The Deepest Cut: Navigating Love, Loss, And Suicide Grief

I don바카라�t know why I think of Baba again that morning.

Replaying the audio, my fingers trembling, devastated by the finality, sitting on the pot, warm tears streaming down my face and neck and melting into my bosom. I sob violently as I pee, breathing with difficulty. My left lung is not the same after the deadly second wave of Covid 19 wrecked my system, post a three-week haul in a faceless, overcrowded HDU unit of a private hospital in Kolkata바카라�the city of my birth. Around me, the all-pervasive stench of death and disinfectants and stretchers and ambulance sirens, return to haunt me.

I was four when my biological father, Basudev Kundu, a promising young banker, an alumnus of Presidency College, which is where he met Ma, Sushmita, 바카라�Mita바카라�, shot himself, a year into treatment for schizophrenia바카라�after he arrived one night, visibly distraught at my maternal grandparents바카라� South Kolkata residence바카라�my parents were estranged by then and living apart. Ma walked out of their marital home with an asthmatic toddler, huddled on a cycle rickshaw, she stood with no luggage, as her ageing, heart patient father, peered from a first-floor balcony, taking in an only daughter who had married against her mother바카라�s wishes.

Baba바카라�s first attempt at killing himself was probably when he was a boy바카라�Ma spotted marks on his wrist and hands바카라�that he always defended as injuries sustained having fallen down while climbing trees in their Midnapore home. My father was raised in a district in West Bengal. The youngest of two brothers.

Ma, along with my maternal grandparents, never told me of Baba바카라�s long- standing battle with clinical depression or the fact that he바카라�d shot himself in his parental home using a fully loaded gun on a visit there, despite my maternal grandfather warning his parents, on a trunk call that though Baba was much better and in remission 바카라�he should not be triggered at any cost. No sharp instruments could be stored at home.

It was Lakshmi Puja that year바카라�a festival that has since then been erased from our family almanac바카라�along with all his physical traces. I remember the first time Ma told me about Baba바카라�s indiscretion, a couple of years ago, sans preparation or permission바카라�as suddenly as her first cousin, a friendly Mama had blurted the truth about his looming absence, that I had used my imagination to make up for, a day before my class ten Boards in 1994.

I had listened to the word 바카라�suicide,바카라� for the first time, then aged 16, without batting an eyelid. I had not cried, either. But, I stayed up all night바카라�as the rage filled me up바카라�waking, after an hour of tossing restlessly and tearing up handwritten letters I had spent almost my entire childhood writing, that almost always began with 바카라�바카라�Dear Baba바카라�바카라�. As I ripped out page after page from diaries with frayed, yellowing edges, I felt more and more hatred.

I had no idea really why I was angry바카라�instead of being just sad or plain devastated. Why I didn바카라�t rush to my mother, instead of bottling up the betrayal바카라�along with a sense of being deceived and abandoned? Maybe, Ma was the only person I had. My father바카라�s family, his older brother, an absentee uncle, had washed their hands off us. I had no idea that the source of my seething resentment was probably not so much Baba, a man I had no physical memories of, but maybe, Ma to begin with, along with Mamma and Bapi (my maternal grandparents) and Shanti Mashi (my Santhal, childhood nanny) and Kalipada Mama (our Odia man Friday) and Mrs Wilde (my nursery school teacher)바카라�as she pointed to a sunny sky and lied that my father was a star now.

Probably struggling with everyone I ever met바카라�before and after who had actively participated in this conspiracy of silence to cover up and possibly hoped to ease the blow to a daughter that her father is long dead, that he chose to take his own life. Death has no vocabulary in Indian families habituated to celebrating funerals with as much fanfare and social and economic pomp as a wedding바카라�how does one mourn an 바카라�accidental death?바카라� We are always telling people to fight and never give up in the face of adversity and illness바카라�how can we view death at one바카라�s own hands then as nothing, but an act of cowardice and giving up바카라�instead of the byproduct of a serious and life threatening disease바카라�a cancer of one바카라�s mind, perhaps.

Suicide, despite being decriminalised, still carries with it the veritable stigma of being viewed as a crime바카라�which is why we commonly use the word 바카라�committed바카라�, as one looks for someone to blame, almost at once바카라�바카라�abetment바카라�.

That night, one of the most complex and emotionally traumatic바카라�I despised myself in equal measure바카라�the fat, fatherless, bucktoothed girl in a posh, all-girls convent, lying compulsively to escape being bullied by classmates, who no boy ever liked back, winning at everything바카라�medals in academics and school fests, acing extracurricular activities like singing, dancing, debate and theatre바카라�but perennially a runner-up in love바카라�who struggled to be accepted as herself. Body shamed, dreading another rejection.

