LETTER

The World Moved On After You Died. I Didn’t

A letter to my father about grief, memory, and returning to a home that no longer exists.

Non-members read here.

My father and I. Photo by Author.

I passed the lane leading to our home today, Baba. It still looks the same. The apartment at the corner of the street still looks a little shabby; it needs a good yellow coloured paint, like it always did.

An old man with his vegetable stall still sits in front of the apartment, cleaning the veggies for the umpteenth time, and demanding extra money for his cleanliness.

The river flowing through the bridge still flows with the same vigour, and smells the same of sewage. The trees surrounding the river are greener still, with birds echoing with the dusk, calling their members to stay in the nest.

The temples beside the trees look the same, playing different bhajans at the same time which mingle with each other, and sound nothing.

The shop from where we bought snacks is also the same; my junior from the school still sits at the counter and smiles at me. I give him a weak smile.

The old lady in front of the shop still sells my favourite Rajgeera (Amarath) ladoos. The world around our home has not changed at all. She looks much older and frail and yet sits at the same spot.

Everything looks the same; everyone is occupied the way they were when you were alive. Nothing has stopped, no one has come to a halt. Life, it seems, is remarkably good at moving on.

Your favourite nephew got married yesterday, Baba.

The one you proudly introduced as your own wherever you went. The one whose name you chose as a little boy and never stopped talking about. He did not come when you died; he did not call Aai (mother) to offer a single word of condolence.

I keep wondering whether you would have believed it if you had seen it yourself. Perhaps death does not reveal how deeply people loved us. Sometimes, it quietly reveals who had already left long before we realised they were gone.

I went to our new home today, where Aai stays, and you look at us from a photograph on the table. You are, somehow, always smiling, Baba. You look at us as we eat your favourite bhajiyas in the rains and have too many cups of tea.

I know, for a fact, that you would have wanted some too, and the thought makes me smile.

When I sit beside your photograph, I notice myself becoming more like you. I clasp my hands together and stare at my fingers while I think, just as you always did. Sometimes I catch myself doing it without even realising. And in those moments, it almost feels as though you are still looking at your hands through mine.

Today, as I was rummaging through Aai’s home, I found a glass, your favourite one; it still had your name written on it. I stood there for a long time, running my fingers over those faded letters, as though touching your name might somehow shorten the distance between us. It didn’t.

I somehow feel your presence inside me, Baba. But I do not like the way this relationship has become. I want it the old way, the way I could see you sitting in front of me, smiling, and laughing.

I want you to look at me and remember your younger version, like you did when I fiddled with the pearl ring on my little finger. I still keep adjusting the ring so that it is perfectly in line with the shape of my finger. Whenever I do, I see you smiling.

Every achievement, success, and happiness feels nothing since you left. There is a void inside me which nothing in the world can fill.

You are the first person I want to talk to when I achieve something. You are the first person I want to reach out to when I am sad. You are the one and only person I want to speak to. What do I do, Baba?

I have years ahead of me, and I do not know how to live without you. I feel anger, Baba. I am plainly, simply, and inevitably angry at every person around me who has forgotten you. Sometimes I want to scream and tell the world how much it hurts, but I know no one would care. So, I stay quiet, but this silence eats me up from inside.

I have stopped praying to God. I visited the temple one day with Aai; she folded her hands and prayed while I stepped aside. All I could feel was anger inside me. I left exactly the way I had entered. Everything that meant something to me before your death has lost its meaning. Nothing touches me anymore.

But the world remains untouched, Baba. It keeps going on. The Sun rises in the East and sets in the West, just the way they teach in the books. Seasons change and so do people.

I know, for a fact, that the apartment will still need paint. The vegetable seller will carry on cleaning the vegetables and asking for extra money. The river will continue flowing beneath the bridge and smell just as strongly of sewage. The old lady will sell the Amaranth ladoos. In the middle of all of it, I will still keep looking for you.