Of life, death and living

May 22, 1991:  I had just gotten ready to leave for a picnic at the zoo with my friends when our neighbor rang the bell. "Did you hear the news?"

It was 7 a.m. Ma was in the restroom, Dad had just brushed his teeth. "No," he said. "Why?" The neighbor said, "Rajiv Gandhi was killed last night." We didn't even know how to react. The youngest prime minister of India. The most dynamic politician of our times. Gone. Just like that.

Mom's eyes welled up when she heard the news. It wasn't the age of multi-channel TV browsing; there was no internet; we read the newspaper; heard the story on the radio; and got updates by word of mouth.

He was 47. I, 13.

I vaguely remembered when his mom, former prime minister Indira Gandhi, was assassinated seven years ago. Mom and dad kept referencing that eventful day in light of Rajiv Gandhi's shocking demise. They were stunned that two members of the same family could be killed so brutally in less than a decade.

I didn't comprehend the politics behind the assassination, but I remember losing my appetite; feeling a sense of gloom and hopelessness; and wondering what could have been...

August 31, 1997: Woke up to this headline: Princess Diana Dies in Paris Crash. "Impossible!" I shrieked. How could she die? She was so young! An accident? What? The paparazzi drove her to her death? That doesn't even make sense. For the next 10 hours, I sat glued to the television.

BBC dedicated the day to an analysis of the circumstances in which Di departed. Then there were the wedding videos. The documentary on her life as an outwardly charming princess, inwardly depressed wife. Princess Diana wasn't even Indian! I hadn't followed her life history. I didn't see her regularly in our local news or on TV. But, still, her death affected me.

I remember watching the funeral procession; William and Harry with their innocent little droopy faces; Sir Elton John singing Candle in the Wind; Earl Spencer's eulogy; and the thousands of people who showed up at Buckingham Palace to express their grief over the untimely demise of the People's Princess.

Mother Teresa had died a day before Princess Di's funeral, but for some reason, even though her death was a bigger loss to the Indian people, Diana was on top of my 19-year-old impressionable mind. Such a fairytale-like life -- with some modern-day drama to boot -- coming to such a sudden, horrific end.

October 5, 2011: It was 4:35 p.m. on Wednesday when a colleague came to my desk and said, "Mansi did you hear thenews?" Her face was ashen white. I jokingly asked, "Who died?" and she said, "I just received a text. Steve Jobs just passed away." "No way!" I exclaimed. He couldn't have. I immediately went on Twitter. It was going viral with the news. #SteveJobs and #RIPSteveJobs fast becoming popular hashtags. But Twitter couldn't be relied upon (or perhaps, I just didn't want to believe what I had heard and was seeing). I called my husband who works at Apple. "What happened?" I asked. "Yeah...it's true," he said. "We all knew it was coming..." He was right.

Since August 24, when Steve stepped from his position of CEO, we knew he had very little time left. But still. For him to leave so suddenly ... a day after the new iPhone 4S was announced ... it just seemed so wrong. With him, even though the news was "expected," the shock was just as tangible and unexpected.

I felt the same deep sorrow I had felt first in 1991 and then in 1997.

I didn't know any of these people. I hadn't met any of them. And yet, I found myself mourning. That same feeling of, "This isn't fair," kept rearing its head ... and then that feeling of helplessness ... the realization that such is life ... the overwhelming feeling of mortality.

When Rajiv Gandhi died, I was nowhere near his age, and yet I felt he was too young to be snatched away from us. When Princess Di went, I  hadn't experienced love and marriage and yet, in her death I felt wronged. I wanted her to have experienced a happy life. She never got the chance.

And with Steve, as has been said over and over this past week, there is an undeniable sense of feeling cheated -- the man was a visionary with so much to offer the world. He transformed entire industries ... the way we interact and engage with devices and with each other. He shrank the world manifold while taking Silicon Valley genius into homes worldwide. With him it wasn't just a sadness because of the void that was created, but a deep, all-engulfing, extremely selfish sense of overpowering grief ... disappointment at being robbed of the chance to see what else his creative genius could offer ...

I wasn't the only "fan in the distant" mourning in 1991 or 1997. I am joined by millions of others all across the world in 2011. These three people couldn't be more different. Their contributions to this world uniquely apart. Their charisma, their ability to be a commoner while standing apart from the crowd, distinctly similar. Their impact all powerful.

They went too early.

In a world plagued with short-term memory ... in a life that seems increasingly fragile with each passing year ... these losses seem to stay. They are a reminder that life is full of unexpected turns. And that there are no guarantees .

At the risk of stereotyping, let me say that Indians have a tendency to save for tomorrow. It's almost in our DNA. We grow up seeing everyone around us "planning for the future" ... a future that they may not even be alive to experience. And we internalize it.

With Steve Jobs' demise and the memories it has raked up, I've become ever more cognizant of the fact that life is for the living here and now. Don't pinch corners for what will be ... what is, is all there is.

The three-year-olds I hang out with seem to understand that concept so well. They don't know what tomorrow means. They aren't aware of the concept. And everything in the past is simply "yesterday." That's really how simple life needs to be.

Today is all we have. Let's make the most of it.



This post originally appeared on my blog, First Impressions.

on love and loss...

Today has been a tough day for my household.

Especially for our little Murphy.

My sweet little dog was out walking on the beach with me yesterday evening when he came across a little bit of discarded fishing bait. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary as his walks usually involve lots of sniffing and nibbling of anything that looks even remotely flavoursome. So I wasn't too concerned until I realised that he was stopping to paw at his face because there was something hanging out of it.

Thinking that he had picked up a stick or piece of grass in his beard, I called him over to remove it. On closer inspection, I realised that it was a piece of fishing line with a sinker attached. After looking in his mouth, it dawned on me that the tasty morsel he had just munched on was more than likely still attached to a fish hook, which was now somewhere down his throat.

After a rushed trip to the vet, x-rays revealed that the hook was in fact stuck all the way down at the base of his oesophagus - one of the most unlikely and difficult places from which to retrieve it.

Our two options involved the use of an endoscope to remove the hook, or surgery.

We chose the least invasive option, which was the endoscope. This, however, proved unsuccessful as the large hook was becoming more firmly stuck with their attempts to remove it.

The last option was to try and get to it through the stomach.

Thankfully, our prayers were answered and the operation today was a success. Though he is not yet out of the woods, he is in good hands and we are believing he will make a full recovery. 

I fully understand that Murph is an animal; however, he is very much a part of our life. In 2 short years, he has firmly entrenched himself in our hearts and as a part of our family.

I do realise that he won't live forever but I simply wasn't prepared to say goodbye to him so soon.

But one thing I have been reminded of today is that loving means that you have to face losing. 

Thankfully, for us, not today. 

But someday, sure.

Loving brings the greatest moments of life - incredible joy and feelings of happiness and belonging.

But it also brings a vulnerability to loss and grief - something we inevitably have to face, often when we are least prepared for it.

Of course, the loss of a pet is not even on the same scale as the loss of a person... but still, it hurts.

Yet though loving means that I will have to face my share of pain and grief, I choose to love.

To love and to be loved is an immeasurable blessing.

And it is so much better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.

I can't wait to have my little buddy back home, following me from room to room, just waiting for me to love him with games, cuddles and walks.....

Though maybe not walks on the beach for a while.  

also published on my blog