Lessons on Grief

July 2024: 14 Things I've Learned These Last Two Months

This turned into a four-part series.

• A Man of Many Hats (May 2024)

• Father’s Day (June 2024)

• Lessons on Grief (July 2024)

• Final Thoughts on My Dad... (August 2024)

I can’t believe it’s been 10 weeks since my Dad passed away. I had most of this ready to go in June, but I continue to gather pearls so here’s some of it now, with the rest to come in August.

1.

I am so glad we recorded the funeral services. My Dad was always behind the camera, documenting our lives. So, though it initially felt a bit weird, it was only appropriate that we capture our tribute to him.

The passage that seemed to make people laugh the most from the eulogy I shared with you last month was this one:

I was telling a story to John and Rakesh and Vikas on the way over here. And it wasn't part of my speech, but they laughed and they're like, “I never heard that story before.”

I went to Case Western Reserve University for a couple of years in Cleveland. And I remember my Dad would send us these care packages. You know, parents love to do that. But he worked at General Mills. So these were amazing care packages: Fruit by the Foot (Fruit Feet) and Squeezits and granola bars and everything that you can imagine. Jeff, you know what I'm talking about; I’d bring that stuff to Fairfield High School, Fairfield Middle School, and trade for them. And they were great.

And I remember my Dad asked, you know, “How are the snacks that I sent to you at Case Western?” I said, “Oh, Dad, you know, I actually passed a lot of them out. Because I'm running for Class President and I think I got a lot of votes and this is gonna work out for me.”

Long silence. “Dad, are you there?”

He replied, in a very serious tone, “Whatever furthers your cause.”

I’m beyond grateful to so many of you for your compliments on my eulogy. Many of you complimented my writing ability. What I want you to understand is that I walked up to that podium with bullet points, so I spoke that aloud in full sentences for the first time. As such, what you mean is that I’m an amazing speaker. I’m obviously already a phenomenal writer. I just want you to be aware that I’m also a great orator. It’s important to get that right.

The downside is I can’t really use that material elsewhere.

In all seriousness, the service was lovely, especially considering my Dad passed suddenly. About 350 people attended. THREE HUNDRED FIFTY people came to Dad’s funeral. Not to make this about turnout, but it has helped with the healing to feel that much love in one room at the same time. Actually, in the main room. And the overflow room. And the hallways. And the foyer. And the outdoors.

And we need the healing. Those of you who’ve been through this will recognize several painful touch points, each one getting “realer” than the last:

1. When I heard the news: May 8th. 12:49 PM call from my Mom’s phone; it was our neighbor, Mary Anne Schaeper, and I knew that couldn’t be good. She stayed with my Mom for hours that day (and has been a constant presence in our lives before and since, picking up on the gardening where my Dad left off, bringing her husband Steve over to fix our fridge, and spending nights at the house with my Mom).

2. When I got home: Our house was packed with friends, all watching the brothers’ entrance solemnly, as we approached Mom in the family room and fell into her, crying and holding each other. Dear friends had already framed Dad’s picture on the coffee table with a candle in front of it.

3. When I saw the body: Two days later, at Spring Grove Funeral Home. Upon seeing him, I cried out to my brothers, “That’s our Dad,” and collapsed on the couch, sobbing.

4. When I saw them close the casket.

5. When I pushed the button that allows the casket to venture into the fire.

Vikas told me he heard it was imperative to see the body. Why? Because someday, you’ll walk down the street and swear that you saw your Dad. If you never saw the body, it’s possible. But now you’ll know it isn’t.

I think the most crushing part for me was the closing of the casket, because I knew I’d never see him in this physical form again. (I hear scattering the ashes is no picnic either. We shall see.) I’d made this playlist of all of Dad’s favorite songs, mostly Hindi, but his all-time favorite American classic was The Everly Brothers’ “All I Have to Do Is Dream.” Out of the nearly 50 tracks, that was the song that was playing as it shut. My other brother, Rakesh, remarked that, if this were a made-for-TV movie, the producers would have nixed it because it was too on-the-nose. Yet it happened.

