Tag: family

Do We Ever Really Lose a Parent?

Do We Ever Really Lose a Parent?

26 April 2021.
Five years.
The day Papa left us…

Or did he?

What does it mean to leave, really?
To go away, to be absent from where you are…
But how can he be gone, when he is so deeply a part of me?

There are moments — unexpected, unremarkable — when I feel him most strongly.
Not as memory. Not as longing.
But as presence.

*

A tight parking spot. A tricky turn on a narrow road – and suddenly, he is there.

In the way my hands steady on the wheel.
In the way I judge distance, angle, timing.
In the easy confidence with which I turn – exactly as he once taught me.

*

I find him in the quietest corners of my day.

On the sidewalk of a busy street as I sip a glass of wine.

In the dark of a theatre when I hear him exclaim — half-delighted, half-amazed —“Whaaaaat a shot!”

In the words he compiled, in the lines he wrote… and in the very way I see, hear, and use language.

*

I find him on days my world seems to be falling apart…

When I find myself asking – What should I do, Papa?

And he arrives as a certain steadiness in me… slowing me down, urging me to think rationally, telling me with the utmost confidence: You know how to handle this.

*

And he’s there… quietly shaping the way I dream and aspire.

When I sit with a blank page, shaping an idea, planning a project, setting a goal…
In the manner I question myself, come up with answers, organize my thoughts with clarity… he is there… quietly… in every choice I make.

Because what he gave was never just guidance for a moment — it was a way of thinking.
A way of approaching life.

*

He is there… most gently of all… when I sit with Mummy and my brother Sumeet. And we remember him – differently, and yet the same.

In the love we share for him.
In the care we extend to each other.
And sometimes, when we laugh… really laugh… it feels like he has joined in.

There is something sacred about these moments.
We hold him together.
And he sits quietly between us – not as absence, but as a thread that still binds.

*

Of course, the body cannot endure forever. Yet I can’t help wishing he had been here to experience these exciting times of artificial intelligence.

Oh, how he would have enjoyed exploring its possibilities—testing it, questioning it, and gleefully discovering new ways of using it in his lifelong pursuit of language, delighting in what it revealed about every facet of life.

And perhaps that is why, every time I use AI, I feel I am sharing my delight, my wonder, my curiosity with him too.
As though, through me, he is still engaging with this new world of words, ideas, and possibility.

*

Five years —
and yet, not a single day of true absence.

Papa has not gone somewhere else.
He has simply become… inseparable — in ways so quiet, only I can hear.

Perhaps we do not really lose a parent.
They do not leave us behind.
They move within us— into our instincts, our choices, our very way of being.

And in that quiet enduring way, they are always with us.

LOVE… What is Love, really?

LOVE… What is Love, really?

Valentine’s Day arrives, and love steps into the spotlight. Everything – yes, everything -from balloons and chocolates to cupcakes and even pizza, is suddenly heart-shaped. And for one full day (at least), love feels magical.

*

This year, like every year, Valentine’s Day left me grappling with the eternal question: What is love, really? Is it a sudden jolt, like lightning out of a clear sky, which leaves you breathless, dizzy, and utterly bewitched?

And then I wonder: Did I ever fall in love?

I’ve been married for 35 years to a man my parents introduced me to. Before I even saw him, I heard his voice – deep, confident, reassuring. Our first meeting was a blur of conversation; we talked nonstop, swapping stories, dreams, and laughter. One meeting became two, then three, families gathered, wedding plans took shape, and just like that, we were married. Decades later, here we are – still together, still devoted, still finding joy in everything we share (touchwood!).

Our children, though, “fell” in love in the classic sense, full of drama, excitement, and movie-type romance. When they describe love, it sounds like fireworks and magic – something grand and dizzying. And I can’t help wondering: What makes their love different from ours?

Sure, in our case, there was no chase, no drama, no stolen glances across crowded rooms. No love-struck confessions, no candlelit dinners, no carefully planned surprises or perfectly chosen gifts. But then, we dated with the quiet confidence of commitment. And like any young couple, we looked forward to being together, savoring every moment, counting down the days until marriage would seal our togetherness.

So maybe the real question isn’t What is love? but rather Why do we believe it only counts when it comes with fireworks?

*

After thinking it through for many, many years, I have come to the conclusion: It is not about falling in love – it is about being in love.

So what if our relationship began with mutual respect, appreciation, and commitment instead of a whirlwind romance? So what if it was a path of discovery, deepening over time through shared experiences? So what if it started with uncertainty and blossomed into something steady and enduring?

Arranged or not, love has a way of finding you. It sneaks up quietly, weaving itself through the fabric of everyday life – shared cups of tea at dawn, laughter over dinner, the chaos of raising children, and the resilience through life’s storms. It doesn’t arrive with grand gestures but settles in through small, unremarkable acts of kindness, patience, and unwavering warmth – until one day, you realize those ordinary moments are everything. Love isn’t just a feeling; it’s a sense of home – not in a place, but in a person. And it is in the years after marriage that love truly comes into its own, evolving into something deeper, something real.

For my husband and me, love has been a journey – one that, decades later, has brought us to a place where words are often unnecessary. It’s the quiet accumulation of a thousand little moments that, together, create something profound. It’s knowing each other’s quirks and embracing them, arguing without truly wounding, forgiving without keeping score.

It’s waking up every morning and instinctively reaching for his hand. It’s sharing inside jokes no one else would understand, reminiscing about past adventures while mapping out new ones, sitting through his favorite shows even when I can’t stand them. It’s reading in the same room in comfortable silence. It’s letting him have the last bite of dessert because I know he wants it but will still leave it for me.

In the end, it doesn’t matter how love begins—what matters is how it grows. It’s simply knowing, deep down, that life makes more sense with the other person in it.

*

So no, I didn’t fall in love in a grand, dramatic way – but love found me anyway, quietly and steadily, like sunlight creeping into a room, soft and unassuming, until one day I looked around and realized everything was glowing.

And after 35 years, that feels more romantic than anything else.