A knot in my heart

A Knot in My Heart I woke up this morning with a heaviness I couldn’t quite explain. Not a thought. Not a memory. Just a feeling—a quiet, persistent knot in my heart. It stayed with me as the day began. In the stillness. In the in-between moments. And then, slowly, I understood it. I was missing you, Sanu. Not in a loud, overwhelming way. Not with tears right away. Just a deep, aching presence. The kind that sits gently but firmly, reminding me that you are not here in the way you used to be. And then, as if the universe was echoing what I was already feeling, you appeared. A memory. A post. A moment from another time—my living Sana. It felt like déjà vu. Like time folding in on itself. Like being pulled back into a space where you were right there, just a breath away. You didn’t always express yourself openly. You held a lot inside, quietly, carefully. But when you did speak from your heart, it was real. Unfiltered. Honest in a way that stayed with me long after. There was something so pure about that. No performance. No pretense. Just you. And I think that’s what I felt this morning before I even knew it—your presence, your truth, your absence, all wrapped into one. Grief doesn’t always arrive with clarity. Sometimes it shows up as a feeling you can’t name right away. A heaviness. A pause. A shift in the air. And then it becomes clear. It’s love. Still there. Still searching for somewhere to go. I miss you in ways that words still struggle to hold. But in these moments—in the unexpected memories, in the quiet returns—you remind me that love doesn’t disappear. It changes form. It moves through time. It finds its way back. Even if just for a moment. And today, that moment was enough to feel you close again. My Sanu. Always.

She Stood There Like Light

She Stood There Like Light There are some moments that don’t ask for attention—they simply *hold it A quiet stillness, a soft confidence, a smile that doesn’t try too hard, yet somehow says everything. She stands against a wall of worn brick, the kind that has seen years pass by without complaint. Solid. Unchanging. Almost indifferent. And yet, beside it, she becomes the contrast—alive, radiant, effortlessly present. Her smile isn’t just a smile. It feels like a memory. Like laughter echoing in a room long after everyone has left. Like sunlight slipping through a window you didn’t know was open. There is something about the way she carries herself—light, but grounded. As if she has known both joy and ache, and chose, still, to smile. And maybe that’s what makes it beautiful. Not perfection. But presence.

For you Sana

For Sana Some days, I find myself thinking about the quiet spaces. The moments that don’t make it into conversations or memories shared out loud. The pauses in between busy hours. The stillness at the end of the day, when everything slows down and there is nothing left to do but feel. That’s where you are, Sana. Not in the noise of the world, but in the silence that follows it. I think about you in fragments. Not always in big memories, but in small, fleeting ones. The way you connected with people so effortlessly. The softness in how you spoke to others, especially those who needed it most. The patience you had, the kind that can’t be taught. You had a way of seeing people. Really seeing them. And I wonder if you knew how rare that is. There are things I wish I had said more often. Things I wish I had understood sooner. As a parent, you think you are guiding, protecting, preparing your child for the world. But there are moments—quiet realizations—when you understand that your child was teaching you all along. You taught me about kindness in its purest form. About empathy that asks for nothing in return. About strength that doesn’t need to be loud to be real. Sometimes, I try to hold on to those lessons in a very deliberate way. To live them. To carry them forward. Other times, it’s harder. Grief has a way of moving unpredictably—soft one moment, overwhelming the next. And yet, even in that, there is something that remains constant. You. Not just in memory, but in presence. In the way I pause a little longer with someone who needs to be heard. In the way I notice the quiet ones in a room. In the way I try, every day, to lead with a little more gentleness. You are there in all of it. I don’t always have the right words. I’m not sure there are any that fully capture what it means to miss someone like this. But I write anyway. Not because it resolves anything—but because it keeps you close. Because it gives shape to something that would otherwise feel too vast to hold. And maybe that’s what this is. Not closure. Not answers. Just a way of saying that you are still here. In the quiet. In the pauses. In me. Always.

