Death is the biggest truth and perhaps the only thing we gradually accept without ifs and buts. Everything changes one’s personality in little ways, but death has a profound impact. The ones who accept the death of their loved ones go through immense intensity of grief that remains etched for a long time. Loss is one of the sheer masterpieces by Shanghvi’s that enlightens us with darkness of the grievances and a thorough passage to deal with the heavy trite fact. It feeds you with remarkable antidotes of truth and thoughts. Loss is retrospective.
Loss is a record of not just sadness or grief but a personal antidote of remembrance, memories that the author shared with his parents and pet. This book, Loss, carries love and nostalgia. It swims through memories, pain and an infectious visionary of Shanghvi’s words and perspectives. Somewhere in your heart, you would feel as if your memories of losses have rekindled together and beats against your heart making you weak. There are direct and indirect losses I suffered and the expression of pain can’t be penned. Till date when I think about these losses they become more personal and unimaginably healing at some point of time. I heard the news of my grandmother’s after I came back from my physics exam. I felt a persuading heart ache and imagery of grandmother’s last sights haunted me. People always want to remember a person with all good deeds and good memories but with my grandmother I never had a bad memory. The only reason I love nights is because I have memories of a persistent session of conversations of stories- fictional or real. She would tell me about my mother, her family and this only grew tremendous respect for grandmother. I started to look up to her like a figure of inspiration. Grandmother was always a friend, mentor and confidante to be precise. Most of my virtues are attached with the intimate discussions we never failed to hold. She was a potpourri of energy.
The other losses were the demise of teacher and professor. These were sudden with no time to react and conceive the truth so bitter it still lingers upon profound and precise. Though with little interactions, my brain wouldn’t really acknowledge.
Loss is a learning where each word and line encounters new meaning of grief and Shanghvi’s prolific language sees no end to the same. It’s therapeutic to understand oneself- their growth of maturity to seep in the uncertainty of death and sprout them into a new start of life.
Loss as Shanghvi unveils is like Titanic floats towards destruction but then the captain witnesses a faint light that rather keeps it afloat, alive with an assurance of normalcy in the tides. Loss is a request to save the moments lively at the present rather than lamenting for not living present at the right time perhaps, past and death are ahead of time and impossible to control.
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