Eulogy

Early in the morning, I received a text message from ma. Runu mashi passed away. Beloved person to all who knew her. Dada and I had first known her primarily as "Tapash kaku's wife," some twenty years back. [X's wife, a&b's mom, Y's daughter- The ever changing and subservient role of women, no matter how great she might be in her own right! Anyway, some other day on THAT subject.]

My entire childhood, until very recently, is strewn with the memory of me harassing my parents to take me to their home. Of course, back then it meant cascading down with laughter from the fountainhead of Reshmi didi's chest of witty anecdotes. Reshmi and Rupsha being her daughters, and not too far apart in age from us- dada and me. And etched in this indelible slate of my mind is Runu mashi's angelic smile. As if nothing in this world ever went wrong.

And then there was a time when our much beloved Tapas kaku, baba's best friend since his school days, was suffering from clinical depression for almost 5 years. The man who was the copier of humor, stopped talking, entirely, and remained silent (in the most unmetaphorical way you can imagine) for everyday of the first few years of those 5 years. Runu mashi, like an angel of mercy, cured him. We witnessed it all. Life, gradually, resurrected back in Tapash kaku. Gently, tenderly, softly, she nursed him with love, back to life as he knew it. I bow down to her unwavering patience. She was the quintessential wife; the living epitome of a woman who wouldn't forsake her husband, who would take care of him each day, in sickness or health. And she never made a show about it. Never complained how hard it is. Never once appeared to be frustrated, tired, or even scared. Perhaps, nothing simmered within her, or perhaps something always did, but who would have known? She loved in her quiet way.


While I think of her, I think of other women including me, who as wives have so many complains about their husbands, of the things they didn't do, the things that make us mad about our husbands, all the many ways they hurt us or humor us. But I cannot recall any such day when Runu mashi might have said anything, which even remotely expressed disappointment.

We have all, our disappointments, our broken hearts, our defeated expectations, our bitter tears. She had her's too, I am sure. But the difference lies in the dignity with which she graced across life, never having to do without a smile. And always somehow reassuring others in her quiet conviction that nothing in the world ever went wrong. Nothing. And perhaps, indeed, we can always afford a smile. So, even though today my heart breaks into a million pieces at the news of her death, yet, here is a smile for you Runu mashi: To you, who gave them away in plenty.

:)