Leave Nothing Unsaid...

It was the first thought that came to her as she woke up. He was gone. And soon, this bedroom, the house in whose eastern corner it sat, and the tiny garden outside with its gnarled old red hibiscus and the half-grown mango tree they had planted together, all those would be gone as well. It was the strangest feeling ever. It was as if every memory that she had of him were fading, every moment they had spent together were slipping from her hands and every ride they had enjoyed will also be lost someday.

These thoughts had made waking up every morning a challenge for her. Her day started with guilt, grief, anger and depression. She didn't know how to deal with it. She wanted to cry and be alone. But being alone had the worst possible outcome, for facing depression alone made things worse. Most of the mornings she had no idea how she would make it through the day. She had no idea how to cope up with his absence. Every time a memory was brought up, she laughed, and then cried.

He was 87, so it's hard to say it came as a shock to her, but somehow, it did. Tiya knew it was coming, yet when she finally heard the news, she felt like someone had punched her hard in the stomach. It wasn't sudden and shouldn't have been unexpected. Yet it seemed unnatural, mysterious and incredibly uncomfortable.

She could still remember receiving the call from the hospital, her mother letting out a distraught cry, that he was no more. Her initial reaction was shock and confusion; she just couldn't understand what was happening.

He had battled so much that year to stay alive. Even after falling off the bed and hurting his head, which led to a serious brain bleed and surgery, he finally survived, surprising the doctors who didn't imagine he would make it. Although he pulled through, chances were there that he would not have all his brain functions. Yet, after three whole months, he did recover and remembered all of them. They had celebrated the day with heartwarming sweet memories.

Tiya had a great relationship with her grandpa—her friend and companion—but most of it were non-verbal. They knew how they felt, but there were too many things she felt she should have said out loud. May be she felt afraid, or was too weak to express her feelings or may be her head had some other stupid reasons that prevented her from pouring her heart out. She should have ignored them and spoke up, she thought. But it's too late now. She cringes every now and then when she thinks of all the valuable times she had wasted on stupid stuffs, instead of having more of him.

Although she felt really depressed for the things she should have done, she was grateful for all the good times they had spent together; and Tiya considered herself lucky enough to live with her grandpa throughout her childhood. She remembered how he used to attend all her dance programs, school plays and basket ball competitions and cheered her on, much to the envy of her friends, from his favorite lawn chair, that he took everywhere with him. It really helped her feel confident in herself.

Tiya remembered how he always took her seriously, taking time to listen to her and taking her concerns seriously, unlike her parents who hardly had any time for her. Her grandpa had always been open and honest to her whenever she asked a question or expressed her worries. He was always in a unique position of being able to provide her with a space in which she is fully accepted for who she was, without judging her even once. He had always validated her feelings and experiences and had always made her feel heard and understood. Her grandpa was more than her parents to her, who were always busy with their own world. But her grandpa was always there for her, supporting her and helping her out, no matter what.

Tiya remembered how she used to play hide-and-seek with him, as a kid, and play cards at the kitchen table. She would paint on his kurtas with crayons as her grandpa watched her lovingly. She would come to him whenever her mother scolded her and then cuddling with him would watch cartoons.