A Circle Completed in Love

A Circle Completed in Love Our recent trip to Toronto was more than just travel — it was a journey through memory, connection, and the quiet ways love continues to live on. We visited dear friends who have been part of our lives since our time in Singapore. Maahir and Sana had spent so many weekends with them — moments that once felt ordinary, now precious beyond words. Being back in that space, even in a different city, felt like stepping into a shared history. What stayed with me most was seeing their son, Moeez. A neurodivergent child with a heart that feels deeply, he had a special connection with Sana. She understood him in a way that didn’t need explanation. She sat with him, spoke to him, and met him exactly where he was — with patience, gentleness, and genuine kindness. There was no judgment, no effort to “fix,” only acceptance. When he said he missed her, it wasn’t rehearsed or prompted. It came from a place that was real and pure. That was Sana. She connected effortlessly with children, especially those who experienced the world differently — like Moeez, like my nephew Danny. She had a way of seeing beyond labels and behaviors. She saw the person, the emotion, the need. Her kindness was not performative; it was instinctive. This trip was also about family. We visited a cousin who had just welcomed a baby into the world — a reminder of life continuing, quietly and beautifully. He had once sat by Sana’s hospital bedside, feeding her, caring for her in her most vulnerable moments. And I couldn’t help but reflect on how, as a child, I had once cared for him. Life comes full circle in the most unexpected ways. Moments of giving and receiving. Of holding and being held. Of caring and being cared for. And what completes that circle is not success, status, or achievement — it is kindness and love. Sana completed that circle. With her golden heart, she built connections that continue to live on in the people she touched. In the way Moeez remembers her. In the way family recalls her presence. In the quiet spaces where her kindness still echoes. It makes me pause and wonder — why do we spend so much of our lives chasing things that do not last? Because in the end, what remains are not possessions or titles. It is memory. It is connection. It is the imprint we leave on others. Today, I feel an overwhelming sense of pride. Sana though her life was far too short, left behind something lasting. She is remembered not for what she had, but for who she was. For her empathy. For her gentleness. For her ability to make others feel seen and valued. And I hold onto the belief that one day, I will sit with her again — and we will reminisce about these moments, the laughter, the connections, the love that continues to ripple outward. Until then, I carry her forward. In memory. In meaning. In love.

The Quiet Courage She Left Behind

The Quiet Courage She Left Behind I’ve been thinking of Sana today. On the surface, she seemed soft—gentle in her words, reserved in her presence, someone who didn’t seek the spotlight. But beneath that softness was a quiet, unwavering strength. Sana would never tolerate injustice of any kind. It wasn’t loud or aggressive; it was firm, deeply rooted in her sense of what was right. As an introvert, courage didn’t come to her in obvious ways. It showed up in moments that mattered. I remember when she was working in Singapore. There was a senior teacher—someone who had been at the school for years—who was often disrespectful to the teaching assistants. Sana would come home and tell me about it, frustrated but measured, trying to make sense of it. She didn’t like conflict. She didn’t rush into confrontation. But she also didn’t accept unfairness. And one day, she spoke up. She raised her voice—not in anger, but in conviction. She reported the behavior, stood her ground, and the outcome was something many might hesitate to expect: the teacher apologized. Sana didn’t just stand up for herself; she stood up for what was right, even when it was uncomfortable. Today, I found myself in a situation at work that felt heavy with tension and a quiet kind of hostility. Every instinct in me wanted to step back, to avoid confrontation, to keep the peace. But then I thought of her. I thought of that same quiet strength. That same courage wrapped in gentleness. And I took a step forward. I spoke up. Not because I wanted conflict—but because I realized, as she did, that silence can sometimes come at the cost of self-respect. That feeling pressured or wronged is not something we are meant to simply endure. Sana reminded me—still reminds me—that courage doesn’t have to be loud to be powerful. That even the softest voices can carry the strongest truths. Today, I borrowed her courage. And in doing so, I felt a part of her walk beside me once again.

