The Things We Hold On To

The Things We Hold On To After Sana passed away, I found myself reflecting on why we attach so much meaning to material things. We spend our lives accumulating, curating, and cherishing possessions, yet in the end, we leave this world with nothing. Sana was the epitome of fashion, style, and coordination. She had a keen eye for beauty, always effortlessly putting together the perfect outfit. And yet, when she passed, she was bare. That stark contrast made me feel an overwhelming sense of detachment—suddenly, so many things felt insignificant. And yet, I cannot detach myself from Sana’s belongings. Her clothes, her makeup, her shoes—each one carries a story, a memory, a moment frozen in time. I use them, wear them, hold them close, because in doing so, I feel connected to her. They are not just objects; they are remnants of her presence, echoes of her essence. Today, as I sit here writing, I am wrapped in a blue jacket. Sana loved this jacket. She wore it the second time she was admitted to Rahway Hospital. I can still picture her in it, her arms wrapped around herself, her expression soft yet resilient. And now, as I wear it, I feel her presence woven into the fabric. I have learned to let go of many things, to detach from the mundane, but never from the pieces of Sana that remain with me. Because through them, she is still here. And in some way, she always will be.

Silence

The Fear of Silence: Grief in the Stillness I am afraid of the quiet. I am afraid of the stillness of the night. When I am alone and everything around me is silent, my mind begins its relentless cycle—replaying every moment of Sana’s life. Every joy, every struggle, every what-if. Sana used to say, “Your brain never stops working.” She was right. And now, more than ever, I understand that grief has a way of amplifying that restlessness. I immerse myself in work, filling my days with tasks and responsibilities, not just out of necessity but as a means of survival. Keeping busy feels like the only way to quiet my thoughts, even if only temporarily. When that isn’t enough, I turn to medication—to dull the pain, to create a barrier between my heart and my memories, to make the quiet feel less threatening. But deep down, I know this isn’t a sustainable solution. I can’t be busy 24/7. I can’t numb myself forever. As I reflect, I want others who are grieving to know: it’s okay to feel this way. It’s okay to fear the silence. It’s okay to struggle with the stillness. Grief is unpredictable, and it manifests in ways that don’t always make sense. Now I understand why meditation has always felt impossible for me. The moment I try to be still, it’s as if my mind takes it as a cue to flood me with the hardest memories. Silence isn’t peace for me—it’s a doorway to pain. But maybe, in time, I will learn to sit with it. To allow the memories to come without breaking me. To find comfort in the quiet instead of fearing it. Maybe one day, I won’t need to run from the stillness.

The Empty Chair- it’s 8 months

The Empty Chair: Its 8 months Today marks eight months since Sana left us, and it also happens to be my 60th birthday. A milestone I never thought I’d approach with such a heavy heart. Sana was always the first to wish me on my birthday, her voice filled with excitement and love. This year, her absence feels louder than ever. This week has been a whirlwind of celebration, a contrast of emotions interwoven with moments of joy and deep longing. We hosted an engagement party for Maahir and Serena—a beautiful evening full of laughter, love, and togetherness. Three of my closest friends flew in to be with us, their presence a gift in itself. Yet amid the celebration, there was an undercurrent of pain. Idris delivered a heartfelt speech for the couple, reflecting our love and pride for them while also honoring Sana. His words captured what we all felt: the joy of witnessing this milestone in Maahir and Serena’s lives and the sorrow of missing Sana’s physical presence. One of Serena’s friends, whose ability to read auras I mentioned in an earlier blog, shared something profound with me. She said she could feel Sana in the room, quietly sitting at the back, watching her "BB" (Baby Brother) with so much happiness for him. That image, though fleeting, brought me comfort—a balm for the ache in my heart. But as the weekend ended and our friends departed, the silence returned. The stillness of the house brought back the weight of grief. It’s a feeling that parents like us know all too well—a constant balancing act between moments of light and the shadows of loss. And I’ve come to accept that it’s okay to feel this way. Reflecting on the last few days, I’ve realized the immense power of friends and family. They truly are the best support system, just as Sana always believed. Their presence, their laughter, and their unconditional love carried us through the engagement celebration and lifted our spirits, even if just for a while. Social connections, I’ve found, are one of the most potent tools for navigating grief. This week, those connections gave us moments of joy and healing, even amidst the sadness. Today, we’ll celebrate my birthday as a family. Like always, there will be an empty chair at the table. It’s a quiet acknowledgment of Sana’s enduring presence in our lives. I know she’ll be with us, just as she always is, in the laughter, the love, and the memories we carry forward. This year, more than ever, I’m reminded of the importance of gratitude—for the people who stand by us, for the moments of joy that still find their way through, and for the enduring bond with a daughter whose light continues to guide us. The empty chair may remind us of what we’ve lost, but it also symbolizes the love that remains, unbroken and eternal.

