It has been 4 years since we chose to live within the quiet bubble of his absence, finding comfort in whatever it still gives us. Some days are easier, others are harder—but perhaps that is what happens when your solar system loses its sun, and all that remains is the pull of each other’s gravity.
Sam and I were having a deep conversation the other day after someone we knew suddenly disappeared from everywhere.
Our discussion shifted, and we ended up agreeing that one person cannot fulfill every emotion or activity in life. We have different people for different needs—some for adventure, some for luxury, some for the street food, and others for fine dining.
But we both agreed there was one exception—and that exception was him.
If you felt like talking, he was there. If you wanted to go shopping, he would come along. If you wanted to go out for fine dining, he would happily accompany you—whether he liked the cuisine or not. Perhaps that is what most fathers do, but he was not just a father. He played so many roles in so many lives that, at times, we had to understand and set aside our own needs.
How could I forget the long discussions, endless entertainment, and healthy gossip that never seemed to end? He was the spark that lit those conversations, and one night was never enough. With games of rummy, sun-dried snacks, and fruits filling the table, the house carried such energy that it was often difficult to fall asleep even after everything ended.
Those evenings that stretched late into the night laid the foundation for our “late nights.” In the last three years of his life, they became even more special.
Today, as we continue living inside this bubble, we are left with so many “what ifs”—especially about who he was and how he was seen during his final years.
We often wonder what life might have been like if we had known more of him earlier—the way we experienced him in his final years, completely present and devoted to us. What if he had not endured the loss of those closest to him, especially after the life he had built and transformed? What if we could write his story—a story of struggle, strength, and building an empire? It may sound like a cliché, but most stories worth telling begin with rain and end in light.
A few days after he passed, my aunt visited us, and the usual conversation began—about how people change during such times and reveal their truest, often unmasked selves. People will talk when you are alive, and they will talk even when you are gone, sometimes over a body still warm. Often, it is the closest ones who do. She ended that discussion beautifully by saying, “Unlucky were those who could not experience him.”
The days will never feel the same, and each of us will carry that truth for the rest of our lives. The place he held can never be filled; the emptiness will remain, and in some way, that is how we continue to feel his presence.
Today, four years later and counting, we carry a bittersweet happiness in the life he taught us to live—independent, resilient, and with a fire still burning within us, even in his absence. Writing this is painful, but the bubble we live in continues to give us peace.
For Baba, Always!
