15th Nov. 2006 – with Suresh and both sets of grandparents, we arrive at the funeral directors. We are led to a room at the back, where our son’s tiny body is laid on a massive table – far too big for him. Maybe the right size for an adult, but certainly not for a 2-day-old baby. Instantly, my heart breaks at the sight of him, lying alone on the cold table when he should be warm in my arms. His little body doesn’t feel the same. I’m afraid to touch the stitches from the post-mortem – they look like they might hurt him.

We gently wash our little baby and dress him in the new clothes chosen lovingly by his Nani, Nana, two Masi’s (my sisters) and big sister Rakhi. They forgot to buy him shoes for his tiny feet, but I believe that’s how it was meant to be. I had the perfect solution – a cute pair of brand-new unisex Nike trainers, gifted to Rakhi when she was born, but never worn. I’d come across them while sorting his wardrobe in late pregnancy and smiled at the idea of them being passed down to her little brother. I was reminded of them just the day before, when I asked my mum if there were shoes to go with the outfit. He clearly wanted them so badly, he took them with him forever. (Thank you, Ella and Suresh, for this beautiful gift xx.) Once dressed, we each hold him for a brief moment – it never feels long enough, then lay him gently to rest in his tiny white coffin. We ask the grandparents to give us a quiet moment alone with our son. They respect our wish, leaving with heavy hearts after saying farewell to their first grandson. Very little is spoken between Suresh and me, yet we know exactly what the other is thinking and feeling – completely lost in grief and intense pain.

When we return home, family and friends are already pottering about. I head straight upstairs to my bedroom, away from everyone. Downstairs, the elders prepare for his homecoming. They are teaching 15-month-old Rakhi to draw a swastika (a sacred Hindu symbol) with red kumkum and to place rice on the white cloth that drapes the coffee table – handmade by his Nana – where his coffin will be placed. Although these people are my closest and dearest, I feel distant from them all. I want them to stop fussing. I want to be left alone.

I’m called downstairs by my Mum. A cousin sister has come to visit before heading to work. She’s taken time from her busy morning to offer her condolences and say she’s sorry she can’t attend the funeral. We meet at the bottom of the stairs – she hands me a pretty bunch of flowers, which I hesitantly accept, and then embraces me tightly. At that moment, reality hits. Although we aren’t particularly close, she suddenly feels like the person closest to me in the entire world. Her hug gives me the strength I need to face the day. (Thank you, Sangeeta x.) Despite that glimmer of strength, I don’t want to stay downstairs. I don’t want to talk to anyone. As I return upstairs, I glance into the living room. I recognise all the people there but not particularly close to some. I wonder how many would have visited had my son been alive. I feel angry and annoyed. Some people who should have been there – have been kept away because it was meant to be a small, private family affair. But that’s not what it turned out to be, and it angers me even more.

Back in my bedroom, I pace restlessly and stare out of the window. Where is my son? It’s time now. I hear the noise from downstairs – a house full of people and yet I feel so utterly alone. I want to scream. I need silence, but I say nothing. I just watch out the window, silent tears rolling down my face. Outside, I see family men gathered. Suresh is talking to them – functioning. I wonder what he’s feeling, thinking and saying. How is he managing to hold it together while I feel like I’m falling apart? We haven’t spoken properly in days. I feel detached from him… and from everyone – including my little baby doll, Rakhi. I’ve been unable to function since our baby died, unable to care for myself or anyone else. Thankfully, my mum is here, caring for Rakhi – and for all of us. (Thank you, Mum x.) I later learn it was my father-in-law who insisted on this – he told my mother-in-law that I’d be more comfortable having my mum stay. He couldn’t have been more right. (Thank you, Father-in-law and Mother-in-law xx.)

I wonder what the neighbours must be thinking. Many have already left for work. They knew I was expecting my second child but don’t know he was born – or that he’s now gone. Some may have seen the ambulance five nights ago, unaware of what followed. As people walk past they slow down, curious about the crowd outside our house. They realise when they see the blue and white teddy bear flower arrangement resting by the door. I see curtains twitch. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine my child’s funeral would be in my own home. I feel sick.

My heart skips a beat as I see the black limousine – not a hearse (the funeral director said, it would’ve looked too overwhelming for a tiny coffin) inching down the road. Palpitations thump in my chest as it stops gently in front of our home. Suresh lifts our son’s coffin from the back seat and carries it in his arms. His brothers offer to help, but he insists on carrying his son himself. I wonder if his arms ache… They must. No father should ever have to carry the weight  of the coffin of his child. I go downstairs without being called. I stand to one side, feeling like an outsider at my own son’s funeral. Everyone’s gaze is now on me, and I feel exposed. I wish I weren’t in this awkward sari, I wish I were in my own western clothes. I feel lost and vulnerable.

Avoiding eye contact where I can, my gaze falls on a mother and daughter crying. The daughter’s eyes meet mine. Despite the distance between us, she looks straight at me, offering a warm, gentle smile full of sadness and understanding. Her tears reflect the grief I feel inside. I am comforted by her presence. (Thank you, Jayshree x.) Beside me is Suresh’s uncle, the only man standing amongst the women. I know he’s reliving the grief of losing his own baby son many years earlier. Though he’s saying something – probably words of comfort – I’m not really listening. I’m just grateful for his presence and quiet mumblings as Suresh walks into the front room with our son. (Thank you, Naju Kaka x.)

