I went on a brisk walk this morning. As usual, the little one woke up at night and demanded to be held till she fell asleep again, meaning I was up for about an hour at 3 am. The elder one climbed into bed with us and transformed me into border embroidery on the sheets for the better part of the night. These would usually be ample reasons for me to cancel my morning walk and try to get another half an hour in bed after seeing the elder one off to school (she leaves pretty early in the morning.) But today I doggedly put on my walking shoes before she left, to ensure I would be off just as soon as the school bus pulled out of our stop. I had solid motivation to do so. Last night, with the apparition of the Lion King Mufasa smiling down on us, I promised my daughter something - that I would not die. Not a day earlier than I should.
Conversations with 7 year-olds can be intense. One day you patiently pretend to understand how they were not the person in the wrong in that incident at school; the next you are an avid listener to their wildest fantasies and another day, yes, you are promising them that you won't die. Mia is an extremely sensitive little girl. I have to make sure I am totally immersed in whatever she is talking about because she can retreat into a silent shell if I don't and then no amount of prodding can drag her out of it. Conversations are always at moments of her choosing - unless she initiates it, there is no way her attention can be engaged. Yesterday was one of those days. 'Amma, can we talk?' She started off with a confession that she could not find her Malayalam text book. Normally I would launch into a lecture on how to be responsible about her own things now that she was 7 going on 8. I knew yesterday was not one of those days. I gently told her that she should check in her school shelf and if it was not there we could talk to the teacher about what to do next. With that assurance she launched into the next topic - about how she did not liked being forced to finish her lunch at school, especially when she was served more than she needed in the first place. I nodded along when she suddenly touched my hair and asked 'Amma, why is your hair turning white?' I explained to her that as people age, their bodies change and graying hair was one of the more visible signs of it. Those huge eyes with a faint trace of dark circles under them - which somehow give her a bit of a melancholy air - suddenly filled up and with trembling lips, my little girl pulled closer to me, put a shaky arm around me and murmured, 'Amma, I don't want you to die.'
I was not taken aback. It was not the first time she had said that. Her first encounter with death was when she was merely one. My father's passing did not really register in her consciousness at that age. But the framed photograph of him in our house, before which my mother lights a lamp every day, has, on occasion, led to conversations about death, of an eternal sleep that takes away our dear ones from us. But in our explanations to her, this only happened when one was really old and sick and decided that it was time to sleep forever. We had never introduced to her to the terrifying reality of death as something that could change our lives in an instant - that could creep up on us and shatter our lives in just the flash of an eyelid. But then earlier this year my Uncle - her grand Uncle - passed away. He was a beloved figure who would sit on the floor with her and join her in imaginary battles with her toy pandas. He would look at her stories and pictures and tell everyone how talented she was. He had promised her on his last visit, to take her to the beach the next time we were in his hometown of Alappuzha. And the next morning he was dead. Two months later, a dear friend of ours, someone she had seen at least once a month ever since she was born - who spoilt her rotten despite our stern warnings - succumbed to death after a year long battle with liver failure. Her seven year old existence was suddenly threatened by this strange creature called death - not the peaceful eternal sleep that happened to really old people who decided they were too tired to go on - but something that could mutate, mutilate and for ever alter her little world; take away the people she loved and with not a care, leave unfulfilled promises in their wake. My little girl was terrified. Now every time my mother had a hospital visit, she would entreat her to not die. Every time we talked about the future, about her growing up and growing older, she would remind her father and me, 'Please don't die even if I grow up. I want to be with you forever.'
And last night, the sight of my grays once again brought to her mind the possibility that I could die. Each time she brings up the topic, we offer her a different line of thought, depending on the mood and the context - usually it ends with a reassurance that we are not going to die, along with a distraction we know she can't resist so that her mind is taken off such depressing thoughts. But last night felt different. So I told her, "I won't ever die, you know, as long as you are there". She was pleased with this. 'Really?', she asked. "Yes", I said, "parents never die as long as their children are alive." Her smile started to fade. 'But Mufasa died. And Simba was so sad.' "Yes, but remember how Musafa appeared to Simba when he really needed him? That is the magical love that binds parents to children. Even if they are not around physically, they will always be in their children's hearts and when the children really need them, that love manifests as a thought that makes you happy, a solution to whatever problem you are facing, maybe even a flower or butterfly that suddenly makes you smile." Her brows were furrowed with the effort of assimilating what I was saying. 'Is that what Musafa called the circle of life?', she asked. "Yes!" I replied jubilantly (though that wasn't exactly what he said.) "The circle of life, exactly! It means no one ever dies as long as they have people who love them on earth." 'But will you go away when I am older?' "Know what? I will really really try to make sure I can stay as long as I possibly can. Both Appa and me. We will eat healthy (except once in a while when we can't resist). We will exercise and stay healthy (except when we are really really sleepy). We will try our absolute best to make sure we can be with you as long as we possibly can. And then one day we will reach the point where despite anything we do, we have to go off into that eternal sleep. But as long as you and baby Aisha think of us, remember us and continue loving us. we will always be alive and we will always be with you.' This seemed to comfort her and she drifted off to sleep, her thoughtful little head with the silken black hair laid on my shoulder. The wafting smell of baby shampoo filled my nostrils and I felt, somehow, comforted myself.
