Hello beautiful one,

It's been a while since I took my place behind this screen. In that while, a universe full of things took place, transforming our world and us with it. How many of us have bemused at our pre-pandemic lives?

I'm working hard to plant my feet firmly in the present moment, tethered to the beach of the past by an old, frayed rope. The waters of the future tug at my feet with every wave, threatening to swipe away the ground under my feet and sweep me into the worrying waters. Luckily, I've had the good fortune of finding a supportive rock to lean on. I sink my back into the soft moss. I write:

Since memory serves my recall, my grandfather has been calling the shots. A true patriarch, he ruled with an iron fist, ensuring our reputation was akin to a sparkling, crystal trophy amongst our community (this term transcends boundaries - it refers to the extended family, friends, neighbours, regular gossip-mongers, religious and political leaders, and that guy at the bank).

The first lesson I remember him teaching me was that society judges you by: your walk, your talk, and your garb. I’ve been remembering fractions of my childhood and young adulthood days with more ease lately. Grief has a way of opening up your hidden boxes and shoving them in front of your face:

"When I walk into a room, I am always the tallest man in the room. I walk with pride, with the weight of my ancestors in each footstep, as it thuds and demands attention from everyone in the room. That is how you must walk into every room. You're my granddaughter - a Sandhu - everyone is looking at you when you enter a room. Make sure you walk tall - shoulders back, head level, confidence pursed on your lips."

As he talks, sharing another story to serve as example, I get off the diwan and walk up and down the hallway in our apartment. I'm watching myself in the mirror, focusing on slamming my foot down to make the 'thud' grandpa was talking about.

"No, no. Not like that. Just walk with a straight back always and the rest will follow. Don't slouch."

Grandma is watching us from her perched position on the balcony. She's removing peas from their pods, prepping for lunch.

"Your walk means nothing without your talk. As you know, I'm a published poet and writer. Have I told you of the time I won a competition when I was 9? I was the youngest competitor, and the Deputy Minister at the time, who was judging the competition, stood up to clap after I finished speaking."

I envision a small, thin boy standing on stage, wearing a white kurta pajama and a red turban on his head. He holds a shaky piece of paper in his hands as he enunciates every word on his poem perfectly.

"The clothes you wear are an immediate representation of who you are. That includes your hair. Tied back, with conservative clothing - preferably a suit-salwar. All those hero-heroines on TV are not the role models to follow. Remember, we are an orthodox family."

My grandma calls me over to offer me some peas. She smooths my hair back, tucking a strand behind my ear. Hours earlier, following a particularly scrub-heavy bath, she had spent 20mins braiding my hair into a tight braid. I reach over to grab more peas and am gently guided away. "Let's go into the kitchen and make lunch," she coos, taking me by the hand. I spend my afternoon handing utensils and watching a cat lazily nap outside the kitchen window. I wonder if cats have to worry about their posture and purr.

In January 2023, my grandpa passed away quite suddenly. Two weeks before, he had bid my father, partner and I an emotional goodbye at the front-gate of my first home. It had been an exciting trip for the most part -- neither my partner nor I had really every explored the nooks and crannies of Mumbai. The humidity, the people, and the noise were a welcome landscape for the chaos of my mind, albeit temporarily. Nothing like a trip to your childhood home to do some emotional healing.

No one was expecting grandpa to pass away so suddenly. He was scheduled to get brand-new teeth installed in May, and was upset that he wouldn’t be able to celebrate his birthday with a full set of teeth. In fact, this trip was motivated with my need to meet grandma, and introduce her to my now-fiance, as she had taken a turn for the worst. I think I prepared for the wrong person to die.

My grief is bittersweet. What does it taste like to you, dear one?

My grief has gifted me long-estranged family. Grey-speckled versions from my memory, speaking with them again was like being reunited with pieces of my heart. Some of them, I fear words are not big enough to express my emotions. My mouth is too little to create the apology necessary and there is not enough bile in the world to digest the discomfort of unknowingly hurting a loved one with silence.

My grief tightens up in my chest like a big, ball of emotion. It is asking to be unwound. It is asking for time, for rest, to take up space after being abandoned for so long. Each month since it arose, my body has found new ways to request daily movement to get the built-up energy out of my muscles. But grief is tiring; carrying the weight of it as it gets larger each passing day has crumbled me to my feet.

I burn out, I give up, I explore new horizons, I meet new people, I reinvent myself! Moving erratically from one calling to another, trying to find steady ground under constantly moving feet. And finally, I collapse at the altar of grief after nine months of carrying its weight on my back. I get on my knees, press my palms firmly into the ground as I breathe in, slowly lifting up head up towards the sky. I breathe in my grief. I breathe out relief, arching my back to gently kneed sore muscles. As I lift up my head a third time, I’m greeted with the long-awaited release.

After nine long months, my grief hisses with a sigh of relief as ink meets paper.

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