As Asha’s illness entered a terminal stage in the last few weeks, I was reminded of the opening lines of Susan Sontag’s 1978 essay “Illness as a metaphor”. She wrote: “Illness is the night-side of life, a more onerous citizenship. Everyone who is born holds dual citizenship, in the kingdom of the well and in the kingdom of the sick. Although we prefer to use only the good passport, sooner or later each of us is obliged, at least for a spell, to identify ourselves as citizens of that other place”.
The question that haunts us, and for which there has never been a convincing answer is: why should someone as young, vibrant, and so full of life as Asha, be handed the second passport so early? How could a girl, who savored every moment of her life, sparkled with vitality in everything she did, life-affirming in every move she made, be deprived of her wellness passport so soon? Who or on what basis or rationale are such decisions made and why? Five thousand years of philosophy and five hundred of scientific inquiry have yielded no convincing answers to such existential questions. All we are left with are beliefs, myths, allegories, and stories, a spattering of hypotheses and rational abstractions – none of them convincing enough to answer our burning question about mortality. The fact is the Asha we all know, love, and adore so much has slipped away from her mortal frame, consumed by the very cells that gave her life. During the last few days, when she was bedridden and slipping precariously between periods of lucidity and unconsciousness, we prayed for a miracle, if there was one. But as always, miracles have a way of not happening when we need them most.
The poet Rainer Maria Rilke often prayed: “ Oh Lord, give each of us his own death”. Asha chose how she wished to die. She transitioned on her own terms, at home, in the loving care of her immediate family. She didn’t want needles and tubes puncturing her body, she wished to travel to the other side with the same freedom and dignity she lived her life on this side of the line. And what a life she lived! A high-intensity flame, full of joy, ambition, drive, and focus. She lived every moment with a gusto and effervescence that few can equal. No stone unturned, no place unvisited, no material possession out of reach. Blessed with a caring husband, a loving and talented daughter, a sister who doted on her, and a father who nourished her, loved and cherished by extended family, friends, and colleagues -she was an incandescent light that burned effulgently, the center of attraction, for all of them. Her very presence in a room, bedecked and bejeweled and resplendent, was enough to brighten up any gathering. Wherever she went she was the cynosure of all eyes.
Asha believed in facing the world with courage and on her own terms. She understood early, after the tragic demise of her mother (to the same disease that would consume Asha decades later), that she had to be strong, and independent, for herself and for the family, and make something of herself. She was an active member of MILT, an organization that evangelizes self-confidence and communication as key skills for success. Asha believed in dreaming big and in developing the skills required to achieve those dreams. She found a soulmate in Venky who shared her vision and dreams. From the days of knocking at doors to sell encyclopedias to the time when she was driving the operations of the successful Goli Vada Pav business across the country – she remained singularly focused and at the same time, she didn’t forget to smell the roses along the way. There was certain quality in Asha that made her irresistible to anyone who came in contact with her. One can only call it charisma. Sometimes her pushiness, drive, and insistence on doing things her way could drive those around her a little mad, but only for a few moments before they willingly gave in to her wishes. It was impossible to hold anything against her for long. Our displeasure and contrarian views will melt into nothingness with the first touch of her warmth, love, integrity, and persuasiveness.
Of all the beautiful memories I have of Asha ( and there are so many for all of us), for some reason, the one that stands out from the mists of time is a seemingly trivial incident when I was seven or eight years old, and Asha, in her early teens. I was in Mumbai on a vacation and was staying with Asha and Deepa. As a young boy, I was shy, introverted, and wouldn’t readily mix with others. One evening, noticing my reluctance to step out of the house, Asha literally dragged me to the ground floor of the housing complex, took me to a nearby shop, bought a few marbles for me, and introduced me to a group of kids playing marbles in the open space, and asked ( no ordered is a better word!) them to take me in. I pleaded with her that I didn’t know how to play marbles, but she wouldn’t budge. In a stentorian manner, she said “ Learn the game, and play”. She left me abruptly with the kids, and walked away, but didn’t go too far; I could still see her in the periphery of my vision. Two hours later, exhausted and dirty, she took me back home, and on the way said something that has stayed with me: ”Sunder, you have to meet people, only then you can become confident. See, you have now made some friends, isn’t it”. I still remember looking into her face with gratitude for pulling me out to play. That was her strength, her ability to influence people to do their best. Forty-odd years later, her words and action are still vivid in my memory. It was advice that resonates even today, and I pass it on to others.
Our family will never be the same without Asha. Our gatherings will be painfully incomplete without her graceful presence and magnetic charm. We will miss those luminous eyes that danced and sparkled with life and joy; that charming smile that so often spread across her chiseled face and lit it up like an unfurled rainbow on a clear sky, captivating everyone in her orbit; her immaculate dress sense and the immense care she took in how she presented herself to the world; that irrepressible energy and laughter that reverberated wherever she went; the kind heart that held back nothing from anyone and always willing to give more; that strong sense of individuality, freedom, and dignity – which didn’t seem forced – and came naturally to her; her love of life and the art of making each day count as if there was never a tomorrow. I think it was the novelist Graham Greene who once said that it is only for twenty or thirty years that one truly lives, the rest is spent on reflection. Asha lived the prime years of her life to the fullest and wasted no time. She was never bogged down by the tedium of reflection, except for the last few years when the illness crept on her, and she began questioning her identity and purpose in life. Like a flower, she bloomed and expanded, and like a flower, she gracefully gave in when her time was up.
I spoke to Asha briefly nearly a month ago. We were on a video call. Apart from the paleness on her face because of the disease and the powerful medication, she was herself: that penetrating voice, self-confidence, courage, and optimism were all intact. That will be the last image I will carry of her, though Sekhar did show me a glimpse of her face as she lay resting in her eternal repose on Thursday, and it had lost nothing of that serenity that Asha has acquired in the last few months. Asha knew her options for treatment were diminishing, and the disease was taking her body away from her. She was prepared. She was ready to leave when the time came. She had lived so full a life that death did not intimidate her, and all she wanted in the last days of her life was to allow her to make that final journey as naturally as possible.
Whenever I am emotionally overwhelmed, I dip into Emily Dickinson’s poems. I always find solace in her words. When I heard that Asha had passed away, I turned to the volume I had handy on my table, and my eyes fell upon this poem.
“She died, — this was the way she died;
And when her breath was done,
Took up her simple wardrobe
And started for the sun.
Her little figure at the gate
The angels must have spied,
Since I could never find her
Upon the mortal side.”
I would like to think of Asha’s passing away in these terms. She has walked over to the other side into the arms of angels spying on her, waiting for Asha to return to their fold. Asha’s life hasn’t ended, it has transitioned to a different dimension, that’s all. She will remain alive in our collective and individual memories. Though her iridescent physical presence will not be there anymore, her deep laughter, irrepressible smile, and unconditional love for everyone in the family will continue to resonate and sustain us forever. The fragrance of her life will never fade away.