Hello? I've Landed Safely
A guest post by Pooja Salvi
A couple of months ago I opened up Grief Notes for others to contribute if they felt compelled. Today, we have our first guest post and I’m delighted.
The following piece is written by Pooja Salvi, author of Grievances from the Grieving.
Her writing style and storytelling are simply beautiful, and because she’s from India, her readers get to travel to a new destination. Through Pooja’s writings we discover that although we’re all significantly different in culture, we’re the same in grief.
We’re all human.
Hello? I've Landed Safely
Three weeks after my mother passed away, I took a flight to Bangalore. My sister was to join me in a few weeks from Bombay and we were hoping to spend time together, find some grounding, and heal.
I remember that flight like it was yesterday. The clouds rolled on top of each other dancing to their own medley. White, soft, cotton candy against a bright blue sky. I wish I could leave the aeroplane, jump out and bounce off - from one cloud to the other, one billow to the next, the wind wild in my hair. I'd go off cartwheeling across the sea to my destination.
There, across the horizon, they told me I might see her.
This nice little daydream kept my anxiety at bay. That period just before, during and a little after take-off, I don't like it so much. My stomach lurches just as the airbus starts moving and I remain nervous until the pilot announces we're in the air.
That particular day, this flight, was the first I was taking in my mother's now-permanent absence. I'd call her several times before a flight, talking through the process of boarding. This routine conversation would help dissipate my fears. Then I'd hang up and promise to call soon.
For every flight, during take-off, my last call would be to her, and upon landing, my first call went to her.
"Who would I call now when we get off?" I wondered.
Somewhere far away in the distance, you could see a sharp shiny, thing suspended in between the clouds. It hurt to look at it directly and it disrupted my daydream.
I reclined into the seat and fished Chintan Chandrachud's legal non-fiction book, 'The Cases That India Forgot', which I had selected from the airport bookstore's wide range for whatever reason. It was 14 pages before I realized I had more things to Google than I understood.
Just as I was about to retire to my thoughts, my neighbor hello’d me and asked me if I was a lawyer. Wearing a white dress with a black coat over her arm, Janvi told me she was a corporate lawyer and I remember thinking that it made sense.
"No, I'm a journalist and writer," I told her with a small smile and asked if she was a criminal lawyer. This branch of law always amazed me, a true crime buff, but in real life, I’ve only ever met civil and corporate lawyers.
Janvi, in her early 30s I think, was no different. She was flying to Bangalore to oversee a real estate meeting and its legalities. I expressed my interest in law and how once upon a time, I thought I wanted to study to become a lawyer.
Janvi eased into the conversation and asked me what was bringing me to Bangalore. But it was too late - I had zoned out. That little sneak peek into my past ambitions brought memories from student life to the fore, a time when my mother was still with me.
I wanted to tell Janvi that I was returning to the house I shared with my husband of three months after finishing my mother's final rites. That less than a month ago, on the night of my birthday, I received that dreadful call from my sister telling me my mother’s kidneys had succumbed, failing her after 59 years.
I wanted to tell her that it had been seventeen days since I spoke to my mother.
"We used to talk at least three times a day after I moved cities in 2019. The last few years of her life, I wasn't around her," I would have lamented.
“Nothing is the way it was,” I’d have said.
Janvi, a stranger to me, would have empathized and probably even consoled me. “Poor girl,” she would have thought. Out loud, she’d have said, “It must be difficult, I can understand. But you need to be strong.”
“What?” I’d have retaliated, scowling. “I don’t want to be strong – I just want my mother back.”
For the last few weeks, I zoned out as family, relatives, and friends doled out advice, one hot take on grief after another:
‘It gets easier with time.’
‘She would have suffered a lot had she returned from the hospital.’
‘Well, at least she was there for your wedding.’
‘Be grateful she didn’t suffer much in death.’
Consolations like these rang around me trying to bargain with the ache in my heart. They made empty promises of a future that was devoid of my mother and somehow, I was supposed to be okay with that.
“You know nothing about loss, do you?” I wanted to spit at her.
But I didn’t say any of this.
Janvi continued animatedly about the key differences between corporate and criminal law. I don’t think I was listening but I was careful not to nod prematurely - I was there but I wasn’t there.
I was outside the aeroplane, flying to that shiny metal object piercing through the clouds. The bright blue sky beckoned me, inviting me to loosen the knots in my chest. It was a tempting offer and I don’t recall when I lost track of my neighbor.
When the plane lands, Janvi doesn’t say goodbye. As I wait for my Uber, I see her waiting too, on a phone call.
I remember wondering if she was telling her mother about the flight.
~Pooja Salvi, Grievances from the Grieving~
I sincerely want to thank Pooja for sharing her story as it resonates SO much with me.
It brought me straight back to my own flight almost two years ago, to take care of my son’s final arrangements.
At the time, I hadn’t spoken to him in ten days - the longest I had ever not spoken to him. And, due to Covid travel restrictions, I hadn’t seen him in nearly a year - the longest I’d ever gone without seeing him.
I suspect this is the same story for so many others.
Thank you, Pooja, for making this piece of your journey so relatable.
If you would like to be a contributor to Grief Notes, please reach out to me via email at kristi@writtenbykristi.com
A soft and personal piece. Sweet, the same and different at the same time. What go me sharply as I was reading was the things people say to you when you tell them somebody died. Its like they don't hear the words in their heads before they come out of their mouths. <sigh>
Thank you for sharing, Pooja. I've found grief is only understood by the grieving. Thank you, Kristi, for this group and a safe place to fall.