On Zugzwang

Zugzwang, is a German Word, noting a position in chess where the position on the board where one player is at a disadvantage because they have to move. The best move is not to move at all - but the clock time ticks away foreboding the undesired moment.

Setting Sun on White River in Indiana

This summer has been a zugzwang of sorts - a strange equilibrium belied by the relative day-to-day life in lab and socials. Whether it was our softball team that didn’t win a single game in the regular season, yet miraculously stole a victory in the quarterfinals to advance to the semifinals, or to the invisible hand of the PhD tightening its grip indicating that it’s only me standing in the way of my Ph.D - I have often found that I have been treasuring the moments of silence in the days of this summer.

It was in the moment where the pitcher releases the ball, and I could see the bright fluorescent softball making an arc towards me; that I have felt I was in zugzwang. I have to swing the bat, but at some points in our games I never wanted to swing the bat - knowing that it would cost us an out. I looked forward to the time I was on base or running home; the act of batting was a pretty intense experience. Because in that in that split 2-3 seconds from when the ball would released to the time ball would fly past me, I had to calculate the time when I would swing - the pertinent question being “how long will this [pitch time] last?”

Our Softball Team

Meanwhile in lab, I spent a significant time machining, designing parts, and writing code. I spent long days at the machine shop; watching the chips fly from the mill with intense concentration and hoping that I won’t end up breaking the tool or make an erroneous cut. Being in the shop takes its toll, and I would be exhausted by the end of the week - the margin for error is so little that it became a relief when I could pull the part out of the vise.

And twice or thrice a week, in the relentless midday sun, I would go biking with J.. As we traversed the brutal hills of the peninsula, our jerseys drenched in sweat that refused to evaporate in the muggy heat; the pain in my legs constantly provided a reminder of being in the moment. The only option was to keep moving forward through the pain, because that was the only way I could return back home. One pedal after the other pedal; or one hand rotation after the other, I would ask myself “how long will this [pain] last?”

Furthermore, my hearing is slowly getting worse, I found out this summer. I don’t know why, and part of it is scary because the truth is I’m most likely on a journey to the great silence. For the majority of my life, I have been avoiding the larger implications of my hearing. I got outfitted with new hearing aids, and the silence transition between when I have them on and when I don’t is stronger one than what I’m used to. It’s not just a matter that someone has to speak louder, it’s more of “how long do I have left”.

But in between these, my mom went back to India to see my grandma (Nan); I knew she was going downhill for quite some time now, ravaged by late stage Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s. But I held out hope, a sliver that she will continue to stick around and maybe improve one day. During those WhatsApp video calls, where I would see the flicker of recognition in Nan’s eyes, or the excitement in my moms voice when she told about Nan’s reactions to my moms homemade food or her brief talks with her, were ostensibly simple; but they ended up being HD definition memories.

Memories that exist in Photos now.

One particular time, my softball team were celebrating our quarterfinal win on the last day in July, I was on call with my Mom and she was showing me Nan - I remember her smiling wan face, and my moms eager voice telling me that I would be able to interact with Nan come December when I would be going to India. And that moment stuck with me - the slowly setting afternoon sun in the hills in Portola Valley, mirrored by the rising morning sun in Chandannagore - a sort of faith that I will be able to see Nan at least one more time before she goes. Even though the real question was “how long until it lasts?”, I had blanked it from my mind in my hope and faith.

Last Goodbye to Nan

I had failed to recognize the slowly creeping chill in the air that afternoon; the end was nearer than any of us had realized. Nan was gone in 2 months from that day - passing three years and a month after my grandfather in the same nursing home. That Monday, Oct 11, 2022 - I remember the foreboding feeling in my heart and when the phone rang at 4 pm - even before I picked it up I knew; same as I knew 3 years ago when the phone rang in mid-afternoon that Dadan had passed. What was my first feeling? was it relief that she’s no longer in pain? Was it the feeling of my own heart tearing, amplified by my mom’s cries? Was it the the fact that I had added another regret that I didn’t see Nan since 2019 to the ever growing list? Or was it fear of what now?

I don’t know - but I knew one thing, the strange zugzwang is over; the final moment had arrived and it had arrived swiftly - Nan went the ICU on Sunday and left on Tuesday morning. I was listening to Badfinger’s Baby Blue - and perhaps the song became a fitting tribute to the questions I faced

“What can I do? What can I say?” “Except that I want you by my side”

Nan was always by my side over the 22 years I had known her - from taking care of me in Bangalore, taking me to school, hand feeding me rice and ghee to the high-school days where she would sit right next to me while I did my homework or studied. Her belief in me never wavered, despite all the tribulations I put my parents through or the obstacles I went through- she believed in my abilities to become good at what I do - from academics, swimming, to becoming a good person. That unconditional love from Nan was something special - and now that she’s gone; I will have to believe in the fact that her love lives on in me; despite as hard it is now.

Nan's Memorial

The house where my grandparents lived was a special one - it was built by Dadan after his retirement in dedication to Nan. “Retreat” was the name - a fitting name and it became one for me as well when I visited India during my summer vacations. More than a house, it became an embodiment of my grandparents themselves. Even now if I close my eyes - I can still hear the auto rickshaws driving past in the front, the front door opening with Dadan coming back with groceries and snacks, and Nan in the kitchen cooking up on of her delicious recipes and the smell wafting through the house.

Now, that house is just a building - no longer holds anything for me anymore. The last image I have in that house - is Nan’s funeral pyre - surrounded by flowers, a peaceful and resting face, on her eternal journey. I used to joke that Dadan was up there building a house, and was waiting for the day that Nan would meet him - I hope that is the case and that they are able to meet again after spending 56 years together here. And maybe one day, I will be able to see both of them again in a new house, and hope that Nans unwavering belief in me holds true in the upcoming years - through the obstacles of my Ph.D to become a professor, the declining health of my ears, and her belief that I’m a good person through my mistakes that I will make as I continue to grow.

In return, I hope that I can continue to make her proud; seeing her struggle the past 5-6 years with Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s was awful- I spend a lot of my time fixing things, it was frustrating that I couldn’t fix her. Maybe one day, I will be able to fix these issues as a doctor and a researcher.

টাটা নান, তাবার পরে দেকে হবে.

Love, Piku