Navigating the Woods of Grief

The month of March remains a stark mark on my personal timeline. Four years ago, on the 13th of this month, I lost my 'Dilli Papa', a name I gave to my father. For I used to see him coming to home from Delhi (Dilli), where he used to work, he became Dilli Papa for me. The grief that hit me when I saw his remains was something else, completely unimaginable. Like water of the ocean that goes back during the low tide and leaves behind surfaces of raw emotions, my emotions became all vulnerable. The pain is still there. Today, compounding this pain is the ever-present, knocking fear of losing my mother; one of the biggest readons I started documenting her. It is within this context of profound personal grief that Haruki Murakami's Norwegian Wood resonates to me with a chilling and unnerving familiarity. To be honest, till few days back, even though I had Murakami's every major book but none of them were the ones which were read. It all changed with this novel. The novel, far from being a simple love story, is a detailed exploration of loss, memory, and the tumultuous journey of navigating grief within the complex path of human relationships.

Murakami's book, set against the backdrop of 1960s Tokyo, mirrors the internal turmoil experienced by Toru Watanabe, a young man coping with the suicide of his best friend, Kizuki. This event, much like the loss of my father, acts as a seismic shift, altering the landscape of Toru's emotional world. The shared grief between Toru and Naoko, Kizuki's girlfriend, creates a bond between the two. But this connection was unique. It was profound yet fragile. It had melody yet the silent one. It had happiness yet the sorrow. This relationship between Toru and Naoko shows us the surprising reality of 'pain' serving as a bridge between two people. It also shows us the power of pain. The power to shape and reshape each and every experience.

But I must confess, reading this book was not like reading Paulo Coelho, a writer I liked the most. Exploring it is not like strolling down the Scotish meadows. Reading it is more like walking barefoot over marble on a sunny day; looks pleasing yet painful. This book distinguishes itself from other coming-of-age narratives through its portrayal of mental health and suicide, issues which are serious and have been dealt sparsely in art and literature. Unlike J.D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye, where Holden Caulfield's angst is primarily a manifestation of adolescent disillusionment, Murakami delves into the deep psychological impact of trauma. Naoko's descent into mental illness and (spoiler alert!) eventual suicide, much like the 'unseen well' she describes to Toru, highlights the hidden depths of human suffering. If I could name one book with somewhat similar soul to Norwegian Woods, it is Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar which explores the descent into mental illness in the backdrop of dreams and identity. Both books deal with the isolating nature of mental anguish, and the difficulty of finding comfort in a world that often fails to understand people, and especially their grief & emotions.

The introduction of Midori, a vibrant & outspoken classmate of Toru, provides a stark contrast to Naoko's introspective fragility. I love the way Murakami is able to weave the conflicts in the story. The conflict of choice, I must say. By choosing to be with Midori, Toru knew that he would be able to see the present and carve out his (beautiful) future. On the other hand, he also knew that it was only Naoko whose company would give him the chance to go back into the past through the long conversations. Though Midori's presence, like a sudden burst of sunlight, offered Toru a glimpse of a life unburdened by the weight of the past. This duality between clinging to memories and embracing new experiences, is a central theme in the novel. The fear of forgetting, of moving on too quickly, is a constant companion in the grieving process. Aren't our lives revolve around this conflict too?

Murakami's narrative also explores the complexities of human relationships, particularly the blurred lines between love, grief, and desire. Toru's relationship with Reiko, Naoko's companion from her sanatorium days, further complicates this exploration. This narrative introduced in the latter portion of the book should be seen without any pre-conceived notions of loyallity and morality. I mean, much of the literature would escape our attention if we find ourself stuck in the dichotmoy of right and wrong. The beauty as Rumi said is somewhere in between. After Naoko's departure, the shared moment of intimacy between Toru and Reiko (both of whom were trying to cope with the death of their common friend) should be seen as a cathartic release of grief. It is a testament to the unconventional ways in which individuals seek consolation and comfort. We have seen this in films like 'In the Mood for Love', 'Lost in Transaltion' and 'Life in a Metro', just to name a few. This shows the way in which grief can change the landscape of intimacy, leading to unexpected connections and a redefinition of emotions. Intrestingly, if you look back, Toru-Naoko connection itself was a part and parcel of this emotion.

The backdrop of 1960s Tokyo, a period of social and political mayhem, adds another layer of complexity to the narrative. The student protests, mirroring the iconic French May 1968 events, provide a stark contrast to Toru's internal world. While society is in a state of upheavel, Toru's personal struggles remain paramount for him. This shows the way in which individual grief can overshadow larger socio-political events. Because grief has the ability to create a buffer and a sense of isolation from the world. This detachment from the wider world is something I experienced within myself, during those initial few months after Papa's demise. It is strange how the stories in books are intertwined to our real experiences. I believe even the vice-versa is equally true.

The novel's conclusion, while kisses us with sadness, offers a silver lining too. Just before the story comes to end, a phone call from Toru to Midori brings the shift. The 'phone call', a tentative step towards embracing the future, signifies a gradual acceptance of loss and a willingness to move forward. This ending, while not offering a definitive resolution, reflects the ongoing nature of grief. There is no clean break, no sudden victorious epiphany, the ones that are there in Paulo Coelho's books or Rajkumar Hirani's films. The one that brings the text 'And they lived happily ever after' on your TV screen. Instead, there is a slow process of rebuilding, of finding a way to live with the absence of a loved one.

Norwegian Wood is not simply a story about love and loss; it is a profound meditation on the human condition. It is a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, the ability to find hope amidst despair, and the enduring power of memory. The fear of losing Amma (my mother) is a constant reminder of the fragility of life, and this book helps to remind me that even if the worst happens, there is a way to continue the show.