A Story of Love, Loss, and Reconnection.

A story on love and loss

Jealousy, dad jokes and mangoes

Having lost a parent as a young child, it feels like my entire life has been coloured by grief, you know? “Grief tinted glasses”: they’re grey and foggy. 

There’s always been this sense of loss forever. 

“Someone is supposed to be here, but they’re not”. But the experience of living with this grief since the age of 3, also seems odd to me at times: I’m so incredibly sad, on the verge of tears as I write this: all over someone I never knew?

I specifically remember Father’s Day when I was 6. School, TV shows, my friends, everyone was talking about their fathers and I felt a rock on my chest. I simultaneously felt like tears that had been locked were released into the world that day. I remember asking my mom why I couldn’t celebrate Father’s Day. “Why didn’t I have a dad? Why? It’s unfair. Everyone has one. Why does my life have to be like this?” Whatever words I could manage to speak in between my sobs. 

Even now, I find myself feeling irrationally (who defines what irrational is though?) jealous when I see kids with their fathers; out to play badminton in the park, trying to beat them in a race, learning how to ride a cycle while their dads smile proudly, laughing uncontrollably over bad dad jokes – it stirs something inside me. I fel like that 6 year old again. As much as I hate to admit it, when I see my cousins with their fathers… I don’t think I can even fully explain the feeling: jealousy, forlorn, nostalgia for something I never experienced, sadness. Tt’s bittersweet, this mix of emotions for a relationship I never had but always imagined.

All that I know about my father has been through stories. Slipped between family gatherings, funnily recounted by his cousins, his cancer chronicled by my mother (who is stronger than I could ever be), plucked out of photo albums, found in his old watches, photos and certificates. He loved mangoes and curd, he played the violin, he worked in IT, he loved Queen and… 

As I write this, I realise how little information this is about someone who was supposed to see you grow up, someone who was supposed to BE HERE, with me. This is barely anything. But it’s something. 

It’s indescribably strange and complicated to wrap your head around grief, and the death of a parent as a child (I don’t think it gets much better as an adult either to be honest). There’s always this looming reminder of loss, this constant sense of something missing, like a part of you will always be incomplete. What do you mean, other people have “complete” families?

Right now, I still struggle with festivals. I don’t think it will ever go away and I don’t think I want it to fully disappear from my life either. This is how I know I love this person, even the idea of their presence.

 The magnifying lens of grief and loss tends to make an entry, making the sad experiences sadder and happy experiences incomplete. And I’m not going to sugar coat it: it kind of sucks, but I live through it each year. 

With all of this, what I’m trying to say is that grief has always been with me in some way or the other. At the back of my mind, in my tears, in my poetry, in my understanding of love, in the dark jokes I make with my mom, when I look in the mirror and study my face. I accepted the reality of death easily, something I wish I didn’t have to have as a young child. 

For the longest time, I refused to talk about him – it was awkward, sad, and pointless. I would pride myself on how little emotion I showed. But that didn’t last too long, my love and the need to fill this huge piece of my life steered me beyond the awkwardness. I look back at my younger self with so much love, pity, and admiration. I wish I could tell her that it’s okay to cry, it’s okay to be jealous, it’s all okay. 

For everyone reading; take more photos with your parents. There will be a time when you can’t do that anymore. 

I can count on my ten fingers how many photos I have with my dad.