Why love from the opposite sex always felt so distant and difficult. Like questions in school, such as, 바카라�바카라�So, who do you look like? Mom or Dad?바카라�바카라� or 바카라�바카라�What does your father do?바카라�바카라� or later, and when my mother remarried when I was 13, 바카라�바카라�So, how did your own father die?바카라�바카라�

Last year on his 73rd birthday eve on 18 November, I remember telling my partner how I had only known of his birthday via an old friend, who now lived in Delhi, when I wrote in, telling him I wanted to celebrate Baba바카라�s 70th, as recent as in 2019, a year after I had performed his funeral at a Buddhist monastery, on the morning of my own 40th birthday. A decision I grappled with and even hid from Ma that chilly winter morning바카라�unsure of how she would react to me forgiving Baba after harbouring almost three decades of pent-up and unprocessed emotional debris바카라�of relating my romantic rejections and feeling physically ugly, inwardly, blaming it all on a missing father who I surmised did not love me and Ma enough. And before that, before my uncle바카라�s disclosure, how I바카라�d built him up as a sort of infallible God/superhero, even praying to him each night, asking him for silly wishes to be granted바카라�every time, I mourned another relationship turning to ashes바카라�I was transported back to the same feelings of unworthiness.

In the absence of any form of trauma counselling or support group, I lacked healthy coping mechanisms and was still grappling with acceptance. My primary lens to Baba바카라�s life, his failings in their marriage and his illness, was via Ma바카라�s tumultuous and unhealed emotional lens바카라�the times, I played part therapist, part parent to a grieving woman who had not even been allowed to attend the last rites of her deceased husband바카라�despite being a fulltime caregiver, despite taking him for treatment, daily and dutifully, accompanied by a sick father, who slept at night on the floor, guarding Baba, in a house where there were no chitkanis and locks, bathing him, helping him into pyjamas without drawstrings and keeping me away바카라�always scared. Always on the edge. Always worried.
Every survivor carries scars that may never heal fully.

Was I like Baba?

My greatest fear. The times, I was sad and struggled with happiness바카라�the times I corrected those who remarked I resembled Ma, childishly insisting, I looked like my Baba. Desperately wanting a piece of my father, somewhere. A part of him that would never leave. That would always say goodbye and that he was coming back soon. Return with gifts and stories, like other fathers. The kinds who never break a promise.

바카라�바카라�I am not good with all this stuff바카라�바카라�바카라� my partner had mouthed awkwardly, using the word 바카라�limitation,바카라� a term he used a lot, having forgotten Baba바카라�s birthday, hung over as he was after a night of wild partying at his Oxford University, MBA reunion, held after every five years. He had gone alone, last year. I was unusually silent on our perfunctory WhatsApp call바카라� sandwiched on the weekend, between his gym, grocery shopping, dropping daughter off to drama class and household chores바카라�mostly in his car. It was not a video call, thankfully.

I wanted to tell him I was bereft and heartbroken and rudderless바카라�I missed knowing his birthday for decades or imagining what they may look and feel like and celebrating it with him바카라�that I wanted him to celebrate mine on 14 December. I needed support on days like this. Birthdays of a parent who die by suicide are overwhelming, to say the least, even as my partner matter-of-factly resorted to the usual hurtful cliches of me needing to 바카라�바카라�move on and let go and normalise a day like today.바카라�바카라�

Suicide grief remains an intensely isolating experience. There is also no bereavement dictionary or etiquette바카라�everyone grieves on their own timeline and at their own pace. As a survivor and now having publicly acknowledged that I belong to a survivor family, I recognise how Ma and her parents and me and mine바카라�have never had any formal acknowledgment of our lived trauma, followed by social ostracisation and judgement, familial exclusion and a crying need to be supported compassionately, instead of how we survived, by simply finding ways to escape the anguish and live on, respectfully.

I don바카라�t know why my thoughts travelled back to Baba바카라�s birthday.

How alone I had felt바카라�staring at an empty screen, again and again and again. Wanting so bad to reach out. But, hoping I did not have to and was reached out to, instead. Wanting to make sense of why every year and especially on this day바카라�and in the weeks before and after, I am swept away.
Maybe, what every survivor needs is attention and an apology of sorts, even if it were from someone else.
 
바카라�바카라�I am sorry for your loss바카라�바카라�바카라�
 
바카라�바카라�What do you need today?바카라�바카라�
 
바카라�바카라�I promise not to leave your side.바카라�바카라�
 
바카라�바카라�Tell me what you are feeling바카라�바카라�바카라�
 
바카라�바카라�How can I show up in a way that you feel most supported?바카라�바카라�
 
The morning my year-long relationship came crashing down on me, I found myself constantly replaying Ma바카라�s confession about Baba바카라�s indiscretion.
 
I want to save my mother.
 
I want to save Baba.
 
And, myself바카라�

Sreemoyee Piu Kundu is an author and columnist

(This appeared in the print as 'The Deepest Cut')