Speeches and blogs

Lately, writing has become a daily ritual, almost like an unwritten routine that I can’t quite explain. It’s as if Sana guides me—deciding when and what I need to write. I woke up this morning and found myself having conversations with a few people dealing with their own heavy challenges. One was going through marital struggles, and the other had a daughter battling severe depression. As I listened to their stories, I couldn’t help but draw from my own experiences, sharing how I’ve been coping with grief. It’s a little odd, to be honest. I sometimes feel like I haven’t fully processed my own grief, so how can I be the one offering support to others? But there’s something inside me, a strength I don’t always recognize, that allows me to be there for them. And for that, I am truly grateful. In the process of writing a speech for Maahir and Serena’s engagement, I found myself drawn to mention Sana. Although Idris has promised to give the speech, I couldn’t help but include her—she had to be part of the occasion. Even though she’s no longer physically here, her spirit is present. It’s in the memories, in the love we still carry for her. And I wanted to honor that in the speech, to ensure that she’s always part of these milestones, these moments of joy. Grief, I’ve come to learn, is not logical. It doesn’t always make sense or come when we expect it. Just two days ago, I was resting, feeling flushed, and I suddenly found myself back in last year. I thought about Sana, how she had been feeling fluish, needing to rest, and how she would always ask me to stay with her. She’d tell me, “I’m okay,” but still wanted me close. I’m so grateful I spent that time with her, sitting by her side while watching Netflix, her hand in mine. It’s moments like that that I cherish, the quiet ones where we simply existed together. Now, as I seek my own mother’s touch, even at this age, I realize how deep that need for comfort runs. It’s a love that never fades, even as we grow older. Thinking back, I marvel at Sana’s strength. She was resilient, never once complaining, just needing a little care, a little love. When I’m feeling low, it’s her touch I long for, the soothing presence of a daughter who always knew how to make me feel needed. Grief can be so illogical in the way it connects moments and memories in such strange, unexpected ways. But I’ve learned to embrace it. These are the moments that remind me how truly blessed I was to have had Sana in my life, even if for a short time. So, I say thank you for those moments, those quiet times that brought me comfort. I hold them close as I continue my journey through grief—finding strength in the love that remains and the memories that continue to guide me. In response to my last blog about Sana’s belief in 11:11, a cousin of mine reached out and told me something that brought me a little peace. She said that 11:11 is the number of angels. In that moment, I realized that Sana is, indeed, a true angel—one that will always watch over us.

