There Are Always Two Deaths Pia Ghosh-Roy (bio) The retirement home was built by a group of Bengali doctors from London and Surrey who ran the South London Tagore Society. They sang Tagore’s songs, enacted his plays, and created a cooperative to build a cluster of cottages in India a few miles from Tagore’s summer house in Shantiniketan. It was a gated development, secure and landscaped, the cottages fitted with western comforts, each with its own patch of garden, a terra-cotta water feature gurgling on the side. This is where they would live—the doctors and their spouses—once their children were grown up and settled in the West. They’d go back to India, spend their retired life in better weather and the company of like-minded people, die in the country where they’d been born. A sound plan. Only none of them returned. Except Ma. Ma who had always kept a polite distance from the Tagoreans, said their songs put her to sleep, yet had signed into their cooperative. At the time, it had seemed to me like a whim, she was gifting herself a holiday cottage to escape the winters for a few weeks. I should’ve known better. After she retired from cardiothoracic surgery, she spent a year wrapping up her life in London, sold the house, and moved to Shantiniketan on her seventieth birthday. Put an ocean between us. ________ For the first few years, her days there were full. She wrote to me of the red earth of her new home, the dusty country roads that led her out of the city, winding past rice paddies to villages where Bauls sang their songs. She translated for me the words of these traveling minstrels, songs filled with questions and a wild sense of freedom. She appointed a rickshaw-wala named Hori to take her to the library on Tuesdays. She spent mornings chatting with Bashob, the maali, who filled her garden with orange marigolds and white dahlias. She enjoyed lengthy debates with the “bright young students” who came from the university [End Page 183] to read to the older residents. She visited Adivasi villages where she wrote prescriptions for medicines and taught the English alphabet to little children. “How could you let your mother move so far away from you?” some of her friends asked me. Their question made me smile. They didn’t know her at all. She was no one’s woman except her own. That is what I loved most about her, admired most about her. It was also what I resented most about her, when she left and I couldn’t make her stay. ________ When Ma left London, I left too. But we went in opposite directions. I moved to San Francisco, accepted the job at the Asian Art Museum I’d said no to before. It had been just the two of us for so long. Us against the world. She gave us a title the day I turned thirteen. Two-Woman Team of Terrible Trail-blazers. Which became T4. Which made me cringe-smile. Life in London would have felt strange without her, so I found a way to leave. Or maybe I found a way to show her that I could get myself a new life too, all on my own. Then I wouldn’t have to be the only one listening to stories of sun and change and the smells of a different place. Now here I am, in her sun. A red-eye from San Francisco to Singapore to Kolkata, a train to Bolpur, a taxi to Shantiniketan. In time to see her turn eighty-five on Christmas Eve. I’m here every year on her birthday, but this year she doesn’t know who I am. She’d always told me that her mind would go before her body did, that it ran in her family. She tried to prepare me for it, told me what to do if it happened. But nothing truly prepares you for your parent losing their memory of the only life you’ve ever known, of watching her trying to place who you are...
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