Another day. A new day…?

Every day is a new day. I know that. Yet I feel like I am repeating the same day over and over again. Papa passed away – something should have shifted. And it did. Monumentally. Made me feel the urgency to live life larger than I have been doing so far. But all I can think of is shrinking myself to fit into a small fetal ball. Something that will allow me to rest and recoup.
It feels strange to live a life with all that it entails now that Papa is gone. But I know intellectually that that is not true. Papa lived on after his parents and after his sister passed away. He did not shut himself away. I know that. I find myself looking for direction in memories. I find myself searching the dark recesses of my mind for telltale signs of how my father coped, in the hopes that it will tell me how not to feel completely lost and bereft. Sar pe see chatr chaya uth gayi... I am 50+, I have two grown children, and yet I still feel like I don’t know how to play this grown-up game, ever since Papa left. A friend left me one message when he lost his father last year – “I am an orphan“. I did not understand that sentiment at the time. I do today.
I know how fragile life is. How short it is. Tomorrow is not promised to anyone. I know the many responsibilities I have, the many joys still waiting to be explored, and a wondrous life still to be lived. And yet…


It is just over a month. Maybe it is still too soon. I have been feeling out of sorts for some time now. I even wrote about that sometime ago. Life is short, and there is much to accomplish. But I am constantly reminded of the futility of it all. Painting and creating give me joy. So much joy. But for some reason, I am left thinking of leaving behind things that my loved ones will have to deal with should something happen to me. That seems stupid when I write it out like this, and yet it is a thought. There is a workaround that allows me to leave instructions to give away a bunch of stuff, to give specific things to specific people and organisations, to burn the rest, and so on.
I had a conversation with my father a week or two before he passed away. We were talking about how things are expensive when they don’t need to be. I was talking to him about what I charge for a portrait now, and it seems absurd, given I get so much joy out of painting, ‘that it is crazy that someone would pay me to paint’. And Papa said that ‘paint and charge what the market charges. Charge more. Charge for your sincerity, for your effort, for your skill, for all that you bring to the table. Charge because it is your bread and butter. For that, don’t be afraid to charge. You want to do stuff on the side – do that too. For free or a token amount. But for your work. Charge. You also have responsibilities to fulfil to your family, and that requires money. Goodwill alone is never enough.’
My father loved the arts. He loved music, and my love for beautiful things came from him, I think. He nurtured it in me. I see beautiful things and am filled with joy, but that niggling thought persists about what is even the point of it all.
My friends tell me it will pass. Give it time.

My father loved roses. He has a beautiful rose garden at the farm. I used to and still do – collect egg shells and grind them to a fine powder to put into the flower beds at my parents’ farm 🙂 My father will live on at the farm. We took his ashes and spread them near the roots of the two Mango trees my father first planted from seed at the farm almost a decade ago. He loved that farm. In fact, he used to tell me whenever I worried about him going to the farm when not feeling well – He would say – ‘Don’t worry, you can bury me there!!’
I did the next best thing…