A Tribute to a Friendship Forged in Love and Barney

A Tribute to a Friendship Forged in Love and Barney Today, as Romu, Sana’s childhood friend, celebrates his 30th birthday, my heart is a mix of bittersweet emotions. Romu, from Fremont, shared a bond with Sana that was truly special, a connection that deepened and matured over the years. Now a doctor, Romu was a pillar of strength for us, and for Sana, throughout her illness. He understood her completely, and their shared laughter often included a running joke: if they weren't married by 40, they'd marry each other. Sana also held a special place in her heart for Romu’s mom, a dear school friend of mine, and many of Sana's cherished childhood memories were made at their home. Romu, though an active child, and Sana, shared an unexpected, yet profound, love for Barney. They could spend hours together, lost in the world of the purple dinosaur. It was a beautiful friendship, one Sana always declared made Romu her "best friend." Before Sana passed, Romu confided in me how difficult it was for him. He, a doctor who faced death daily, found Sana’s illness and passing profoundly challenging. Their friendship was everything to Sana, a unique and irreplaceable bond. I remember Sana, with her kindest heart, finding a strange pleasure in teasing Romu. She burst his bubble once by revealing Santa Claus wasn't real, leaving him devastated! They also had a playful competition about who had read more books, both being avid readers. As Romu celebrates this milestone birthday, I know Sana is looking down at him, a cheesy smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye, just as she always did when she thought of her dear friend. Their bond, a testament to pure friendship, continues to inspire.

The Echoes of Sana:

The Echoes of Sana: Navigating Grief in My Hometown Mumbai, my beloved hometown, felt different this time. Usually, a trip here means collecting little trinkets and treats for Sana. But today, as I walked down familiar streets, a simple encounter brought me to a halt. A shopkeeper, someone from whom I’ve bought countless things for Sana over the years, stopped me. "I have some new,nice dresses for your daughter ," he said. In that moment, tears streamed down my face, unbidden and raw. It wasn't embarrassment I felt, but an overwhelming wave of pain. I retreated to my mother's house, unable to face the outside world. This evening, another moment of quiet sorrow unfolded. My mother, looking at a picture of herself with her four grandchildren in Singapore, paused. Her eyes welled up as she softly whispered, "I miss Sana, I like her so much." It’s a strange phenomenon; we haven't explicitly told her about Sana's passing, yet my mother’s thoughts consistently gravitate towards her. It’s as if her heart intuitively knows. This entire trip has been an emotional rollercoaster. Every corner, every face, every memory seems to trigger a fresh pang of grief for Sana. This morning, I dreamt of her. All I can recall is her voice, clear as day, saying, "Mom, I am okay, don't worry." Those were her constant words of reassurance throughout her sickness, a mantra of comfort that echoes in my soul even now. My therapy session today shed some light on this intense wave of emotions. My therapist reminded me that my last visit in December was brief, and I hadn’t fully processed my grief. This time, being back and encountering so many people, each memory serves as a poignant reminder of Sana. Tomorrow marks a significant step, one I've been procrastinating for far too long. I'm finally starting the project I’ve envisioned: going to the publishers to decide on the layout and cover for Sana’s memory book. This has been the hardest part of this journey, and I’m so grateful my sister, my steadfast support, will be by my side. This book is more than just pages and words; it's a testament to Sana. I want it to be a beautiful memory of her, a reflection of her boundless kindness and love, and a tribute to the countless lives she touched and the many people who cherish her. It's an ode to a life lived with grace, and a way to keep her spirit alive in our hearts.

14 months

Ice Cream, Kindness, and a Tribute to My Angel Fourteen months today. Fourteen long, aching months without Sana. To honor her memory today, I walked the familiar streets of Colaba and did something she once loved doing — I ordered food from McDonald’s and distributed it to the homeless and needy. Years ago, during one of our trips to Mumbai, we were strolling through these very streets when a small boy tugged at our sleeve and asked if he could have something from McDonald’s. Without hesitation, Sana turned to me and said, “Mom, let’s get him a meal.” Her voice was steady, kind, and so full of purpose. That moment stayed with her. The very next day, she asked me to go back with her — not to shop, not to sightsee — but to buy 20 ice cream cones. One by one, she handed them out to children gathered outside the store. I remember the joy lighting up their faces, the sparkle in their eyes. And Sana, standing there, was beaming. She said, almost in disbelief, “I can’t believe something so small — an ice cream — can bring so much happiness.” She used her own allowance to buy those treats, not out of charity, but from a place of deep empathy. She never forgot how much joy a small act of kindness could create. And neither did I. Today, as I handed out meals in her name, I saw that same twinkle in the eyes of children. That same innocent delight. And I felt her presence — not just in my memories, but in the smiles of those little ones, in the spirit of giving, in the legacy of her gentle, loving heart. This was my tribute to my angel. A girl who never needed a reason to be kind. A soul who believed in the power of small gestures. Sana — you are missed every single day, but your kindness continues to ripple through the world. May we all learn to carry a little more of your light.