Pic of the playlist playing at Spring Grove.

2.

If you’re lucky, your parents have been in your life since you were born. When one or both are gone, it’s a shock. Around 2011, on my podcast, comedian Kevin Nealon said that he didn’t think you fully become an adult until they’re both gone. Till that point, you always have them to fall back on.

3.

Per my Instagram and Facebook posts, I got back onstage ten days after Dad passed. I could not have done it without the support of Dad’s brother Vimal, whom I still credit for helping me find my own sense of humor. Toward the end of my emceeing gig in Austin on May 18, I turned to a man near me and asked if he could help move the podium back to the stage. After the show, we got to talking and it turned out he is a grief counselor. Craig McNary said something I’ll never forget:

“Pain is the connection through the divide.”

Few things have resonated with me more. What’s strange — and appropriate — is that I initially jotted that last word down incorrectly, but it seemed equally salient: “Pain is the connection through the divine.”

At that same gig, a woman whose father had passed opened up and told me that she assigned some rare object to be associated with her Dad. She picked a hawk. So every time she sees a hawk, an uncommon occurrence, she knows her Dad is smiling down upon her. I thought that was kind of neat. I picked a chair. And now Dad is just constantly annoying me.

(I’m going with that Everly Brothers song.)

4.

“Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.”

This may sound strange, but I’d long been weirdly jealous of people who’d lost their parents. Not because it’s some awesome thing. But because they’d already been through it. Does that make sense? It’s kinda like how we pre-med students would look up to doctors as people who’d already made it. Actually, it’s not like that. It’s not like that at all. That’s just what came to mind.

I once discussed this with my old therapist. She asked me what I feared. I’d never thought about it. What came out was, “I don’t know. I’m afraid I’ll collapse.” And when I thought about the people for whose well-being I pray every night, it was indeed the people about whom I cared the most. Suddenly, it felt so selfish. Like, you’re not worried about the person: you’re worried about yourself.

Upon hearing the news, I collapsed into my friend Raman’s arms. I didn’t go into shock. Even though my Dad was a larger-than-life figure whose presence was felt in every room he entered, I don’t think I’m the kind of person who can go into shock.

Grief isn’t linear so I’m doing my best to prepare myself for anything as this unfolds. My friend Drew Tarvin told me something that’s hard to understand till you’re in this position: sometimes, you forget the person is gone. He had this tradition of calling his father whenever he left the deli. Sometimes, he still pulls out his phone to call him before realizing he’s gone. At first, that seemed like a cruel trick of life. But then I remembered the hawk. It’s a gift. It has already happened to me. Mere days afterwards, I was filming a video of Naveen and went to send it to Dad before realizing I couldn’t. I was sad, but there was somehow a smile in that sadness. It is bizarre, though. Somehow, as this all unfolds, I keep thinking about how I’m someday gonna sit down with Dad and tell him about all of this.

5.

“The first day is hard. Not as hard as the first hour. The first week is hard. Not as hard as the first day. The first month is hard. Not as hard as the first week. The first year is hard. Not as hard as the first month. And so on…”

- My neighbor and TV pilot co-writer, Alex Goldberg, on parenting, which could very well also apply to grief

Shout-out to Sophia Toh for sharing this.

Though I’ve long put in a ton of effort into my career, my professional life has always taken a backseat to my personal life. (And interestingly, I’ve really only covered Dad and Rakesh in my act, not so much Mom and Vikas.) Without realizing it was a trope, my earliest jokes were at my Dad’s expense… or rather, his not wanting to expend. I’d eventually convert this into a State Farm ad.

My job is my life’s work, but I work to live, not live to work. If I’m not as far along as I’d like to be, I’ll gladly make that trade given the time, money, and energy I’ve poured into the relationships I have with my family and friends (and myself). I am so grateful to have Harsha and Naveen during this time. And my heart goes out to people who lose parents and don’t have anyone to comfort them. To wit:

6.

