A Study On Grief

I hate the way time seems to stumble and slow down when you want it to pass by, and how it sprints when you want it to stop in its tracks. It’s morning and we are still stuck in each other’s arms. But I have a purpose for the day.

What are the roots of grief?

I try my best to be quiet but you told me before that my footsteps sound louder to you when I’m leaving. “Don’t go.” But I have questions that I need to ask— both mine and someone else’s.

“I have to go,” I try to smile at you, “I have a project to work on today.”

“Can I come with you and help? Please?”

I look at you for a moment in silence. There is an origami flower on your desk that I gave you months ago. The desk is a bit dusty; the flower is not.

“Of course, you can come with me.”

I pack my bag as you use my mirror to fuss over your hair. I smile to myself, shaking my head at how easily we fit into each other’s mundane routines. I explain the project to you as I get dressed and push you out of the way to comb my hair.

“The causes of grief?” you look at my reflection in the mirror. “Why?”

It’s a simple question but I hesitate for a split second. “I… It was the one I felt the most called to out of all the options.”

You hum in understanding. “Do you think we understand each other so well because we're both equally messed up?” I look at you as you say that and I know it was not a question you want an answer to. You sigh and say, “We’re different kinds of messed up though. You and I carry different kinds of pain. Tell me. Where do you think yours came from?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s your project, isn’t it? What do you think is the root of your pain? Your grief?”

I have done my best to keep my pain locked away in a box that I keep in the corner of my mind and now you are looking into my eyes and asking me to pull that box out from the shadows and reveal it to you.

“I don't know. I've never thought about it.”

“If you don't think about it, you'll be in it forever. How will you go about asking others to talk about something you won't allow yourself to talk about?”

I stay silent because I know you’re right.

“I think you need to identify the root cause of your grief and weed it out. Cut it off from your life.” As you say this, I notice your eyes tearing up. My mind is replaying our conversation from the previous night— when your intoxicated mind didn't realise what it was making you do or say. I don't know if you meant it when you said that alcohol was the least of the weapons you had used on yourself. I don't know if you meant it when you said you'd rather meet death while your head was in my lap than on a hospital pillow. I don't know if you meant it when you said you had never felt loved before, not even by your mother.

What is the root of your grief?

What is the root of mine?

I think, everyone's grief echoes the same story.

“Let’s go?”

 

 

Where does your grief come from? I can't help but ask this silent question to every soul that seems to touch mine.

We decide to travel outside to the neighbouring village first and spend the day wandering to see if we could find someone willing to share their stories. Then, we could look for stories within our university itself, later in the evening.

We play catch with a couple of toddlers at a roadside shop as we try to figure out where and how to begin. The twins have dirty palms and wide smiles. We while away half an hour aimlessly, listening to the twins chatting. Soon enough, their sister, who seems to be a young teenager, comes to get them home. Her eyes are red I notice, as if she had been crying. What is the root of your grief?

She sits beside the two of us and asks me what we’re doing in a meek voice. I tell her we’re looking for people who would want to tell us about their lives.

“What do you want to know?”

“What is your name?”

“Tara. What do you want to know?”

I sigh. “Anything. Are you happy with your life?” I ask her.

She looks down at her feet and shakes her head ever so little. “I don’t know. Some days are better than others and I know many people have it worse.”

I look at you and see you struggling to not let the sadness show on your face. I take a deep breath and turn back to the young girl.

“Tell me about the better days first, if you’d like.”

“Sometimes my father goes away for work; outside of town. It is quiet when he is not here. I like it then.”

Every word of hers is a punch to my gut.

“Your father is not nice to you?” I ask as gently as possible, almost afraid my voice might shatter her.

“He doesn’t talk to me. Or my brothers. It is as if we are invisible. But he is not nice to my mother.”

I hear you draw in a sharp breath next to me. I can feel you looking at me but I don’t look towards you.

“I’m sorry he made you feel like that. You’re not invisible, Tara. Your name means a star. Why is your father not nice to your mother?”

“I don’t know. They argue a lot. And when my father is here, my mother stops being nice to us too. Sometimes, he hurts her so badly that she can't even get up to make food for us. One time, my brothers were very hungry, so I tried cooking for them and I burnt my hand.”

I try to swallow but the lump in my throat won't go away.

