MASSIJI

She did not like me.

The conversation was low and quiet. Only a few hours had passed since my husband’s aunt had passed away, and her body was upstairs in the bed where she had died.




“Do you think you could help us honor the Hindu tradition of bathing her?” my cousins asked.

Having grown up Catholic, I have often wondered about what happens when we die. The thought of her lifeless body frightened me, but at the same time my love for her shaped what came out of my lips, “Of course.”

With my sisters-in-law, we carefully removed the garments surrounding Massi Ji’s now-cool flesh. I have never been in such an intimate setting with an older person’s body. Because she had – of her own volition – decided to stop eating for the last 10 days, she was down to skin and bone.

We positioned ourselves strategically: one on either side of her, the other at her feet. We had a low-suds solution to clean her. With great care one of us would lift a limb, while the other gently washed. The rinse was simply the air.

I remember bathing my infant son, his brown eyes staring at me with such trust, and how close I felt to him.

Her last breath left her mouth gaping open in a manner that evoked the humblest humanity – how at the end we will be at the involuntary mercy of our bodies, unable to primp ourselves for death.

I was surprised by how difficult it was to move her, given her slight weight. Each section felt like lead as we progressed. Her breasts were large, and it felt like such an intrusion to be in their vicinity. She was a such a proud woman. What would she have thought? Who was this ritual for?

I tried to put aside my own wonderings, to honor the family’s request. We dressed her in beautiful white clothing, the Hindu color of mourning, yet she was not mourning herself. The color glowed upon her, matching her bright white, beautiful hair. We took a comb and pulled back the freshly washed locks, framing her face. All the while Hindu music played softly in the background.

The process seemed lengthy. We were thorough. In the Hindu tradition, touching the feet of your elders is a sign of respect. But that was for when they were alive. She was gone and unaware.

My first encounter with her was at her home. She was a professor in a small Indiana town, married to another. He suffered for a decade from Alzheimer’s while she cared for him at home with the help of her sons. It was a tremendous burden as the sons drove every weekend for ten years from the faraway cities they lived in. They put their personal lives on hold while they assisted with his care.

I was excited to meet her, as I had heard many fond stories about her from my husband. As an immigrant from India, she was really his mother in the United States. I had heard that she liked homemade granola, so I scoured recipes, purchased special ingredients, and I brought a giant Tupperware container of it to greet her with.

She looked at it and handed it back to me. “I cannot accept this,” she said. “If I do, you will expect something in return from me,” and with that she turned and left the room. I was shocked, and a little uncertain as to how to respond. After all, it was cereal. I made it for her because I thought she would enjoy it, and my husband cared so much for her.

We debated the matter but she was insistent. It made no sense to me, but finally, when I was near tears, I accepted that she would not accept the gift. My husband explained to me that his aunt had been taken advantage of by in-laws in a gross and inconceivable way. The experience left her with a fierce opposition to gift-giving of any kind. I tossed and turned all night. In the morning, I awoke to her sitting on the bed, apologizing, but holding firm, “If you accept my terms,” she said, “we will be ok, you and I.”

Those were her words, but I never felt close to her, not for a decade. I felt I was never held in high regard, and never measured up to my sister-in-law because; I was not married to her son. I was only the wife of a nephew.

Her role in helping others from India migrate to the US was complex. She helped 11 in all, each of them lived with her for a duration. In my husband’s case, she helped with his college expenses. I learned how her family helped the Dalai Lama escape from Tibet during the Chinese occupation. This was a serious family. Dinner conversation was about creating world peace, solving the hunger problem, nothing trivial. Goals were high.

Time passed, and we saw each other infrequently at various holidays or family gatherings. After her husband passed, she decided to move to Seattle. Her sons were nearby. She hoped to live with them but Western culture prevailed, and the boys wanted her to get a place of her own. When she arrived in town, I offered to have her stay with us, as her sons had busy work schedules, and I was a stay-at-home mom. We had the space and my husband adored her; it wasn’t even a question.

No one in the family could believe I would do such a thing. They were in shock. How could I be so generous? How did I decide suddenly to be so ‘good’? It was as if we’d never met, and they hadn’t – after all these years – learned a single thing – about me.

But she came. My husband went to work, and I spent time with her. I showed her around and made her food and saw to all of her needs. She struggled to adjust: to the weather, the culture, the people, the place. I persevered. That stay changed our relationship and she began to see me differently.

It brought us close. We took long walks by the beach, taking mugs of chai and folding chairs to have a picnic. She loved nature. We talked about spirituality and women. She told me wonderful stories of her youth, especially about her father. Being from a wealthy family in Pakistan, she was kidnapped and held for ransom during Partition. She had gone to Oxford on scholarship. She was an outspoken advocate for racial equality and gender issues.

She was in her 80s and she had seen good times and bad times, yet she still longed to serve others. She loathed the upscale atmosphere of her senior living community. She volunteered at the homeless shelter making sandwiches. Was it enough? She sought purpose. In the end, she stopped eating.

I think of her often and how difficult she was. I am grateful to have known her. I learned to really love her. I work with seniors and try to imagine feeling so unwanted and discomforted by our culture, yet thinking: I am still here.

I listen. I hear them.

I have a child. How will he feel when I am gone? There are no intimate American rituals surrounding death, none that I am comfortable with. What tradition will I bequeath to him? Massi Ji has helped to prepare me for what I know is coming, even as I resist.