It’s truly amazing the friends who come out of the woodwork to support you. People with whom I hadn’t spoken in decades, some of whom I worried were “fair weather friends.” They were always there for me in good times and it’s been a pleasant surprise to see they’re now here in bad times. And then there are what I’m calling my Month Two Friends. They’re people who not only expressed their condolences immediately but who have also followed up to ensure I’m OK. And some of the MVP texts came from our neighbors David & Milena, especially the line about the angel:

7.

I often joke that I got some of my ego from Dad. He’d credit himself with know-how and achievements. People do that when they don’t feel others are granting them enough credit. Much of that is insecurity but it doesn’t make it less true. So, I’m glad that, in the last few years, Mom and I started introducing him to others as someone who “knows so much about India, Hinduism, global politics, you name it.” And guess what his reaction was. He’d deflect and display some humility. It makes me wish we’d started doing this earlier. Dad prided himself on the ability to discuss any topic with anybody.

I’m in awe to this day that Dad gave so many correct answers to this one question: we were sitting around the dining table at our good friends, the Krinovs, in Hamilton, Ohio. Mom taught with Nancy Krinov in that school district and our families are still close. I go, “Name all the bands with 20 or more gold albums.” Dad rattled off SEVEN bands (with hardly any incorrect guesses). He listed KISS, Rush, and other acts I didn’t even know he knew. It was then that I realized how much knowledge that man possessed. (Ping me if you wanna know the answer.)

8.

Dad had me at 34. I had Naveen at 45. The fact that Dad got to spend nearly three years with his grandson is a blessing. One of the places that’s frozen in time for me forever is Hicks Manor, an old-school barber shop walkable to our old address on Wittenberg Drive in Fairfield. I was a bit afraid to visit it, worried that we might get looks (not that I remember any from the early ’80s). To my delight, we were welcomed in, with every single (White*) customer grinning as we took our son/grandson down Memory Lane.

I mean, it’s called “Hicks.” But they were… mannered.

9.

One of the saddest experiences has been how the Facebook notifications started to appear farther and farther down in the feed till they’re gone. Few things have shown me illustratively that Life Goes On. Speaking of notifications, one of the kindest ways someone showed how he was there for me 24x7 was Kevin Lloyd, the son of one of my Mom’s oldest friends.

Thanks for noticing.

10.

Dad passed away peacefully in his sleep. We know it was peaceful because there was no sign of a struggle. He was facing up and the sheets weren’t a mess. He hadn’t reached for his phone. Ironically, for Dad’s entire life, he didn’t sleep well. It’s always been Mom who’s slept soundly: she can go to sleep on command and has never used an alarm clock her whole life.

So, God had His work cut out for him. Snatch Dad at that precise moment when he was actually slumbering. I think Dad looked at sleep as something for the weak. We’d catch him snoring — really sawing logs — on his recliner in the family room. Given how lightly he slept, he’d suddenly spring up and say, “I just dozed off.” Dad never slept: he just dozed off. Good work, God.

11.

Only a few months ago, I played Dark Side of the Moon in the car for my parents. I told them nobody should leave this planet without hearing one of the great albums that humanity had made.

They’d already heard my all-time favorite, The Wall, so many times from family car trips, in the same way it was applicable to when people asked me if I’d listened to Fiona Apple’s Tidal. No, I never sat down to listen to it, but my brothers blared it so loud and for so long that I overheard it about 100 times.

And just a few years ago, I recommended my favorite book, The Catcher in the Rye, to Dad. (Mom had already read it.) I told him it was one of the most essential keys to understanding who I am and why I shot John Lennon and President Reagan in the span of four months. ANYway, between the above and Dad’s insistence that we watch The Godfather Trilogy with him, the point is that I’d already shared so many great pieces of art with Dad while he was an Earthling.

12.