“Hey, I’m going to get a smoke,” you mutter at me, then get up and walk away. I notice you pacing at a distance— you don’t light a cigarette. I turn back to Tara.

“When my father is not here, my mother is happier. She is nicer to us too.”

I nod at her, at a loss for words.

“My father wants to get me married.” I’m sure she is not even fifteen years old.

“Do you want to get married?”

“I don’t know,” she looks away towards where you’re standing and I follow her gaze. “Maybe a marriage will save me from the pain my father brings into my life. Maybe I’ll have a better home. A peaceful one. Where people don’t argue in loud voices all the time. And maybe my husband and his family will love me.”

I watch you put a cigarette to your lips and struggle to light it with your lighter. You give up and put the cigarette back in your pocket. I sigh and turn back to see Tara looking at me.

“Do you love the boy with the brown eyes?”

The boy with the brown eyes. I remember when I first noticed your eyes. I remember telling you that they were brown, not black. I remember the slight look of surprise and disbelief on your face. I remember feeling sad that no one had ever noticed the colour of your eyes before— not even you.

“Maybe.”

Tara looks down at her feet again and nods. “I think he loves you.”

I look towards you again and watch as you pull the cigarette to try and light it again.

“He said he doesn’t.” My voice constricts. It’s been so long since you said that and yet the pain lingers. Look at me, a privileged girl tearing up because some boy doesn’t like her enough while sitting in front of a child who isn’t sure if she will have dinner tonight.

I shake my head and look at Tara drawing patterns on the ground with a stick and smile.

“People lie,” she says quietly.

“Hmm?”

She looks up at me and repeats, “People lie. People lie all the time about what they feel. I wish someone would look at me like that. Like the way he looks at you.”

She resumes drawing patterns in the dust.

“I’m sure someone will.”

One of the twins comes running back to get his sister. Their mother needs her, he says. She looks at me, smiles and goes away.

I sit there for a moment longer, still a bit shaken. You walk back to me.

“Hey. Are you okay? Sorry, I walked away. It was…”

“Yeah. I know. It’s okay, I’m fine. Let’s go?”

“Yeah, I just need…” you look at me for a second and hesitate, “…a smoke. My lighter isn’t working. Do you have one?”

“No. Let me try yours.”

You hand me your lighter and put the cigarette to your lips once more. I shake it vigorously and then hold it to the end of your cigarette. The flame is short-lived but it’s enough. I watch you inhale and think of the hurt on your face when Tara started talking about her father and how you walked away.

Everyone’s grief echoes the same story.

You blow out the smoke and it smells like mint. I catch a small smile tugging at your lips.

“Stop looking at me.”

I don’t stop looking at you. “Do you have another?”

You nod and offer me another of your mint-flavoured cigarettes. You try to light mine; the lighter fails again and you swear at it. I’m about to tell you to let it be but you lean towards me to light my cigarette with the burning end of yours. It works. The cigarette tastes like the first time you kissed me.

I breathe out. There’s a weight in my chest still.

“So… What did you think of the conversation?”

“I don’t know,” I sigh. “All I can think is I wish I could do something to change the way things are. It’s not fair.”

“Nothing in life is fair.”

That’s true to an extent, I suppose.

“Time to head back.” I nod at you and we start walking— away from one story of grief, carrying another, to yet another.

We talk to a few other people throughout the day. And it’s nearly five a.m. now and I’m sitting beside you on a rooftop waiting for the sunrise, thinking about all the lives I glimpsed into.

“My father’s anger.” “My mother’s indifference.” “Hands that wandered further than they should have.” “Loud voices that I could not shut out.” “A broken heart.” “Arguments that I never asked to be a part of.”

Their words reverberate within my mind. Everyone’s grief echoes the same story.

The day evoked more emotion within me than I had been prepared to face. Pain is everywhere— all different kinds and yet rooted in the same sentiment. Everyone’s grief echoes the same story, I think, and it is this— how their life is not fair to them, and yet this is how it is. “I never asked for this,” they all said. None of us ask for the pain and yet we receive it, in some way or the other, some more than others.

You’re tracing your fingers over my palms, absentmindedly. And I think, maybe this is how it is meant to be— for us to share our grief instead of trying to forcefully root it out, connect through it and build something that will last us a lifetime; to live, despite everything.