Tales from the Island of Serendip

4 4

With time running out, I had to book my ticket while still on a bus in Birmingham. By this point there was only one flight that might conceivably get me to the funeral on time, so I booked it. The flight took off early on Saturday morning, and involved a brief stopover in Abu Dhabi, but take off was delayed from Manchester, and I had to sprint the length of the terminal to make my connection, just reaching the gate before it closed.

In Calcutta Airport I switched to my Indian clothing in an empty corridor, and was soon in a taxi. The taxi driver spoke no English, refused my directions even though given in Bengali, and insisted in stopping every few minutes to ask pedestrians for directions to a place they’d never heard of. I reached Mir Para half an hour before Mridula’s funeral.

Poppy has since told me they now call it “the day of hugs”.

Mridula had only recently persuaded Latif to build an extension to the old single room house, which was nearing completion. This included two more ground floor rooms and an upper floor, where she planned that one of the rooms would be kept for my exclusive use. I hadn’t even known.

When I got there, work had ceased, and the bamboo poles supporting the new roof stood like a petrified forest within the space I'd known and loved.

Mridula was only 46 when she died. Her grave is near the entrance to the tiny Muslim cemetery across the road from the para.

To one who has been long in city pent,

'Tis very sweet to look into the fair

And open face of heaven, - to breathe a prayer

Full in the smile of the blue firmament.

Who is more happy, when, with heart's content,

Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair

Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair

And gentle tale of love and languishment?

Returning home at evening, with an ear

Catching the notes of Philomel,—an eye

Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,

He mourns that day so soon has glided by:

E'en like the passage of an angel's tear

That falls through the clear ether silently.

John Keats

I stayed with the family for a further two weeks. What happened in that time I'll recount in another post...

Very touching Michael. My sincere condolences for your loss. I'm so glad that you were able to make the funeral.

Peter

Mridula had only recently persuaded Latif to build an extension to the old single room house, which was nearing completion. This included two more ground floor rooms and an upper floor, where she planned that one of the rooms would be kept for my exclusive use. I hadn’t even known.

 

 

 

...this post moves me in ways that I truly have no words.... which is rare for me. I'm SO sorry for you, old friend.... GOD BLESS...

-jimbo(a friend of jesus) (thumbs u

My heartfelt condolences as well, Michael, for your Mridula. It is a hard thing when our children pass before us.

To one who has been long in city pent,

'Tis very sweet to look into the fair

And open face of heaven, - to breathe a prayer

Full in the smile of the blue firmament.

Who is more happy, when, with heart's content,

Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair

Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair

And gentle tale of love and languishment?

Returning home at evening, with an ear

Catching the notes of Philomel,—an eye

Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,

He mourns that day so soon has glided by:

E'en like the passage of an angel's tear

That falls through the clear ether silently.

 

John Keats

 

 

 

 

Thank you so much for sharing these deep thoughts and emotions. Your artwork is wonderful as well. How fortunate you are to have had a chance to change so many lives for the better, and to be changed in return. Thank you again for sharing your rich questing spirit with us here!

I stayed with the family for a further two weeks. What happened in that time I'll recount in another post...

At a loss for words, Michael. My condolences to you and the family.

Terrible news.

My thoughts are with you and the wonderful family that adopted you.

My thoughts and prayers go out to you Michael .

Same here.

My thoughts and prayers are with you as well.

I'd just like to say how grateful I am for all the kind words.

One of my earliest memories of Mridula is at her house. It is night, and she holds aloft a lantern to guide my way along the dark path to her door. She has been waiting for me, because "loadshedding" (the nightly power cuts) is going on. It is pitch black, and she is concerned I might trip.

I always thought of myself as her guardian angel. But now, only after she has gone, I realize that Mridula was my guardian angel. Despite the years, and the distances, she never put the lantern down...

Life, like a child, laughs, shaking its rattle of death as it

runs; it beckons me on, I follow the unseen; but you stand there,

where you stopped behind that dust and those stars; and you are a

mere picture.

Can it be true that I forgot you? We haste on without heed,

forgetting the flowers on the roadside hedge. Yet they breathe

unaware into our forgetfulness, filling it with music. You have

moved from my world, to take seat at the root of my life, and

therefore is this forgetting-remembrance lost in its own depth.

You are no longer before my songs, but one with them. You came

to me with the first ray of dawn. I lost you with the last gold of

evening. Ever since I am always finding you through the dark. No,

you are no mere picture.

Tagore

Wow

Amid the ruins

When you awaken in the morning’s hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circling flight.

I am the soft starshine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry:

I am not there; I did not die.

Mary Elizabeth Frye