Musings on Faith...

Last week my Mother received a heartbreaking phone call from my Sister telling her about some news relating to a friend's daughter. The girl had passed away the night before in a motorcycle accident. She was only 17 years old. My Mother and I were in a state of shock about the news and our hearts really went out to the parents of the victims (the boy who was riding the bike also passed away on the spot). A few days later, on the 6th of April, would be nine years since my Father's passing and as I said to a friend, I hadn't, or rather haven't, really been able to get over his loss even after all this time. I cannot even imagine then what it must feel like to lose a child! All religions have some sort of coping mechanism to deal with death- but how does one even begin to turn to religion or to prayer at the time of losing a loved one when you question the very existence of God?

I remember when my Father passed away, I'd been cooped up in the hospital in Mumbai for 3 weeks straight, spending the nights with my Mother in a hospital room we had taken, and my days outside the ICU praying for his health. The day he passed away, he was actually supposed to be moved out of the ICU and into a regular room, and the family was so happy that God had listened to our prayers. On hearing the terrible news of his passing, my first instinct had been to curse God and to swear to never pray or have any ties to religion again, but 2 things happened soon after that made me weaken my resolve. The first one I've written about briefly in my article about my Father- The final rites for Hindus are to be carried out by the son of the family, but since my Father only had us 3 girls and since I was the youngest, I was able to perform the cremation. My Father, all my life, used to tell me about how he was convinced that a trip to Tirupati (a temple in India) where he prayed for Lakshmi (the Goddess of Wealth) is what resulted in me being a girl, despite my parents being convinced they were having a son. When I was born they decided to give me the same name they'd picked out for the boy- Kiran, and in a lot of ways, maybe because I was the youngest or just because I was a tomboy through my teenage years, they raised me as a boy. It was weird for me then to be acting out my final part as a son to my Father, as he'd rhetorically often asked me through my life, "Why weren't you my son? You should have been born a boy!" The second sign I received is when I went to Haridwar to immerse my Father's ashes in the Ganges, another tradition for Hindus. Since I was the won having performed the final rites, it was my duty to carry the process out to the end. Another thing my Father had told me all my life, was that I was extremely lucky for him and that every year, my birthday had always been extremely lucky day for him. While performing the final rites, the Pandit (Priest) had turned to me and said, "Do you know this is the best thing you could ever do for your Father? By completing this final step, you are putting his soul to rest." 15th April 2002 was that day- My 24th birthday. People can call it coincidence, but I know there is a weird symmetry to this Universe and to my Life.

Over this past weekend my Mother and I went to the house of the girl and my heart broke looking at her parents. It reminded me of a few years back when a friend of mine had lost his child and I was helping him realize the existence of God amidst the madness of the World. After our meeting, I'd come home and something about that had prompted a poem out of me which I'd like to share with you. It's entitled "Lost and Found."

We met at lunch. He did not cry
His eyes were parched. Drained. Dry.
Over sushi was where we spoke of loss
Over bite sized rolls dipped in soy sauce.

He spoke of his child. I talked of my Dad
We shared notes on tears and emotions we'd had
We thought of the length of life that they'd led
He spoke of his faith. Buried. Dead.

"Karma, Destiny, It's all in the mind,
Crutches to hold, while we lag behind.
I once was lost, but now understand
There is nothing to be found in the palm of a hand.

Gates above, Damnation below,
I believed that too, a long time ago
But now I've seen the light, my friend,
You have one life, and then a dead end."

"I'd worry," he continued, "How would she know,
Once she was lost, which way to go?"
"He'd find her," I argued, "and hold her hand
Haven't you read, 'Footsteps in the sand'?"

"He must need her," I said, "He must have a plan
That you and I cannot understand."
"Plan?" he said, "What could she do?
She was so small. My daughter was Two."

"You'll find your faith," I finally said,
Losing a bit of mine instead,
Over lunch, when he spoke of his kid.
I then squeezed his hand. I'm glad I did.