Does Grief ever go away?

Hey, my people!

I never thought i was capable to write about this, i am rather proud of myself for writing this blog, and unlike other blogs i hope you dont relate to this blog, and if you do, i am sorry for your loss.

Yesterday, my father-in-law ordered books for my sister-in-law. A perfectly ordinary thing, really. Nothing to write about really. Except, for some reason, it made me sad. Not the kind of sad that makes you cry immediately, but the kind that quietly takes you by the hand and pulls you back into a time you didn’t even realise you were missing so much.

Suddenly, I was back in Pune, walking through Deccan with my mom, dad and my brother, surrounded by bookstores. Back then, Deccan was our little book paradise. My brother and I could spend hours browsing through books, picking up comics and storybooks, probably asking for far more than we needed. My mum introduced me to the magic of reading, but Dad made sure the magic never ran out. If we loved books, he made sure we had them. Simple as that.

One of my most treasured memories is from when I had jaundice as a child. I was stuck at home, unwell and probably bored out of my mind, when Dad came home with a bag full of comics and storybooks. I can still feel the excitement of opening that bag, discovering one book after another, and forgetting, at least for a little while, that I was sick.

My brother and I have held on to those books all these years. We haven’t just kept them; we’ve treasured them. And I suppose that is because, somewhere between those faded pages and familiar illustrations, we have kept a little piece of our dad alive.

I was fourteen when I lost my father in a tragic incident. It has been more than twenty years, and I have grown up in all the ways a person is expected to. I have fallen in love, got married, become a mother, and built a life of my own. I make decisions, solve problems, take responsibility, and do all those terribly adult things that nobody prepares you for.

The thing about grief nobody tells you is that it will find you in the most ordinary moments. You might be having a perfectly good day, laughing about something silly, thinking about what to cook for dinner, or scrolling through your phone, when suddenly, something reminds you of the person who isn’t here anymore. And just like that, the years fall away.

Grief definately has a funny way of showing up. You achieve something, your childs first step, first word, basically all the milestones, or something really silly, and the first instinct is to share that moment with your family, and that is the moment when the absence hits the most. i often wonder what my dad would think about his grown daughter, would be proud, would he have expected more from me, ohh he would have definately spoiled my little one, taken him on his famous bike rides, how he would have fussed over my husband. There is so much of my life, he never got to see, every new thing in my life also is a new ache somehow.

And the world doesn’t always understand this.

We live in a society that is reasonably comfortable with grief when it is fresh. People know what to say when someone has just lost a dear one. They offer condolences, check in, and give you time to find your feet. But twenty years later? Surely, you should be over it by now. Surely, you should have moved on. Surely, there must be a limit to how often you can bring up someone who is no longer here.

I have been accused of playing the victim card when I have spoken about my loss. And honestly, I don’t know what to do with that sometimes. How do you explain to someone that remembering your father isn’t the same as asking for sympathy? How do you tell them that talking about a person you loved is not an attempt to make your life look tragic, or to gain an advantage, or to make anyone feel sorry for you?

When I talk about my dad, I don’t want the conversation to end with a solemn “Oh, poor you.” I don’t want people to look at me and see only a girl who lost her father. That is one part of my story, yes, but it is not the whole story. i had a father who was dashing, fearless and yet gentle and caring, someone who attended school annual functions no matter how busy he is, who pampered not just me and my brother, but every kid in the house. who loved and protected his clan with all his might, and i am mighty proud of being his daughter. I want to keep him alive in the only ways I can. Through stories, through memories, through the little details that might seem insignificant to someone else but mean the world to me. I want my son to know about the grandfather he never got to meet. I want people to know that before he became a memory, my dad was a person who laughed, loved, cared, and made his children happy in the simplest ways.

Because grief is not always about mourning someone’s absence. Sometimes, it is also about celebrating their presence in the life you were lucky enough to share with them.

Inspite of all this, life has a way of bringing a little comfort along with the ache.

When I watch my husband with our son, I see little glimpses of my dad. The patience, the indulgence, the way a tiny wish can become a full-fledged mission. I watch my son being loved, protected, and fussed over, and my heart fills with a kind of gratitude I cannot quite explain. I am so happy that my son gets to experience the comfort of having his father around in all the little ways that matter.

Some things are simply painful, and there is no lesson that can make them fair. But I know that the love he gave me is still woven into who I am. It lives in the memories my brother and I have held on to, in the stories we still remember, and perhaps even in the way I understand what it means to make a child feel loved. Maybe what made me sad yesterday wasn’t really about my father-in-law ordering books. Maybe it was the sudden reminder of a kind of love I once received so effortlessly.

But here’s the beautiful thing about life. Sometimes, without even realising it, we find ourselves back where we started, only this time, the story has a different ending.

My husband, for instance, is a non-reader. Books, for him, are probably those rectangular objects that take up shelf space and occasionally make their way into our shopping carts. He doesn’t particularly understand my love for them, and I suspect the idea of spending an afternoon wandering through bookstores sounds about as exciting to him as watching paint dry.

And yet, he buys me books. 🙂

My husband will never replace my dad, and I would never want him to. But in those little moments when he brings me a book, I am reminded that the love I received as a child hasn’t disappeared from my life entirely. It has made room for something new. My dad gave me books, and with them, some of my most treasured childhood memories. Today, my husband gives me books, and with them, a reminder that I am still allowed to be someone’s girl who gets excited over the smallest things.

My husband may not read the books, but he has somehow learnt to read me.

And if that isn’t a beautiful full circle, I don’t know what is.

So, to my husband, my brother-in-law Harsh Bhaiya, and my close friends who keep gifting me books, thank you. Thank you for indulging my love for reading. Thank you for thinking of me when you come across a book. Thank you for making an ordinary day feel special, for giving me new stories to discover, and for reminding that little girl,she is loved.

Love & Ice creams
Sneha Singhvi