The Magic of 11:11

The Magic of 11:11 As I begin the tender task of compiling photos for Sana’s book, I find myself transported back to the essence of who she was—a child at heart, brimming with whimsy and wonder. There’s a beautiful contrast to Sana that makes her memory so vivid. Goofy and wacky in her own endearing way, she could fill any room with laughter. At the same time, her strong opinions and sharp intelligence were tempered by a heart so soft and gentle, it was almost as if she carried the fragility of marshmallows and sponge cake within her. Sana had a knack for being utterly unique. She could shift effortlessly from making insightful observations to talking absolute nonsense with a straight face, a quality that made her both intriguing and delightfully unpredictable. Her spirit was infectious, her personality layered in a way that only she could carry. Recently, Sana’s dear friend Vaidehi sent me a perfume with the numbers 11:11 on it. Along with it came a heartfelt note, sharing how it reminded her of Sana. For many years, 11:11 held a special magic for Sana. She truly believed that if she made a wish at that precise time, it would come true. It became such a regular occurrence at home. In the middle of conversations or chores, she’d suddenly exclaim, “It’s 11:11!” Closing her eyes tightly, she would make her wish with complete sincerity. She never missed a chance to believe in the magic of those fleeting moments. Looking back, I marvel at how something so simple brought her so much joy. At 21, she still carried this innocent hope, this unwavering belief in the power of small gestures to shape her reality. It wasn’t about naivety—it was about her ability to embrace life with open-hearted optimism, even in its smallest details. Her belief in 11:11 was more than just a superstition; it was a reflection of her honesty, her trust in the world, and her desire to hold onto the wonder of childhood, even as she grew into adulthood. It’s a reminder to me, and perhaps to all of us, to find beauty and meaning in life’s seemingly insignificant moments. As I piece together photos and memories for her book, I am struck by how Sana’s spirit continues to shine through these fragments of her life. Her quirks, her laughter, her rituals—they all remind me of the gentle magic she brought into our lives. Bless her, for being so honest, so naive, and so deeply herself. And perhaps, just perhaps, her wishes at 11:11 did come true. Because through her, we learned to cherish the little things, to laugh wholeheartedly, and to believe in the extraordinary power of love.

Carrying Sana Into Our Celebrations

Carrying Sana Into Our Celebrations Idris is back from his trip, and together we are slowly trying to recuperate—physically, emotionally, and mentally. Life in Chicago has become our safe haven, a space where we can begin to piece ourselves back together. Yet, even amidst this familiar comfort, the heaviness of grief lingers as we prepare for a joyful event: celebrating Maahir and Serena’s upcoming engagement. As we plan the details of the celebration, I can’t help but think about how much Sana would have loved being a part of this. Her excitement and enthusiasm would have been unmatched. I can almost picture her meticulously choosing her outfit, planning her hair and jewelry, and ensuring everything was perfect. Her joy for these moments was contagious. We’re incorporating a henna lady into the festivities, and it instantly brings back memories of Sana. She adored henna. She didn’t need a reason or an occasion to decorate her hands with intricate patterns—it was simply something she loved. As we make plans, I feel a quiet resolve to include her presence in every detail of the celebration. I can almost hear her now, planning a heartfelt speech for her "BB" (her baby brother). She had such a way with words, pouring her love and pride into moments like this. Even though she won’t be physically present, her spirit will be everywhere—in the henna designs, in the laughter, and in the love we share. Recently, a friend of mine lost her daughter in Singapore. We used to work together, and I remember driving her daughter home after picking her up from work. Her grief mirrors mine in many ways, and I often see her social media filled with pictures and memories of her daughter. It makes me reflect on my own posts about Sana. For me, sharing Sana’s photos and stories is more than just a way of coping. It’s a way to keep her alive in the hearts of others. Every post, every shared memory, feels like a reassurance that she’ll never truly be gone. Perhaps it’s also a way of sharing my grief with the world—a way of saying, “This is my pain, my love, and my enduring connection to her.” Idris copes differently. He talks about Sana all the time, weaving her into everyday conversations. For me, posting about her is a way to process, to honor, and to ensure her presence remains visible. It’s how I hold onto her, how I make sense of a world without her physical presence. As we approach Maahir and Serena’s celebration, I know there will be moments of joy, tinged with the ache of missing Sana. But I also know she’ll be there—in our hearts, in our laughter, and in the love that binds us all together. And through every post, every shared story, her light will continue to shine.

