When a person commits suicide, as my cousin Mani did in May, it’s a landmine exploding in one’s tight family circle, leaving us dazed and shattered and apart from one another, searching for pieces of our broken hearts, alone.

You go on, because life does. And most days, as long as you don’t dwell on his memory for too long, on the godawful waste and shame of it all, it’s fine.

But, there are still landmines waiting for an unsuspecting step to trigger the disbelief, grief, blame, regret all over again. His son who looks so much like him, the same long lashes, five-year old cocky swagger, and arms so needy for love, is one that I have learned to steel myself against. I look now only for who he is, not for who his father was, when I gaze into those bright eyes.

But how do you protect yourself against the unexpected? Yesterday after reading an article on internet privacy (or the lack thereof) I googled myself and came across a strange link. Following it, I saw my name, last three cities of residence and age listed. Below, links to people I was related to – including him.

The shock of it, the  fact that he still exists here, listed at a vigorous 35 though he died at 34, rattled me. The recriminations grow fresh and ooze again, overcoming me when I’m alone, doing dishes, looking down at my aging hands and wondering if any flesh still covers his bones.

Mani’s younger brother visited his grave in a village outside of Lahore on a hot summer’s day when the air was breathless, still and oppressive. There at the grave dug days before, he leaned in to whisper to his dead brother, to promise to look after his son, to be the father Mani now could not be.

When he relates the story, he says at that moment the still air was broken for a few seconds by a cool, jasmine-scented breeze. He took that as Mani’s approval, and has been at peace since.

Usually that story gives me an almost tangible hope, but today it is a wraith that slips through my longing fingers.

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