Our Centre of Gravity

By Shevlin Sebastian

A few days ago, members of my maternal family held a mass in honour of the people who had passed away. They included parents, uncles and aunts, grandparents and relatives.

After the mass, we stood around the grave of my uncle, Justice George Vadakkel, and murmured the 'Our Father' and the Holy Rosary.

Not everybody was buried in Kochi. They were in different parts of Kerala, depending upon their place of origin. By now, in the graves, all that remained was probably skull and bone fragments.

But when they were alive, they were the centre of gravity in our lives for decades. They moulded us, shaped our values, and gave us a home when we were most helpless and utterly dependent on them.

Now they are gone. But they are always with us. They come in our dreams at night, and as memory fragments in the most unexpected of places – while watching a film, driving a car, talking with a spouse, or playing a game.

But what is certain is that their going-away has left scars in our hearts. Now and then, some comment or memory will aggravate the scar, and pain floods our system.

The mood was heavy as we trooped to a nearby vegetarian restaurant for breakfast.

But as we sat around, tucked into crisp dosas and idlis soaked in sambar and chutney, and sipped filter coffee, the mood lifted. There were smiles and laughter, an occasional joke, and a general hubbub.

A cousin spoke of his visit to Calcutta in May 1977, accompanied by his parents, brothers and sisters.

'It was so memorable,' he said. 'The museum, the Victoria Memorial.'

The way he described it, it felt like he had gone a week ago. Now his parents had passed away, his elder siblings were senior citizens, and some had become grandparents.

Another had lost his wife tragically to cancer, while this cousin was preparing for the marriage of his second child, a daughter.

And then there was a clamour, as it happens always now at almost every gathering, for a group photo, thanks to the ever-present mobile phone. So a few phones came out, a waiter came forward, and took one. We pushed chairs to one side and smiled and grinned for the camera.

A moment frozen in time.

We have these types of group shots taken by earlier generations, preserved in albums, now transferred to our mobiles and shared on family WhatsApp groups.

It is always astonishing and heart-breaking to see how young and dynamic they looked. And then time moved forward; they became old and decrepit and eventually passed away.

This will be our fate, too.

We clutch at life with a fierceness that surprises all of us. Yet, at some point, Death will come, pry our fingers away from what we hold dear and whisper in our ears, 'Time to go.'