Solace

 John Donne, one of the greatest poets ever, was a cleric as well. In the "memento mori" style which his clan, the Metaphysical Poetry movement, too, gloried in, he superbly mocks death as "Death, thou shalt die". That religious certainty is, however, best captured in his Meditations, XVII.

It is part of his "Devotions upon Emergent Occasions". He was himself down with fever then, had a close brush with death, and yet had to perform his duties as a cleric. Hence his island metaphor, loved even by those who have nothing to do with literature.

"No man is island/entire of itself," asserts John Donne. Everyone is a piece of the continent, part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, he states further, Europe is the less. He concludes with one of the most poignant declarations, "every death diminishes me." Hence his injunction, "never, therefore, send to know/for whom the bell tolls/for it tolls for thee."

Death has been hovering in the very air since the Pahalgam incident. The heart wrenching wails of the young bride who turned a widow in the very first week of her marriage, the terrible tales told by the other survivors are tough to bear.

This evening, moreover, I got to hear the sad news of the death of my friend's father. Just two days back, we had discussed his fragile health which must be extremely painful for him as he was in his mid-nineties. There would be countless happy memories which would now be Varsha's succour and support.

Yet the news saddened me deeply. Yes, there is no true solace, I think, when someone very close passes away. Absolutely intensely, truly acutely is felt the loss. Yes, every death creates a hole in the soul. But when a parent passes away, one truly feels disconsolate. Whatever be your age, you suddenly feel absolutely orphaned. 

Yes, you know everything. Your parent's life was ideal, was good, was fulfilled. Yet the feel that this presence who was with you right from your birth is no more is somehow hard to bear. Every dose, every pill of the medicine to be fed at a given time hurts as if you have to yourself swallow it painfully.

Sure, time is the only solution to every loss. Yet the moment the scab which you thought had hardened, if not healed, is worried open, you realise the wound is raw beneath. The darkest night sure ends, the bright sun brilliantly burns. Yet the tender grace of a day that is no more never returns!

Pratima@"Our dead are never dead to us as we have never forgotten them". My favourite most author, George Eliot, would sure forgive me the minor change I made in her famous assertion.