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My Paternal Grandmother (Ms Carmine Coelho)
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| My Paternal Grandfather (Mr Raimand Coelho) |
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| My Family at the Funeral of my Paternal Grandfather |
My First death experience or rather witness of death was when I was about 3 years old. We had a dog with whom I would play all day long. One day I found him lying on the ground. I went to him and touched him as usual, but surprisingly he was too cold. Instinctively even I at that age realized that there was something wrong. I began to cry not because I thought that he was dead, but because he was cold, which was not a pleasant feeling.
As a kid, I loved to eat. But I was yet to discover what to and what not to eat. One day I learnt this lesson a hard way. To be precise a centipede that was passing by taught this lesson. I might have accidentally touched it as a result it might have instinctively crawled into a biscuit at least that was what I thought it was when I tried to eat it. When my teeth crushed it to extract its juice, I felt that the acid was burning my tongue and the entire mouth. It was painful enough for me to stop experimenting with the food. Ever since then I would eat only what is put on my plate. Even though I understood that some things are dangerous, the concept or the reality of death was not yet evident for me.
When I was 4 years old, I remember that one day my grandmother fell very sick and was taken to the hospital by boat. I was eagerly waiting for her return as I had got used to her presence. But, when she returned, there seemed to be a grand celebration. She was brought in a colorful box. She was well dressed and decorated with flowers. I was surprised and confused to see all the neighbors and the relatives gathered around her. I was happy that she returned in a short time. I was eagerly waiting to play with her.
I was a bit surprised to see some of my relatives crying inconsolably. It was for the first time I saw an adult crying. I was amused by it and was curious to know why they were crying. I was sincerely happy for my grandmother and was enjoying every moment of that celebration which now I realize was the funeral. I remember that during the procession to the church I was carried on the shoulders of one of my uncles. All this gave me the impression that it was a feast similar to our parish feast or the Christmas celebration.
Finally, when we reached the church the mass began as usual. But there was one difference that caught my attention. The priest had a different tone in his homily. There was no story as there used to be during all the other mass that I had attended. The only part of the mass that captivated my attention was the stories that were either in the readings or in the homilies. This homily was different and unsettling. He spoke about death and resurrection. He said that dead people go to be with the Lord and to intercede for the living. It made no sense to me. I could not yet grasp the idea of death and here he was speaking about going to be with the Lord.
After the mass, the horrifying incident took place. My dear grandmother who was the center of attention until now was sealed in the box and lowered into the pit, at least that's what It seemed to me back then. People started to throw the mud on to the box in which she was. I was horror-struck. But I don't remember if I was crying.
The next day I was looking for her all over the House. I could not yet understand what had happened. I was expecting her to be back with us, at least that is what used to be after every celebration. I would ask my mother and she would say that my grandmother had gone far away. So it seemed that it would take a while for her to return. I might have accepted it without much hassle. I don't remember how many times I have asked for her, but I did cry every time I remembered her.
One day I stopped asking for her. Maybe I got used to living without her. Or maybe I accepted that She was not coming back like that dog which never came back after it felt cold. Or maybe I started to see death as the doorway to heaven which will open for all even for me in its own time. Either way, there was no point in crying over the dead, but instead, rejoice that doorway to heaven was open and there was one more soul which interceded for my family.
Now when I look back at that event of the death of my grandmother, do I regret that I did not cry at her funeral? Not really, I rather feel satisfied that I honored that grand celebration called funeral. To add to that I did not cry when my grandfather died a few years later. I even went to the extreme of playing with my cousins, when his body was exposed in the house for mourning. I remember vividly that one of my uncles expressed displeasure towards our insensitive behavior. That was for the first time I realized that all cannot accept death in the same manner and everyone takes their own time to overcome that feeling of loss.
Recently one of my degree classmates had expired of a heart attack. When I got the news, I felt sad for the family which lost a young son, who was just beginning to live his youthful days. But, I could not cry, as I was conscious that death is part of life. When that time comes nothing can be done and it does not matter how old you are. By crying I cannot get him back. But I do realize that by crying out your heart you can be healed of the pain of loosing a loved one. But again what if you don't feel the loss at all. Aren't they always going to be with us even after death? This is what our religions teach us. They will continue to watch over us. Isn't this knowledge enough to console us? It may not be so for all. There will always be some who will take time to get back to their life after loosing a loved one.
It is not that I forget people after their death and move on. I remember them very often at least once a year. I strangely feel happy after remembering and praying for them, I don't know if it's my satisfaction of knowing that I have done something more for them other than attending their grand celebration called funeral or if it's a grace of their prayers for me.