There are many reasons why you would want to go on living, none so strong as a promise you make to your child. Thank you, Mufasa, for helping her feel her world was secure again. And for giving me a reason to get moving. Now off to my healthy lunch.
Conversations with 7 year-olds can be intense. One day you patiently pretend to understand how they were not the person in the wrong in that incident at school; the next you are an avid listener to their wildest fantasies and another day, yes, you are promising them that you won't die. Mia is an extremely sensitive little girl. I have to make sure I am totally immersed in whatever she is talking about because she can retreat into a silent shell if I don't and then no amount of prodding can drag her out of it. Conversations are always at moments of her choosing - unless she initiates it, there is no way her attention can be engaged. Yesterday was one of those days. 'Amma, can we talk?' She started off with a confession that she could not find her Malayalam text book. Normally I would launch into a lecture on how to be responsible about her own things now that she was 7 going on 8. I knew yesterday was not one of those days. I gently told her that she should check in her school shelf and if it was not there we could talk to the teacher about what to do next. With that assurance she launched into the next topic - about how she did not liked being forced to finish her lunch at school, especially when she was served more than she needed in the first place. I nodded along when she suddenly touched my hair and asked 'Amma, why is your hair turning white?' I explained to her that as people age, their bodies change and graying hair was one of the more visible signs of it. Those huge eyes with a faint trace of dark circles under them - which somehow give her a bit of a melancholy air - suddenly filled up and with trembling lips, my little girl pulled closer to me, put a shaky arm around me and murmured, 'Amma, I don't want you to die.'
I was not taken aback. It was not the first time she had said that. Her first encounter with death was when she was merely one. My father's passing did not really register in her consciousness at that age. But the framed photograph of him in our house, before which my mother lights a lamp every day, has, on occasion, led to conversations about death, of an eternal sleep that takes away our dear ones from us. But in our explanations to her, this only happened when one was really old and sick and decided that it was time to sleep forever. We had never introduced to her to the terrifying reality of death as something that could change our lives in an instant - that could creep up on us and shatter our lives in just the flash of an eyelid. But then earlier this year my Uncle - her grand Uncle - passed away. He was a beloved figure who would sit on the floor with her and join her in imaginary battles with her toy pandas. He would look at her stories and pictures and tell everyone how talented she was. He had promised her on his last visit, to take her to the beach the next time we were in his hometown of Alappuzha. And the next morning he was dead. Two months later, a dear friend of ours, someone she had seen at least once a month ever since she was born - who spoilt her rotten despite our stern warnings - succumbed to death after a year long battle with liver failure. Her seven year old existence was suddenly threatened by this strange creature called death - not the peaceful eternal sleep that happened to really old people who decided they were too tired to go on - but something that could mutate, mutilate and for ever alter her little world; take away the people she loved and with not a care, leave unfulfilled promises in their wake. My little girl was terrified. Now every time my mother had a hospital visit, she would entreat her to not die. Every time we talked about the future, about her growing up and growing older, she would remind her father and me, 'Please don't die even if I grow up. I want to be with you forever.'
And last night, the sight of my grays once again brought to her mind the possibility that I could die. Each time she brings up the topic, we offer her a different line of thought, depending on the mood and the context - usually it ends with a reassurance that we are not going to die, along with a distraction we know she can't resist so that her mind is taken off such depressing thoughts. But last night felt different. So I told her, "I won't ever die, you know, as long as you are there". She was pleased with this. 'Really?', she asked. "Yes", I said, "parents never die as long as their children are alive." Her smile started to fade. 'But Mufasa died. And Simba was so sad.' "Yes, but remember how Musafa appeared to Simba when he really needed him? That is the magical love that binds parents to children. Even if they are not around physically, they will always be in their children's hearts and when the children really need them, that love manifests as a thought that makes you happy, a solution to whatever problem you are facing, maybe even a flower or butterfly that suddenly makes you smile." Her brows were furrowed with the effort of assimilating what I was saying. 'Is that what Musafa called the circle of life?', she asked. "Yes!" I replied jubilantly (though that wasn't exactly what he said.) "The circle of life, exactly! It means no one ever dies as long as they have people who love them on earth." 'But will you go away when I am older?' "Know what? I will really really try to make sure I can stay as long as I possibly can. Both Appa and me. We will eat healthy (except once in a while when we can't resist). We will exercise and stay healthy (except when we are really really sleepy). We will try our absolute best to make sure we can be with you as long as we possibly can. And then one day we will reach the point where despite anything we do, we have to go off into that eternal sleep. But as long as you and baby Aisha think of us, remember us and continue loving us. we will always be alive and we will always be with you.' This seemed to comfort her and she drifted off to sleep, her thoughtful little head with the silken black hair laid on my shoulder. The wafting smell of baby shampoo filled my nostrils and I felt, somehow, comforted myself.
There are many reasons why you would want to go on living, none so strong as a promise you make to your child. Thank you, Mufasa, for helping her feel her world was secure again. And for giving me a reason to get moving. Now off to my healthy lunch.