I don’t know how it is for others on the gender spectrum, but I can tell you that, for a man, it is difficult to watch your father age. Last fall, Vikas told me he’d noticed Dad had really slowed down. When he and Mom came to stay with us as they had been doing for the winters, I saw it, but not to the extent that Vikas said he did. It wasn’t until I went home in April that it hit me. Perhaps it was due to seeing him in his home, in his element. But I’m grateful for not having to see a total decline in health. I’ve heard friends talk about how hard that is. Yes, Dad was sick. He had COPD and high blood pressure. And he carried a lot of stress and stress is a killer. But it reminded me of how Robin Williams dichotomized sickness to Matt Damon in Good Will Hunting:

“I don’t regret the six years I had to give up counseling when she got sick. And I don’t regret the last years when she got really sick.” I never saw Dad get really sick. And I thank God for that.

13.

I taped my Dry Bar standup comedy special in May of last year. While prepping for it, comedian/host Jay Davis gave me a ton of stage time up at Yamashiro, this incredible Japanese restaurant and lounge up in the Hollywood Hills. Given the parking was a nightmare, Dad was dropping me off and we were almost there, winding up to the last turn, when he and I got into a deep conversation about Mom’s health. I pulled the car over. Dad asked, “What are you doing? You need to get to your gig.” I confessed to not being that noble, “We have plenty of time. Even if we didn’t, this is important. Do you think Mom will get better?” I’d never seen Dad pause that long before uttering, “No.” I wouldn’t describe myself as startled, but I was certainly taken aback. He seemed to realize he and his wife were both getting up there. Fortunately, Mom is doing OK, and it’s been a shock to her that Dad went first.

I am grateful Dad went first. He was always so attached to us that he had said to Mom that he couldn’t have handled it if Mom went first. Mom would struggle at first but would be OK. That’s why I want to go second in my own marriage: gimme the pain. I’ll take it. Hey, gotta balance that selfish out with some selfless, right?

Dad & Mom dancing in front of me and my brothers rollin’ in during my Baraat (1 August 2015).

14.

When people say, “I can’t even imagine the pain you’re going through,” I reply, “Well, imagine it. Don’t pull a Cinderalla. Appreciate what you have while you still have it. And then call your loved ones and tell them you love them. In fact, hold that podcast session with them. And in fact, hold a retreat. A family retreat. Take a couple of days and nights and sit down and tell everyone what you’d want to tell them if you never had the chance to.”

I can’t believe people don’t do that. It’s exactly why I said to Harsha during our year-end State of the Relationship review (!): “We’re in our mid-40s. We’re at cruising altitude. Is this how you imagined your life to be? Do you want to change anything large or small? Because this is it.”

I’m writing this from an apartment because she asked me to move out. KIDDING. But f’real, does anyone already organize these retreats? If not, maybe I should. Hey, Dad was never shy about his desire for me to search for additional revenue streams. Maybe I should name them after Vinay Satyal and do this. Hey, Dad, the reality is that it should already pay off: I’m the Gruntled Guy. I’m here to help teach people about happiness. And the reality is that I waited to launch this till after I had a child, knowing that my audience was always going to be mostly parents and how much can you know about their lives unless you’re a parent? Well, processing grief is SUCH a huge part of happiness that this qualifies me even more. Can’t you just hear Dad right now? “Whatever furthers your cause.”

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Rajiv Satyal is a standup comedian. Special thanks to everyone on our funeral lineup who described a different aspect of Dad’s life: Acharya Kailash Sharma Ji - the pundit from our Hindu Temple. Vimal and Melina - his brother and only niece. Richa - one of his wife’s nieces who quoted from both the Mahabharata and the Bible. Vikas - his youngest son who insisted he couldn’t do this and then gave a powerful impromptu speech. Arun Goyal - one of his best friends, ever the logical one, who in a very moving moment, cried toward the end. Mary Connor and Barbara Sferra from the Western + Southern tennis tournament, who came to award Dad his 30-year volunteer service pin (and also cried). Amit Jain - one of his oldest friends… he, his wife, Shreya, and son stayed with us and guided us through so many of the funeral logistics. Rakesh & John - his middle child and son-in-law, the former of whom sang through tears. Rajiv & Harsha - his eldest son (again) and daughter-in-law, the latter of whom provided some levity. Acharya - who returned to do the final rites.

This was Part III. Click here for Part IV.

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