could not disturb her privacy and read them even now. He just opens one to recall her handwriting. That is all.
Unexpectedly things tumble out. Bills, receipts, newspaper cuttings. Putting them back a headline grabs his attention:

“A temple dedicated to the goddess of Anima”The only temple in India dedicated to misfortune is found at Thacha-nattu-kara. The presiding deity of this temple is Jyeshta, the elder sister of Goddess Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth, auspiciousness and of all prosperity. Which makes Jyeshta the goddess of of poverty, indigence and inauspiciousness. “

So like her to collect such stories, he smiles indulgently to himself. Putting the somewhat crisped, yellowed paper back in its place, he finds a longer story-in her typical ‘Comic Sans MS’ font stylised writing. A sort of commentary on the article.

He reads on.NOW I know where to turn to when the neighbour’s daughter finds the ultimate NRI groom, whom to dedicate the burnt toast to, whose shoulder to lay my head on when I feel like a four letter word…. The possibilities are immense and I wholeheartedly salute the master creator of Jyeshta… above all I feel here is one deity who wouldn’t be hung on a 108 flattering names to open her eye to the devotee’s humbling prayers, who could be buzzed ‘hey Jyests!’ or ‘hi Jeys’ and who wouldn’t care a damn about antiseptic offerings…Jeys wouldn’t be draped in a gold bordered sari flaunting her slender waist and ample bosom, would be unadorned by jewels. Her temple wouldn’t have intricate carvings- it would be a mere cobwebbed shelter where birds, animals, insects, the afflicted mind and the incorrigible drunkard all would find refuge.

wow-he feels like reading on।(Quote from article)The two sisters are born rivals। When one is in, the other is out. So the Indian household is engaged in a constant fight to keep Lakshmi in and Jyeshta out. Waste, dirt, slovenliness, indolence, idleness, disorder, anger and all such undesirable things show the presence of Jyeshta in the house. Until she is turned out, Lakshmi wouldn’t enter and stay. In some houses, it is a custom for the lady of the house to open the back door first, send Jyeshta out and then open the front door and let Lakshmi इ

{Her commentary)

It is easy enough to imagine Jyeshta ‘physically’ but … what exactly would be the significance of a goddess of – say disorder? Or disgrace? How can a goddess preside over dirt? By definition a god/goddess listens to prayers and gives…। What would Jyeshta give her devotees? Would she condone slovenliness, encourage idleness and provoke anger? She’d be the teenager’s goddess par excellence! Would she then also preside over divorces, abortions and the like? …….Perhaps quite simply, by building her an abode, it was hoped that she would stay put there and not haunt households. This persona non-grata among the Hindu pantheon could be kept busy presiding over her own little empire keeping out of Lakshmi’s haloed pathway.One probably went there not to ask her for favours but to request her not to radiate inauspicious boons in one’s direction.On second thoughts though…॥can Jays be truly banished? Doubts, fears, anger, irresponsibility, insecurity and risks cannot be wished away by worshipping Lakshmi. THOSE are what are meant to exit before prosperity and peace step in. But, if we consider the innermost regions of our soul, we would find there a Jyeshta temple too, where our most intimate thoughts and feelings dwell like bacteria-friendly and not so friendly. Where one feels free to murder a wayward husband, relive a first love again and again, wish all problems to be axed away in a stroke, fantasise a life one would want, or envy someone else’s peace, wish the prosperous neighbour to one day know suffering. A temple where we word our fears honestly, project our desires shamelessly. The most secret vault where our Ledger is preserved. And turning the pages is Jyeshta who seems to say…your life may have cobwebs and undusted corners; unspeakable thoughts and unprintable emotions. Don’t feel wretched about them. A vacuum cleaned life is a myth. By merely shutting one door and opening another in your house, you cannot bring in prosperity, or chase away unhappiness. I am here to help you turn the page. You cannot live haunted by your past. And you need not throw it out in a knee-jerk fashion. You must move on gracefully. Don’t be consumed by fear-of losing belongings, loved ones or the house of cards you set up ever so carefully, ever so often. All your insurance policies and fixed deposits cannot foolproof your life. And when it does come, a crisis can be a friend॥just as an earthquake, tsunami or volcano-rased land is rebuilt, often better than before, let a crisis regenerate you. Do not fear fear, do not dread trouble; however despicable your thoughts are, do not suppress them. Get over them. So…Jyeshts then would be my goddess of Ground Zero; of the aftermath of ravage, the goddess of the just orphaned baby, of the terrorist victim, the abandoned doggie, the laid-off worker, of the parents of the disabled child; one who doesn’t answer to ‘why did you do this to me?’ but who asks with you ‘what can be done now?’ and counselor-like, helps one find self-acceptance and regeneration of the soul.She is truly the goddess of the Spirit.

Awestruck. Thunderstruck. Claritystruck he is.

He has to first put back the papers ever so carefully back inside the diary. Shut the cupboard noiselessly, as if someone will come asking him what he is up to.

Sits in his easychair, uneasy. Or is it a rocking chair? His heart beating fast, his temples throbbing, he dares to bare himself to himself. In an unfamiliar way, his one-dimensioned mind goes back in time, to terrains quit hastily, undefined; issues unresolved which he didn’t suspect even existed. Reliving the chill of her pulse and the chill in his heart, then the initial days following her death-his Ground Zero. The phantom limb syndrome, of feeling a presence where there is none. He does not recall anyone consoling him or telling him how one goes about alone overcoming grief, loss or whatever it is. The emotions, the philosophy thereof-not a clue did he have. Rarely given to introspection or psychoanalysis, he had never really tried to relive those days. If heartache had consumed him, he wouldn’t have been able to distinguish it from a groaning knee pain.
He had not even known to ask ‘why me?’. or ‘what am I going to do?’. Just patched up with life as he could-throwing away food when he could not eat it, letting her potted plant wither forgetting to water them every day, leaving things strewn about till they turned into eyesores beyond redemption.
Now he knows.
He has to put things in order. Lots in fact. Jeys is winking.