Being Water: On grief, loss and learning to let go

Grief is a delicate and wild animal. It has a tendency to solidify and take the shape of a jailer, holding hostages within the cages of one's own mind. But it is also a sister, a mother, a father, someone who cradles you within clay-covered hands, forming and moulding the person you have the chance to become.

Shazia Omar's Being Water presses down on that combination of grief's definitions and shows all the ugly in-betweens, the rough edges of a person healing, and the sunrise that comes after.

We come to Sri Lanka with Nora, an almost-30-year-old lawyer from London, who had planned this month-long sabbatical to unwind and relax, and to get away from her desk. The first impression we have of her is her sulking that her best friend Beth hadn't made the trip and had instead given her ticket to her 21-year-old cousin Mel.

Mel, cheerful, chirping, child-like, is warm and open, at comfort with the world and her place in it. Nora can't stand her, and for the first few days, we go through an awkward phase of growing pains within the two women as they learn how to co-exist.

I had almost given in to Nora's despondency. In the first few chapters, Nora's narration begins in short sentences and bitter melancholia, a bleak perspective in sharp contrast to her bubbly companion. It was arduous to read through. I had almost put the book down.

But as is with getting to know a person, the layers come off one by one, and slowly but surely, we are introduced to a Nora who has depths within her, a wide gaping maw of a void inside, and a little girl of thirteen who is trying desperately to find her way out of the void.

Shazia's intentional choice to shift and transform the tone to match Nora's turbulence is a simple choice, yet it makes all the difference. The reader experiences waves and bouts of emotion along with Nora; a lashing anger, a heavy loss, the chaotic way back up to the surface.

As we find out more about Nora and simultaneously her trip in Lanka, the narration shifts into something softer, more vulnerable. Nora's cruelty is something she herself despises and is afraid to confront. With no way out, she pushes it away, hurting the people around her even more.

Grief has hardened her into something she refuses to make fragile and tender. Her fear of letting people in, of expectations, of the simple act of wanting, tethers her to the ground, almost as a safety line back to her comfort zone. But this tether soon ceases to be safe, and instead turns into chains, keeping her safely locked away in the dredges of her void.

Sri Lanka changes that.

Beaches, bars, and the occasional art gallery widen Nora's perspective of the world, its inhabitants, and the interactions between them. She learns how to belong, how to stand tall when her instincts scream at her to run away, to push away, to hide herself away.

She pets dogs, goes surfing, meets new people, and somewhere between a sudden swim and a tuktuk ride to a bar, she has unknowingly, yet freely, given away part of her love to Sri Lanka.

Through encounters with people she meets on this trip, Nora realises the cage she has locked herself in, and for the first time in 16 years, makes an attempt to break out. Calm and steady, Parker stays by her side even through uncertainty. Sleazy yet mysterious Kiran offers her new perspectives. The enigmatic Kavindi reshuffles her worldview, forcing her to confront the unexpected.

The most significant encounter comes in the shape of Mel, a young woman whom Nora presumes to be naive and unknowing of the intricacies and callousness of the world around her. But the presumption flips around on its head as Nora watches Mel continue to be soft, caring and open. She isn't naive; she's hopeful. She melts away the rough edges of the world, and leaves something softer in her wake.

Mel is not the only person to have presumptions forced upon her by Nora. Another such subject is Kiran, a tawdry peacock of a man who has nothing to show for himself but his privilege and his embellishments. Nora despises him, despises herself even more for letting Mel be taken in by him.

But there comes a moment in the middle of this hate where the two accidentally come across one another with both their guards down. A moment is shared. A split second passes, and that moment is shoved away as both of them put their walls back up. But that slight confrontation lingers. Nora is kicked out of the vacuum she had created in her own mind.

Throughout this, Parker remains. His presence is something of a checkpoint for Nora, something she can come back to no matter how many times she becomes lost on the trail to healing. He has no hidden depth, no alternate truth to live through; what he is, he shows. This in itself provides comfort for Nora as he becomes akin to the shade beneath a tree on a long walk under the scorching sun.

Grief is not mathematical. There's no correct, objective answer to dealing with it and even the process of untangling it is far from linear.

As we watch Nora come to this conclusion during her trip in Sri Lanka, we are also forced to confront the ghosts we hide deep inside somewhere no one can reach.

Nora's ghosts are hardened into the shapes of her sister, her mother, and the crumbling image of her father. They form in the distance between her and Beth, the friendship they both mourn. They live in the face of Mel, the sister Nora sees in her, and the second chance that Nora is afraid to take with her.

Omar's navigation of grief with Nora forces these ghosts out and by the end, they're still there; only now, both the person and their inhabiting ghosts are at peace. Grief becomes water, flows through the ribs, the mind, the lungs, and washes away. The dawn's sunlight gleams through.