My son’s coffin is placed gently on the coffee table Rakhi helped prepare. I’m asked to come forward. I don’t resist. I just follow instructions. As I step closer, I notice my 80+ year-old Nani in her red coat, staring at her great-grandson with a bewildered expression. Later, my Mum tells me that Nani too lost her firstborn son soon after birth – he would have been four years older than my Mum. Seeing my son’s little face brings comfort. He looks so different now – at peace, finally home. Someone is guiding us through a Hindu ritual, but I’m not really interested, all I see is my son. I go through the motions, my eyes fixed on my son. For a brief moment, when Suresh and I kneel beside him, it feels like just the three of us in the room.

I hear sniffles and crying. Rakhi places a soft, blue rabbit beside her baby brother in his coffin – a gift she’d chosen while shopping for his clothes with my parents and sisters. I try not to break down as I place a family photo beside him. we have no photo of the four of us after his birth, but I chose one from Diwali 2006. It’s my ‘Richest Moment’: me in a pale yellow sari, heavily pregnant, beaming on the sofa next to Suresh in his smart suit with Rakhi between us, and our son safe in my tummy. I can’t look at that picture anymore. I’ve hidden it well, even from myself. The sari from that day still hangs at the back of my wardrobe – I can’t wear it, can’t throw it away. Sometimes, I just want to touch it and hold it.

It’s time to cover his face. A white cotton sheet is handed to me. Suresh and I whisper to each other that we don’t want to do this. We just want to see his face a moment longer. I hear my mother-in-law crying behind me. Someone is telling her to see her grandson’s face one last time, but she can’t, she’s lost in her own grief, one that only a grandparent will ever understand. Krishan tells us he’s ready. Suresh and I are ready too, we don’t want our son to wait another moment. Suresh quietly says “after three” we count to three in our heads – and together, we cover his little face. A heartbreaking wail escapes from behind me – it’s his Grandma, realising she’s missed the moment. She tries to move my hand, but I tighten my grip and say firmly, “No, no more.” I feel his cold little button nose under the cloth…

Suresh and I sit in the back of the car, with our sons coffin on our laps, with both our Mums quietly behind us. The journey to Hendon Crematorium feels endless, yet I remember nothing. Between the four of us, we have not spoken a single word the entire journey. As we arrive, I see more family and friends gathered – it pains me. I don’t want to get out of the car. Inside, I try to listen but can’t focus. My sisters speak the poem I chose: In a Baby’s Castle. (Thank you, Kamu and Naina xx.) With steady hands and a heavy heart, Suresh bravely reads aloud Krishan’s eulogy to all those who have  gathered to honour his memory, while I just sit, numb, in my own little bubble. Suddenly, Suresh calls me to the front – this wasn’t planned. He wants me beside him as we’re asked to press the button. Again, there is silent understanding between us both – we count to three in our heads and press together, watching our son go. I cover my face with both hands and hide my face behind Suresh, away from all those in the room. I close my eyes, and finally allow the tears I held in all morning to pour freely. Loud, raw, guttural cries escape. My legs give way and he holds me up, leading me to the back room for our private family farewell. (Thank you, Suresh x.)

Outside, my mum is worried for me – as any mother would be. It’s a cold November afternoon, I am barely one week into my postpartum crucial recovery period, following a manual removal of my retained placenta and no baby in my arms… naturally, she insists the mourners greet me quickly, without hugs. I am told where to stand, what to do. I feel like a puppet. I see people’s feet in front of me but not their faces as I choose to keep my head lowered – I have no energy in me to meet people eye-to-eye. I offer my hands for greetings, lost in exhaustion. Then a person embraces me tightly, breaking the no-hug rule. I know immediately who it is. Her hug is the only one I remember from that long line of people. (Thank you, Ella x.)

I remember nothing else from that day except the exhaustion. I went home… and continued life… with his beautiful memories. They are more than enough love to carry me through my lifetime.

____________________________

Today (8th Nov. 2017) is Krishan’s 11th birthday. I can’t imagine what he would look like aged 11. In my eyes, he’ll always be my little baby. Sleep tight, my gorgeous little man. I miss you so much. Only a grieving parent will understand how much…

Thank you for taking the time to read my extra-long blog today.

It is a piece of my soul. Every grieving parent deserves the space to speak their child’s name, to be asked about them, and to have their story heard. I gave my son, and myself, that space here – and in doing so, I hope I have given others permission to do the same. Writing this took four months – hours of reflection some days, a few minutes of editing on others – but always allowing myself to free-flow with thoughts and emotions. I never know how it will come together until the final day.

Writing and sharing this helps me acknowledge and remember my son, who remains a huge part of my life. It’s rare I get to talk about him – yet any grieving parent will agree: the ‘one’ thing they want most is to speak their child’s name, to remember them out loud.

Whether their child passed in early pregnancy or adulthood, the pain is real and lasting. Please don’t be afraid to bring up their name. Ask about them, especially on the days when you know they’re being missed most. Yes, it may bring tears, but it also brings healing.

Thank you for allowing me to share my innermost thoughts about the day that changed my path and changed me forever. Writing this has left me feeling lighter, freer, and at peace.

(Thank You x)

B
xx