The Ocean Divided Us and its Waves Crashed Mercilessly
The ocean divided us, as we said goodbye while sitting in isolation. Its waves telling us what needed to change, and what we needed to open our eyes to.
December was when the U.S had another peak of covid, and everybody was waiting in their living room for a new year to usher in — — for a sense of transformation. We were all tired, battling a year of uncertainty — — understanding what we glossed over pre-covid. We dealt with our emotions, spent more time with family, and really understood who truly cared.
I, on the other hand, had too much thrown at me.
At midnight of December 28th, my uncle told my mother and me that my grandmother — — I call her my naniji, died of several complications — — end-stage kidney disease was one of them. Whether she had Covid or not, no one really knew, because, in India, all the doctors were quick to declare it.
Tears flowed knowing that all my hard work snapped in a few moments. It took three seconds, to reverse three years of planning: trying to pool up money, setting up a gofundme, trying to give a sense of hope to my mother.
My mother screamed in despair, knowing that 2011 was the last time she hugged my nana and naniji. She exalted the pain caused by my paternal family — — the gossip, the drama, the constant interference, and the constant sense of superiority to my mother’s family. I can never forget the image in my head of that moment. Where the scream embodied frustration, a loss that is unforgivable — — a loss of two loving parents.
My mother and I were saving up to go to India eventually, but unfortunately, while working through that time, we weren’t able to go at all because of India’s state of the virus.
Moreso, several family members did not help out when there were pivotal situations, like my grandmother’s kidney disease reaching the near end-stage — — right where we had time to visit. My paternal side pointed fingers at my mom’s “aloof” nature — — saying that her family wasn’t significant. One afternoon, my mother told me that she can never forget those words.
As a family suffering from unemployment and toxicity, the world laughed at us. However, I was determined to rebuild what was lost. My mother gave up hope, but as a native New Yorker, that didn’t seem right.
As an immigrant’s daughter, I had to witness a culmination of events — — where toxic family politics meets helplessness and the power to struggle brought us somewhere but nowhere. In an Indian household, the oldest daughter has to carry on the struggles of the previous generation. It’s a collective struggle, where our innocence fades early on in life, and we grow up wondering if we had an actual carefree childhood.
My household consists of one side being inferior to the other. It was set fast in stone once my mother was married. My naniji knew that this would prevent my mother from flourishing in a few ways — — I wished she knew how it would carry on generationally. In all honesty, I never saw “togetherness” and positivity in my family. There was always a need to fight against each other for some strange, ambiguous title.
I felt like I lost a huge battle. As my grandmother passed, the night was dreadful. We felt some sort of inner relief, but sitting across the ocean, we wondered what we actually meant to my naniji — — whether or not we tried hard enough. We wondered if she knew what we did behind the scenes.
I felt that she knew deep down what we were struggling through. That right now, she looks from above in hope and guarantee, that my mother, sister, and I will do better.
For three months, I sat in agony. Day and night I used to wonder what was the point of life. My heart sank every time I understood the loss — — what fate was, and how we were robbed. It came to a tipping point where my tears were tired, my eyes were consistently red, and my brain was exhausted from the heaviness in my heart.
The thing that helped me carry through, was something peculiar. During difficult times where I couldn’t sleep, I felt my naniji’s presence. She definitely took a huge load off my shoulders. She patted me on the back and told me it’s time to transform my life. Naniji might not have been physically present, but I felt this feeling, that they were in awe of how much I had sacrificed, and that they were waiting for me to start building my personality to its fullest. Both my nana and naniji wanted to see the day where success rained on me.
Her passing was a catalyst to drive change, as well as, make us face the bitter truth of why we couldn’t visit her in the past decade.
Ever since then, life has changed drastically. It’s hard to describe in words, as things changed so fast that sometimes we failed to recognize what’s actually happened.
The ocean’s waves crashed mercilessly, showing me what I had buried inside me. All the stress, anxiety, lack of ease in my personality — — shined through. I desperately want to become the woman of my dreams, and I know it will take time. However, there’s a physical pain — — a pain that makes me assess what has happened in the last 20 years, is now creeping up with force. Toxicity shredded my outlook, when it came to understanding my potential, and seeing what was compromised in my life. I’m living in the midst of that pain, crying throughout the day, feeling like there’s no one who would step in my shoes and walk around a little bit.
I’m constantly there for friends and family. When my mother gave up, I decided not to. I created a game plan — — a strategy, and I was mostly successful in it. However, people don’t do the same for me whenever that pain lurches and swallows me.
At that time, I lay on my bed during the dark hours of the night, wondering if it will get better.
When the ocean divided us, it left a gap in my heart.
