The End... or is it?

As children, we are all protected from the cruelty and finality that is death. If all death has ever meant to you is grown-ups dressing up in white and disappearing for an hour or two, it comes as a bit of a shock when you are forced to deal with another aspect of it - the non-existance of the person. And the reality check is even harder when it comes in the face of your mother's death. So much so, that my mind decided to not deal with it.

At seventeen, as my mom's death caused the world around me to change, it suddenly became infinitely easy to believe in a heaven. Infact, it became pretty much impossible to disbelieve in it. There seemed something intrinsically wrong about a world in which she did not exist. She had to be out there, somewhere. She has to be.

It cannot be the end.

Growing Up

Yesterday, while visiting my nani, or moti mummy, as we call her, me and my sister were recollecting the days we'd spent there years ago. Having spent almost half my vacations during school days there, I have a sursprisingly few memories of those times. However, thinking back, whatever few memories I do have, have a cheerful and a carefree edge to them.

I clearly remember days on which our sole aim used to collecting little white flowers from the nearby garden and making a garland of them. Then there were times we used to invent crazy games and spend hours playing them. Each day started with a new, fresh agenda and all our life thoughts were limited to those few hours.

I try and compare those past times to these current ones. Doing things just for the sake of doing them, without caring about their usefulness, not having to think about the important things in life; these seem like a long lost art. I wish I could live life like that again, without any cares in the world.

But I guess that's the thing about growing up, you can't be a child anymore...