The story presents two divergent approaches to grieving loved ones lost in the plane bombing: a secular approach (represented by calmness in the face of grief) and a spiritual one, in which families find peace. Judith, a representative of the secular world of the Canadian government, first identifies Shaila as a potential community intermediary because she admires that Shaila reacted to the tragedy with extraordinary calmness. But Shaila views this calmness as somewhat unnatural and unnerving—it’s “not peace, just a deadening quiet,” she reflects, and she calls her reaction a “terrible calm that will not go away.” Shaila apparently seeks a deeper kind of peace than the superficial calmness brought on by shock and Valium—a spiritual solace that she’s initially not able to access.
The three main characters who lost members of their families in the attack—Shaila, Kusum, and Dr. Ranganathan—each seek communion with a spiritual realm to move through their grief. Shaila is both comforted and thrilled by visions of her family, and, ultimately, a vision of her family guides her to continue bravely down the path they all began together when they moved to Canada. Kusum explicitly seeks spiritual peace by moving, at her swami’s suggestion, to an ashram in India where she also experiences visions of her lost family members. And even Dr. Ranganathan, a paragon of reason and pragmatism, turns his house into “a temple,” the master bedroom “a shrine,” while he sleeps on a cot and becomes “a devotee” to the family he lost. While Judith’s list of grief management steps doesn’t include any of these approaches, the story presents them as necessary for Shaila, Kusum, and Dr. Ranganathan to try to find peace. In this way, the story juxtaposes a mysterious spiritual peace with the false calmness offered by valium and prized by characters like Judith Templeton.
Related Themes from Other Texts
Secular vs. Spiritual ThemeTracker
Secular vs. Spiritual Quotes in The Management of Grief
Dr. Sharma, the treasurer of the Indo-Canada society, pulls me into the hallway. He wants to know if I am worried about money. His wife, who has just come up from the basement with a tray of empty cups and glasses, scolds him. “Don’t bother Mrs. Bhave with mundane details.”
“Why does God give us so much if all along He intends to take it away?” Kusum asks me.
“Nothing I can do will make any difference,” I say. “We must all grieve in our own way.”
“It’s a parent’s duty to hope,” [Dr. Ranganathan] says. “It is foolish to rule out possibilities that have not been tested. I myself have not surrendered hope.”
[My mother] grew up a rationalist. My parents abhor mindless mortification.
The zamindar’s daughter [my grandmother] kept stubborn faith in Vedic rituals; my parents rebelled. I am trapped between two modes of knowledge… like my husband’s spirit, I flutter between worlds.
“God provides and God takes away,” he says.
I want to say, But only men destroy and give back nothing. “My boys and my husband are not coming back,” I say. “We have to understand that.”
Now the old woman responds. “But who is to say? Man alone does not decide these things.” To this her husband adds his agreement.
I do not know where this voyage I have begun will end. I do not know which direction I will take. I dropped the package on a park bench and started walking.
