I lost my mother when I was six years old. She committed suicide in the basement of her parents home in the middle of the night. And just like that, my entire world changed. I lost everything. My brother had just turned two and my sister was exactly two months old that day. We were all babies, without a mother.
We stayed with her parents and her brothers with their families in one house. Suddenly I was the eldest of eight children, being raised in the Indian culture. As an adult now, I feel that I was blessed to have them all. We were not alone, and the house was brimming with activity. Her loss was devastating to the family. She was the jewel, the only daughter. Everyone fell apart, then tried to cope, and learned how to carry on with her babies. Of course nothing was the same for them either. My grandparents were now parents to young children again, and took on the challenge of raising kids to adulthood for the second time.
They did the best they could. My grandfather, Veerendra, was a great man, the leader of our family, its moral compass and its motivator. He became my father. Although he and I butted heads often into my teenage years, I’ve learned it was mostly because we were so similar. He was a journalist, then a lawyer in India. He worked with Indira Gandhi in her government as a Jr Ambassador, where he made friends with the then Canadian High Commissioner to India, Roland Michener. Michener returned to Canada and became Governor General, inspiring my grandfather to immigrate. As he could not practice law in Canada, he instead began the first Hindu temple, Indian radio program, then a television program. He pushed for equal religion freedoms laws to be changed to include Hindus, Muslims, Jain, and Sikhs, and succeeded. Although we were a struggling middle class family, he insisted every Sunday to hold a buffet for the community, giving food to whomever was in need. He was a community man, and became known as Mr. Idea.
My mother Sandhya was a feisty woman. She was an instigator, pushing people’s limits and following her own heart. She fell in love with my father, a Dutch man, not of her culture, going against her family’s wishes. From stories I’ve been told, she was much fun, lively, and wanted to make her own path. Once on a visit back to her small town in India, she wore a 70s style mini-skirt. Her grandmother admonished her saying she could not wear it, it was not acceptable. Of course she did anyways, adding Nancy Sinatra like knee-high boots and a funky coloured blouse. She was the talk of the town.
I started this site to help others. In honour of my Dada and Mom, I wanted to give back. It’s not easy to speak of grief, to share it and it’s not comfortable for others to speak to you. Understandably many don’t know what to say. I suppose having spent most of my life with grief by my side, I find it’s familiar now. Everyone will experience grief at some time in their lives. It can be dizzying, confusing and leaves a gaping hole where someone used to be. When our loved ones die they take a piece of us, and at times it can be comforted by only those who have also experienced it. Talking, sharing, and embracing each other helps. It relieves the weight somewhat, and reassures us that there will be a tomorrow, that life will go on, and our new lives will continue. We are not alone.