| Chai/Image Credit: UTE |
Then suddenly, he is gone.
Just like that. No dramatic farewell, no signs to warn you, no last words to cherish. One instant, he is present—singing, laughing, sharing tales of the railroads, sipping chai, and discussing life as if it were eternal. The next moment, he has vanished. The emptiness he leaves isn’t just a lack; it’s a tear in your reality.
You are taken aback. Anger surges through you. You feel powerless. There’s no guidebook for this.
Death is the singular truth you have always imagined as a tale. A far-off occurrence that befalls others but never the ones who infuse life with meaning.
Maybe it’s because we’re nurtured on tales where the virtuous survive. Villains meet their end, yet heroes endure. Even when death plays a role in our stories, it arrives for those deemed unworthy. Typically, our narratives do not equip us for the loss of a good soul, someone compassionate, the type who makes the world brighter. We’ve been conditioned to think that goodness persists, that warmth remains, that happiness doesn’t fade.
So when that moment comes—when your anchor, the person who made life more livable, is no longer around—something deep inside you shuts down. It transcends mere sorrow; it’s an incapacity to find joy in anything ever again. Because happiness seemed to rest within them.
He wasn’t my father, yet he embraced that role. He fondly called me Sunday Wala Beta because Sundays were ours—chai, heartfelt conversations, and stories of the railroads where he dedicated four decades. My biological father was reserved, not much for lengthy discussions, but this uncle, this ‘Muh Bola’ father, filled that absence. His guidance was straightforward yet poignant, the kind that feels casual in the moment but lingers for ages:
“Money isn’t everything, but it is important. You shouldn’t bow to its rule, but having enough allows you to savor life. Ultimately, it’s about experiencing life to the fullest.”
Then came a Sunday when I saw him for the final time.
He seemed perfectly fine, just as he always was. We enjoyed chai, discussed his health issues, talked about real estate. He spoke as if countless Sundays awaited him. I left without a second thought. A month later, his son reached out—not to me first, but asking another to bring me along. I felt a surge of frustration momentarily, but then it clicked. My parents are unwell. He didn’t want to unload additional worries on me.
Tomorrow is the day we say goodbye.
I’m unsure how I’ll feel. Nothing has hit me profoundly yet. Perhaps it won’t, neither tomorrow nor the next day. Maybe weeks will pass before it hits me, when I catch a train’s whistle and reminisce about his narratives. Perhaps it will strike when I sip chai, instinctively waiting for a voice that is lost forever. It may even come when someone jokingly calls me Sunday Wala Beta, and suddenly, it feels painfully hollow.
If I could have just one more moment with him, I wouldn’t utter a word. I wouldn’t seek wisdom or closure. I would simply sit in his presence, share a cup of chai, and relish his tales. Because at the end of it all, that was more than enough.
And now, all that’s left is silence.
But one day, I’m certain—far from the noise of bereavement, away from the burden of loss—I will find myself with chai in hand, listening to the faint whistle of a train in the distance, and I will remember.
In that instant, he will live on.