On Grief: Life and Loss

Some days it still catches me off guard, how grief comes in the body,, how it hits you without warning. I’ll see a pomegranate in a store bin, or feel my knee ache in that old, familiar way , and suddenly I am back on those dusty refugee camp roads walking behind my grandma, trying to keep up with a woman who moved like she had somewhere important to be. She always walked so fast. Maybe she knew one day I’d have to learn how to follow her without seeing her.

On a quiet stroll or just soaking in all that life has to offer, I think about those lentil-selling trips often. Her bhotey jhola on her forehead, heavy enough to make grown men complain, and her, a woman in her sixties, walking miles and miles like it was nothing. The uncles in the neighborhood would teast me “ tyo bora bhitra bheteko ho yeslai, tei bhayera yetro kalo bhako”. The world felt simple in the way childhood often lies to us. You don’t realize someone again until they suddenly aren’t there. I couldnt fathom that my grandma was in her sixites, that was an insane thought.

A decade in, the cancer came. Fast. Cruel but the world didnt pause for it… not for her, not for me, not for anyone. Even after knowing about her diagnosis, I had to complete a quarter abroad, so with a heavy heart, I departed to Florence. The world had to keep moving, but deep down I was negotiating with myself on what normalcy was and how I could still be on a weekend trip to a random European city, while nothing was ever normal. But, the world has its way of making things feel right.

The pandemic forced me home, and that strange global grief collided with my private one. But, I am grateful for those months, where I’d run up to the living room between Zoom classes to find her watching Ramayan, or peeling the pomegranate and oranges.

Grief is weird. It makes you remember things that you didn’t even know you had clocked in your head. The way she peeled the pomegranates, picking out all the white bitter skin. The way she massaged timur ko tel into my legs at night when I cried in pain, half-asleep and apologizing for nothing. The way she’d still sneak me tamarind candy even when I was practically an adult. She wasn’t dramatic with her love. She didn’t need to be.

But grief… its dramatic. It fucks you up sideways, challenges your sense of time. I thought it was just sadness, but its also the realization that hits you that you cant share with her anymore, she never got to see me graduate. Imagine the pride she would have felt, the same kid she nurtured, took care of, graduating from college, going on to do great things.

I’ve learned that grief isn’t a straight line. Some people will tell you there’s a timeline, that one day you’ll “get over it,” but honestly that’s nonsense. There’s no getting over someone who shaped you. You just learn to carry them differently. Some days they’re a soft ache. Some days they’re a sudden punch in the ribs. And some days, they’re a small, quiet smile when you least expect it.

Sometimes I think about that photograph of her walking away, her back toward the camera. For a long time it hurt to look at it. It felt too literal. Too final. But now… now it feels different. She’s not leaving. She’s just ahead. A few steps. Moving the way she always did. And maybe that’s grief too, learning how to keep walking behind someone you can’t see anymore.

People say “time heals,” but I don’t think that’s true. I think time teaches. You learn that love doesn’t disappear with death. You learn that memories don’t fade unless you stop speaking them. You learn that you can honor someone by living in a way they would’ve smiled at.

Wherever she is now, I hope she still turns around sometimes just a quick glance to see if I’m keeping up.

I like to think she knows I’m trying.