Bittersweet Moments

Bittersweet Moments There was a lot of chatter in the house today. Serena and Maahir were celebrating their seven years of being together, and in the middle of the excitement we finalized plans for a trip to Italy. The room was filled with conversation, laughter, and anticipation. And in that moment, I could almost imagine Sana sitting there. She would have been gleaming with happiness, genuinely excited for her BB. Sana had that way about her — she celebrated the happiness of the people she loved as if it were her own. But the moment carried a quiet heaviness too. The last time we booked a trip to Italy together was before Sana passed. It had been her last big trip. Hearing the plans again today brought back a flood of memories. Another memory surfaced too. Idris, Sana and I were sitting together just talking the way families do. I remember asking her, almost casually, “Why don’t you go see Ritika over the Christmas break?” At the time, it felt like just another ordinary conversation. But looking back now, it feels as though life was quietly fulfilling a few of Sana’s wishes. She had wanted to celebrate Christmas. She had wanted to spend time with Ritika — just the two of them, without me there. And she had wanted to ski. Three simple wishes. And somehow, all three came true. She celebrated Christmas. She got that special time with Ritika. And she got to ski. Her wishes were fulfilled. And yet my heart still asks a question that has no answer. At what cost? Today the house was full of life — plans for the future, stories, excitement about Italy. But alongside that joy came a sudden rush of nostalgia. My heart started racing as the memories rushed in, vivid and overwhelming. Grief does that. It lives quietly beside happiness. Moments like today are bittersweet — filled with love, memory, and the presence of someone who is no longer physically here but who still lives deeply in the spaces she once filled. And in moments like today, it feels as though Sana is still part of the conversation, still sharing in the happiness, still present in the memories that rise when we least expect them.

A Night That Felt Different

Between Prayer and Destiny: A Night That Felt Different Last night was one of the holiest nights in the month of Ramadan—Laylat al-Qadr. It is believed to be the night when the first revelation of the Qur'an came to Prophet Muhammad. Growing up, this night always carried a sense of awe. It was the night we stayed awake until dawn, praying, asking for forgiveness, and making duas for the future. It was believed to be the most powerful night of the year—when prayers carried a special weight and destinies were written. For most of my life, I observed this night with faith that felt steady and unquestioned. My most vivid memory of this night was the year Sana had just come home after her transplant. I remember standing in prayer, overwhelmed with emotion. I cried, wailed even, but those tears were not from fear. They were from gratitude. I believed we had witnessed a miracle. I remember thanking God again and again, convinced that mercy had been shown to us. There is a prayer people often make on this night—asking for the longevity and protection of their children. That night, I prayed it with my whole heart. But life did not unfold the way I believed it would. Since Sana’s passing, my relationship with faith has become more complicated. The certainty that once came so naturally now feels fragile. This year, I still prayed on Laylat al-Qadr, but the prayer felt quieter, almost hesitant. It felt smaller than the desperate gratitude I once poured into the night. Sana herself had an evolving relationship with religion. When she was younger, she believed with the innocence that many children do. As she grew older, she began questioning things—sometimes challenging the very ideas I had grown up accepting without doubt. Yet even as she questioned religion, she never lost her belief in goodness. She believed deeply in kindness, empathy, and doing the right thing simply because it was right. In many ways, she was still spiritual—just in her own way. For the first time in my life, I feel like I stand somewhere similar to where she once stood. Not entirely inside belief, but not completely outside it either. Somewhere on the fence, looking at faith from a distance and wondering where I belong. Last night felt like a stark reminder of something difficult to accept: that sometimes, no matter how much we pray, destiny unfolds in ways we cannot change. It is a painful realization. Yet even in that uncertainty, I find myself returning to the values Sana believed in so naturally—goodness, compassion, and sincerity. Perhaps those are also forms of prayer, even when words fail us. Maybe faith does not always look like certainty. Sometimes it looks like standing in the quiet of the night, unsure of what to believe, but still hoping that goodness—like the goodness Sana carried within her—continues to matter. And maybe that, too, is a kind of prayer.