What I wish Dadi dreams about on her deathbed
When people are 300 seconds away from their death, research shows that there is a surge in electrical activity in the brain. Neurons are communicating rapidly with each other. Multiple parts of the brain light up in a manner the person was very much alive and dreaming. We don't know what these dreams are, but based on the experiences of people with near-death experiences, we know they are likely to lucidly see the experiences that have shaped their being.
My dadi is critically ill due to a fall and in the Intensive Care Unit. As a family, we are clear we don't want to extend her suffering. On receiving the news, my partner shared this reflection on death with me. I thought it would be good to send her a last wish, in the form of dreams I would like her to dream about, as she breathes her last breath.
One of her strongest memories is of her ancestral home, that she left behind at the age of 14 years due to the partition of pre-independence India. She would dream about the acres of family farmland, their horses, visiting parakeets, and cows named Krishna and Tikiya, who also bore two calves together. She would reminiscent about how even animals feel a sense of belonging, and protect the little humans who grow around them.
The loss of leaving the ancestral homeland would stay, and she would remember the ride they took on the crowded steamboat carrying just one metallic suitcase each, where the family deity's idol travelled with them from Karachi to Mumbai. She would recall the relief when they arrived safely together.
She would recall the refugee camp where they were welcomed, and the family acquaintances with whom they found a temporary shelter. She would remember the first time she met my dada in this house, in the prime of youth. He was a dutiful son in whom she found connection and love, which lasted nearly seven decades and many adversities.
Dadi would remember the birth of my dad and my kaka (uncle) living in the family building, where they survived three wars, a massive riot and many everyday challenges of a joint family. She would remember the dog, Moti, who would walk with her children as they left and returned from school, and all the evenings my dada, dad and kaka spent flying kites.
Dadi would remember the year 1977, when they bought their first home and created a nurturing cocoon for her children, and eventually, their wives and children too. She would remember the daily ritual she performed with Thakurji, the idol of Lord Krishna as a child, who she would diligently awaken with bhajans (religious songs), bathe, dress, offer food to and put to bed every single day.
Dadi would remember watching the 1983 Cricket World Cup with her family, which India won. The inspiration for my name came from that day (the captain was my namesake), as does our love for cricket as a family.
Dadi would recall my dad's marriage and a year later, my birth as her first grandchild at Bombay Hospital. Being the first child in the family after 1963, I was the apple of her eye. As I grew up, she would remember reading out the Ramayana and Mahabharata (two Indian mythological epics) to me as I put cream on her dry hands and heels every afternoon.
And then, she would remember the birth of my sister and my uncle's wedding. She had the final say in whether my sister would be named Kaveri or Nikita, and we are all glad she chose the latter. She would also remember the day Harsh and Hetal, my twin cousins, were born. She saw them as a precious gift, given everything that my Kaka had been through during his long cancer treatment.
She would remember the period when her sons and their families moved away, where she for the first time had time for herself again - her reading and her daily check-in her younger brother, Thaku dada, and older sister, Nena ben, with whom she was closest. She would remember receiving and reading our handwritten letters (this was before the internet/video calling), which would some times include our photographs and drawings too. Eventually, she would remember when my sister and I came back to live with her, when we were much older and more responsible, and eventually my wedding when the entire family got together for the last time.
The last time the entire family was together
She wouldn't remember my sister's marriage or the birth of my daughter. Her dementia had progressed significantly by then. And she would barely remember anything that happened in the last year, except this sensation of deep and unconditional care and commitment shown to her by my dada and my dad.
When I had gone to see her after my daughter was born before moving to the Netherlands, I was aware that the Dadi I knew was fading away and that death had begun its process. I had mentally and emotionally said my good bye and even shed a few tears as I took the flight back. Now that we have finally reached the time, I am remembering all this so that this inter-connected energy field of love that my dadi and I share supports her in making the last memory of her life, a special one.
My dadi was my favourite grandparent, and she instilled in me a spirit of gratitude, compassion and healthy vulnerability that I hold dear today. I am going to miss her a lot, but I know it is time for her to step into a world where she is her peaceful and joyful self again, leaving behind the afflictions of her mind and body. Love you, Dadi, and all that is good in you would live on in the world through us!
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