Beyond The Last Goodbye

After four years of studying at design school, I graduated yesterday.

My entire family showed up for this beautiful day. They always do. No matter how big or small the occasion, no matter how ordinary or extraordinary the achievement, they always show up.

The only missing piece of that day was my Nanaji.

He passed away a few years ago, and something inside me has never quite been the same since.

As a child, I was terrified of death. I would have panic attacks just thinking about what would happen to me after I died. Over time, with counselling and the unwavering support of my parents, I slowly learned to live with that fear. I spent a few years dancing through life again. I did everything I wanted to do. I even took small risks. The paranoia never disappeared completely, but I learned to quieten it.

Until one random day, when I watched someone I loved die.

I still remember the moment my father told me that Nanaji was gone. It felt as though someone had driven a knife straight through my chest. My heart refused to believe what my ears had just heard. Anxiety took over, but denial stayed longer. I remained in denial for hours. Perhaps even until I attended his funeral.

I grew up in a family where I had the privilege of knowing my great grandparents. I saw them live well into their nineties. I had seen them almost as much as I had seen my Nanaji. Maybe because of that, losing someone in the family always felt like something that happened to other people. It was a reality that lived somewhere far away from me.

Until it did not.

The shock stayed with me for a long time. And while I know grief never belongs to just one person, I cannot deny that it changed me. I struggled to process the fact that someone so deeply woven into my childhood had suddenly become a memory.

Nightmares have become regular visitors ever since.

What followed the grief was regret.

The regret of not calling him enough. Not checking in often enough. Not visiting him enough. Regret is a strange thing. It convinces you that love can only be measured by what you failed to do.

My regret consumed me.

Even today, I avoid certain family gatherings because one thought of him is enough to fill my eyes with tears. A few are falling even as I write this.

Yesterday was one of those days. I was happy. Truly happy. And yet, I missed him more than I have in a long time.

I remembered the day Nani and Nanaji came to my university when I received the Achiever’s Award. Nanaji was in complete awe of the campus. He looked around with the curiosity of a child and the pride of a grandfather. That face, full of quiet excitement, was all I could see when I walked onto the stage yesterday to receive my degree.

Today is his birthday.

He would have turned seventy-five.

And I realized that the last memory I have of him is not the one I want to carry forever.

Growing up, I spent every vacation at my Nana Nani’s house. Nanaji had a few strict rules. Television had to be switched off after a certain time. As a child, those rules annoyed me. Looking back now, I realize he was teaching me something far greater than discipline. He was teaching me that freedom without balance slowly loses its meaning.

Nanaji was one of the most hardworking people I have ever known.

My mother often tells me how he quietly gave up countless comforts so that she and my Maama could receive a good education. Much of where my mother stands today is because of the sacrifices made by both my Nani and my Nanaji.

He was a mathematics scholar. Ironically, I hated mathematics.

Yet studying with him somehow made it enjoyable. Sometimes I would even sit beside him while studying subjects that had nothing to do with mathematics, simply because learning with him never felt like studying.

One of my favorite memories with him is from a trip to Konkan, where we went paragliding together. I was terrified. Every instinct in me wanted to back out. Somehow, just knowing he was there made the fear feel smaller. I still remember taking off, my heart racing, only to realize that I was smiling. His calmness became my courage that day.

He also taught me the importance of having values, while reminding me that values should never prevent growth.

He grew up with a fairly orthodox mindset, yet when my mother chose to marry my father in an intercultural and intercaste marriage that was strongly opposed within the family, he allowed himself to evolve. He did not abandon his principles, but he expanded his perspective.

That, to me, is one of the greatest signs of wisdom.

I often asked him questions simply because I was curious.

“Nanaji, why don’t you eat non vegetarian food?”

His answer was always simple.

“My parents told me not to.”

I would immediately begin arguing.

“But why should we always do what our elders say?”

He would smile and calmly reply that these were the values he had chosen to live by. Then he would add, “The day there is no vegetarian food left in the world, I will eat non vegetarian food.”

That answer has stayed with me for years.

It taught me that conviction does not have to become rigidity. You can have principles without becoming impractical. You can stand firm without refusing to bend.

I see so much of my Nanaji in my father.

My father does not consume alcohol, but he has never stopped any of us from making our own choices. Like Nanaji, his morals are quiet but unshakeable. They are both men whose words carry weight because they have always honored them.

Perhaps that is one of the many reasons my mother chose him.

For years, I have mourned my Nanaji’s death a little every single day.

But maybe it is finally time to remember him for the life he lived instead of the day he left.

He was a good human being. He helped people without expecting recognition. He stood firmly beside his family. He loved deeply and sacrificed silently.

Those are the things I carry forward from knowing him. Perhaps that is why he left this world so peacefully.

Today, on his birthday, there is only one thing I want to tell him.

I love you.

I regret not calling you one last time.

But I do not want that regret to become louder than the memories we created together.

From today onwards, I choose to remember you not for your absence, but for your presence. Not for the day you left, but for the years you lived.

You have shaped me in more ways than I realized while you were here. You have been, and you will always remain, one of the quiet foundations of my life. Wherever you are, I hope you know that I am still trying to become someone you would be proud of.

Happy birthday, Nanaji.