Remembering Maa

 I still wake to the echo of her laugh, the shape of her hand in a dream, the sudden ache when a sentence or a photograph calls her back into the room. The world moves on with its bright reminders and curated celebrations, and I move with it too....only to find that the hollow she left is not a gap that time fills but a room I learn to live inside.

The Unfillable Void

There is no neat timeline for grief. Thirteen years is a long time by any measure, and yet the absence feels as immediate as the day it began. A book, a scent, a stranger’s smile....these seemingly small things should be harmless.....and yet, they become sharp instruments that split open the same wound. The heart fractures again and again, each shard catching the light differently but bleeding the same way it did the first time.

When Reminders Cut Deep

As Mother’s Day approaches, the world offers a thousand ways to celebrate: brunches, bouquets, curated gifts, and emails promising the perfect way to say “thank you.” Those messages arrive like confetti on a wound. They are not cruel by intent, but they insist on a reality I no longer inhabit. The holiday’s cheer becomes a mirror that reflects what I have lost rather than what I still have.

The Quiet Work of Memory

She is not gone from me in the ways that matter most. Her lessons live in the small, automatic choices I make; her voice lives in my word choices, my sentences. Her values steer me when I think I am deciding alone. Sometimes, her influence is gentle and subconscious. Some other time, it is a fierce, immovable force that shapes my reactions and my limits. Roots run deep, and even the parts that no longer fit me hold me fast.

The Myth of Time as Healer

People say time heals. I have learned that time changes the shape of the pain but does not erase it. The sharpness softens in places; the edges become familiar. But familiarity is not forgetting. The ache becomes a companion rather than an enemy......present ubiquitously, sometimes quiet, sometimes roaring....but never entirely absent.

A Way Through the Day

On days when the world celebrates what I miss, I retreat inward. But I don't do that out of bitterness. It's out of self-preservation. I honor her in ways that feel honest to me: a quiet cup of tea in the morning, a song I know she loved, a small ritual that keeps her near without pretending she is still here. I allow myself to feel the rupture and to hold the tenderness that comes with it.

Remembering Maa

Grief doesn't demand grand gestures. It asks for truth. This Mother’s Day, I will not pretend the world’s fanfare fits me. I will carry her in the private corners of my life....her lessons, her laugh, the stubborn, beautiful ways she shaped me.......and I will let the day be what it is: a reminder that love endures, even when the person who taught me how to love is no longer beside me in the flesh and blood.

The LPG Crisis and Other Musings

Vivekananda once said, “You can’t practice religion if you’re hungry.” Lately, I’ve been thinking the same applies to everyday life: you can’t focus on deadlines, client calls, or even folding laundry when your mind is doing mental gymnastics over an empty LPG cylinder.

Mornings begin with a small, private prayer - please let the empty gas cylinder be replaced today by a full one. I still have my second cylinder keeping the stove burning, but even boiling that cup of morning tea feels like a luxury, and forces me to think - what if I could use my electric kettle instead of burning precious gas? Sigh!

Outside, the autos are lined up in long queues at the gas pump for 8 to 12 hours, or sometimes more. The struggle is harsher for those poor souls. And watching that snaking line move is like watching a slow-motion parade of patience and resignation.

Meanwhile, prices of basics creep up like a stealthy cat: quiet, inevitable, and always landing on your grocery bill. You try to plan meals, but the menu of the day is dictated by what’s affordable and what won’t require burning the stove for long. Suddenly, “what’s for dinner?” becomes a strategic exercise in resource management.

All of this chips away at the small comforts that make life manageable - an uninterrupted cup of tea, a calm commute, the ability to cook without scheduling it like a military operation. When your energy and time are spent chasing essentials, there’s little left for the small rituals that keep you sane.

Still, there’s a strange camaraderie in the chaos. Neighbors swap tips, the chaiwala in the corner of the lane knows your order by heart, and someone always has a sympathetic ear for your ranting. Humor becomes a survival skill: we joke about starting a pilgrimage to our gas dealer, or about opening a museum exhibit titled “Artifacts of Patience: The Queue.”

If there’s a lesson here, it’s this: basic needs are the foundation of everything else. Fix the stove and people's livelihoods, and suddenly, prayers, work, and small joys have room to breathe. Until then, I’ll keep my sense of humor polished, my phone charged for LPG cylinder delivery updates, and my appetite for both food and life intact.