The Brightest Star in Heaven

The Brightest Star in Heaven The wedding festivities have come to an end. I pulled through — but not without struggle. Grief clung to me like a second skin, even as I smiled and dressed up, even as I stood beside loved ones. It was the presence of my siblings, their quiet strength and unwavering support, that helped me move through each day. They held me up in moments I didn’t know I was crumbling. During the wedding, I met many people — friends, relatives — who had reached out to me over the past year. I had shut most of them out, surrounded myself in silence, unable to find the words to reply or the energy to engage. This time, face to face, their compassion felt real and gentle. I realized they, too, had been grieving in their own ways. Idris attended his family reunion — something we all used to go to together. Sana and I had been part of so many of those past reunions. It was hard to accept that this time it was Maahir and Serena representing the younger generation, and Sana wasn’t there. After the reunion, Idris traveled with his mom to New Jersey to visit the cemetery. The tombstone is finally complete — a painful kind of finality, yet also a quiet comfort to know her resting place is marked with care and love. At one point during the wedding, my nephew Danny came up to me, his eyes welling with tears. He was thinking of Sana. "Is Sana the brightest star in heaven?" he asked, his voice trembling. I had to pause — the lump in my throat made it hard to speak. But I looked him in the eyes and said, “Yes, she is. And she always will be.” In a sea of lights, laughter, music, and rituals, my heart carried the weight of absence. But it also held onto the warmth of memory. Sana’s absence was everywhere — in the laughter she would’ve shared, in the dresses she would’ve picked, in the joy she so effortlessly brought to any celebration. Yet somehow, her presence was everywhere too — in our shared stories, in the way the wind whispered through the trees, in Danny’s tearful question. She is, and always will be, the brightest star watching over us.

Dreams, Weddings, and the Echo of a Missing Heartbeat

Dreams, Weddings, and the Echo of a Missing Heartbeat: The recurring dreams of Sana have started, pulling me back into the vivid landscape of her presence. Even though I'm here in Mumbai, a place I consider a safe space, surrounded by family and the unconditional love that is so characteristic of home, these wedding festivities paradoxically amplify the ache in my heart. The joy and celebration that swirl around me only serve to underscore her absence, making the void feel even more pronounced. It's particularly difficult to watch Sana's cousins, who she grew up alongside, so vibrant and full of life, getting ready for the wedding. They're adorned with beautiful clothes, sparkling jewelry, and their hands are intricately decorated with henna. Each joyful squeal and excited flutter of activity brings a fresh wave of grief. I try, truly I do, to focus on the future – on the hope of one day replicating these same joyous festivities for Maahir and Serena. I envision their celebrations, a hopeful future, but inevitably, my mind wanders back to the profound emptiness Sana's absence has left in my life. People see me smiling, participating in the dances, chatting with relatives, and they assume I'm happy. But my heart isn't. I manage to put on a brave face, an appearance of strength for everyone around me, yet no one truly knows how deeply I miss her amidst all these celebrations. The constant stream of "how are you's" and the expectation to be jovial are exhausting. It's a performance, a well-rehearsed act to shield others from my pain, but it leaves me feeling isolated in my grief. My nephew, Danny, who is here from Singapore, is one of those special few who loved Sana deeply, almost like a sister. Last night, as a family, we found ourselves in a rare moment of introspection, talking about the past. The conversation drifted to my dad's passing and the inevitable question that always follows: "Is it fair?" This led us, as it always does, to Sana's passing. "Is it fair? Is destiny fair?" These questions ignite a simmering anger within me, a raw, hot emotion that feels ready to explode. I am trying, with every fiber of my being, to believe she's in a better place, that there's a divine reason for this immense loss. But the anger and the grief are fierce, relentless companions in these moments of bittersweet joy, battling for dominance within my heart.

Sunflowers for Sana

Sunflowers for Sana Before leaving Chicago, I planted sunflower seeds in our garden. It was late in the season—far too late, really—but I did it anyway. The seeds were a gift from close friends who had visited us recently. They had remembered something I’d once said: that sunflowers remind me of Sana. And so, despite the timing, I planted them, hoping that they would grow. A small gesture, a quiet wish—for something beautiful to bloom in her memory. It’s been a week, and already they’ve sprouted. Not just one or two, but many. It feels like the universe responded. Like my silent wish was gently heard and answered. Coming to India this summer was my way of stepping away from the unrelenting rhythm of life in Chicago. I wanted space to rest, to heal, to be in a place that has always been home. And in many ways, being back has brought comfort. Being with my mother is especially soothing. She doesn’t know about Sana, and I thought that would make things easier—that I could rest without having to relive the loss through conversations. But somehow, almost instinctively, she asks about Sana every day. As though, deep down, she senses something is missing. This week, there’s a wedding in the family—one I know Sana would have attended. My cousins son who is getting married are ones she grew up with, cousins she would have laughed with, danced with, stayed up late with during every family visit. It’s hard to imagine these celebrations without her. She would have been here—off from school, flying in with that familiar excitement. Just yesterday, my nephew shared videos of Maahir and Sana from when they were young. We spent a large part of our trip at my sister's place in Mumbai, and both my kids were extremely fond of my nephew. In all the videos, Maahir is being his silly self, jumping around, while Sana is calmly sitting, engrossed in a book. Maahir playfully bothers her, but she patiently allows him, sometimes even letting him pull her into his delightful madness. She truly was a patient big sister, always looking out for her brother. Maahir is all energy—jumping, clowning. Every now and then, Maahir tries to pull her into his chaos, and she allows it. Patient, calm, quietly amused. That was her. A big sister who never stopped looking out for her little brother. Recently, Maahir told me that his colleagues often talk about their siblings, and in those moments, he feels her absence even more. The kind of loss that isn’t always spoken, but is deeply felt. Grief is not linear. It doesn’t disappear just because we change locations or surround ourselves with people who love us. But sometimes, in small ways—in the sprouting of sunflowers, in an old video clip, in a quiet moment with my mother—it makes its presence known gently, as if to say: *I’m here, and I always will be.* And so is she.

Between Departures and Memories

Between Departures and Memories As I sat in the lounge in Munich, waiting for my connecting flight to Mumbai, my mind wandered — or rather, it clung — to thoughts of Sana. Munich had always held a special place in my heart. It was where I lived right after getting married, a city that left its imprint on me in soft, familiar ways. Sana and I had often talked about visiting it together. She was curious about the places that had shaped my early years, and I was eager to show her the quiet beauty of Bavarian streets, the old bookstores, and the cozy cafés. Today, sitting alone in this city — even just in its airport — I felt her absence so deeply. This trip to India brings with it a whirlwind of emotions. There’s a wedding in the family, and while that usually means joy, celebration, and warmth, for me, it’s laced with anxiety and a quiet sense of dread. The thought of meeting people, of navigating the well-meaning but often painful conversations, makes my chest tighten. The last time I visited, I had managed to stay cocooned in the safety of close family. I didn’t see anyone else, didn’t venture out much — I simply couldn’t. Colaba, in particular, holds so many memories. It was our thing. Whenever I went to India, I’d walk those streets picking up little trinkets, books, accessories, or snacks for Sana. She loved that I brought her pieces of the city — a city she adored from a distance. The last time, I couldn’t bring myself to walk those streets. It was too painful, too empty without her presence and her excitement waiting for what I’d return with. And now, with this wedding, I imagine how much she would have enjoyed it — the celebration, the outfits, the music. She loved dressing up, feeling festive, being part of a moment. She had a way of lighting up spaces. So this journey, while wrapped in festivity, feels heavy. It’s joy touched by grief, anticipation mingled with sorrow, and excitement shadowed by anxiety. Grief doesn’t take breaks for weddings or travels. It quietly travels with you — as an ache in your chest, a lump in your throat, or in the soft tremble of a memory that creeps up when you least expect it. This trip is one more reminder of how loss reshapes even the most familiar journeys.