Back in Chicago: Dreams, Guilt, and Finding a Safe Space

Back in Chicago: Dreams, Guilt, and Finding a Safe Space I’ve just returned to Chicago after a long flight home. As I settle back into my new job and routine, it feels like everything is on overdrive. The constant movement and new responsibilities have helped me keep my mind busy, but it doesn’t take away the underlying anxiety that’s been with me since I returned. Last night, after a long time, I dreamt about Sana. But this time, it was different. Instead of the fleeting dreams I’ve had before, this one was long and continuous, spanning the entire night. In the dream, I watched as Sana transitioned from getting better to passing away. It was as if my mind was oscillating between the two possibilities—the hope of recovery and the painful reality of her loss. I’m not sure if it was the jet lag or the effect of the medication, but I don’t remember ever having such a vivid, lengthy dream before. It felt almost real, like I was caught in a timeline, retracing the moments of Sana’s journey from health to illness to the heartbreak of her passing. I know deep down that Maahir’s upcoming celebration is contributing to this emotional turmoil. There’s a sense of guilt that lingers. We’re meant to be celebrating his happiness, yet it feels wrong to do so when we’ve been through so much loss. My subconscious mind is processing this conflict, and it manifests in my dreams. The trip to India, filled with its own fears and anxieties, is now behind me. Coming back to Chicago, to my safe space, should feel like a relief—but it also feels overwhelming in its own way. It’s like I’m trying to hold onto normalcy while my heart still carries the weight of everything that’s happened. Life continues, and we move forward in whatever way we can. I’m learning that grief doesn’t follow a set path. It ebbs and flows, coming in waves at the most unexpected times. But for now, I’m here—trying to process, trying to heal, and finding comfort in the small moments of peace, even as they mix with the sadness I carry in my heart.

Reflections in Transit: Grief, Memories, and Small Steps Forward

Reflections in Transit: Grief, Memories, and Small Steps Forward As I sit at Istanbul Airport waiting for my connecting flight, I find myself lost in the bustling energy of families traveling together. Watching parents with their children brings back vivid memories of traveling with Sana and Maahir. Those trips were filled with laughter, little rituals, and moments that now feel like treasures. Sana and Maahir absolutely loved exploring airport lounges, but for Sana, the highlight was always the showers. It didn’t matter what else the lounge offered; a shower was the ultimate luxury in her eyes. Despite her sleep issues, Sana had an uncanny ability to curl up into a tiny ball and sleep peacefully on flights. It was a talent I always admired. Leaving my mom behind in Mumbai was bittersweet. At 92, her eyes held a sadness I can’t forget—a silent yearning for more time together. She asked, “When will you come back?” and her words echoed the longing I carry for Sana. I pine for Sana in the same way my mom pines for my company. The irony of loss isn’t lost on me. We often fear losing the elderly, assuming their time is limited because they’ve lived a full life. But the unexpected loss of someone younger, someone with so much life ahead of them, shakes your very core. Last year, when I left India, it was hard to say goodbye to my mom, but I was comforted by the thought of seeing Sana soon. Never in my worst nightmares did I imagine that she wouldn’t be there. This trip to Mumbai offered me moments of solace amidst family and friends. Though we didn’t speak openly about Sana, their quiet love and support spoke volumes. My aunt said something that resonated deeply with me: “Everyone’s grief is their own, and nobody can guess its intensity.” Her words were a reminder that grief is deeply personal, a journey each of us must navigate in our own way. As I return to Chicago, I try to focus on the small steps ahead. A new job awaits me, as does the excitement of Maahir and Serena’s engagement celebration. These milestones are my way of moving forward, even if the steps feel tentative and uncertain. Grief doesn’t have a clear timeline or roadmap. It’s a constant companion, one that shapes how I see the world and approach life. But as I look ahead, I hold on to the love that surrounds me—the love of family, friends, and the enduring presence of Sana in my heart.

Finding Calm Amidst Chaos

Finding Calm Amidst Chaos: A Journey Through Grief and Purpose As my trip to Mumbai nears its end, I find myself reflecting on the mix of emotions this visit has stirred within me. Mumbai has always been a place of comfort, a home that wraps me in its familiarity. Yet, this time, that sense of solace was intertwined with waves of anxiety. Even so, being surrounded by family and friends brought a sense of calm I didn’t anticipate. Their presence has been a steady anchor, grounding me in moments when grief feels overwhelming. This trip has also been a step forward in fulfilling a promise I made to myself—a promise to honor Sana. I took the first steps in starting Sana’s book project, a labor of love that has been on my mind for months. With my cousins by my side for support, I visited the printers to finalize details like the color scheme, size, and content. This book will be a timeline of Sana’s life, a collection of memories and photos that celebrate her journey. Initiating this project feels like a small but significant way of keeping her memory alive. At the same time, life moves forward in other ways. We’re planning a celebration for Maahir and Serena once I return to the U.S. This trip, unlike those in the past, hasn’t been about shopping for Sana. Instead, my focus has shifted to Maahir and Serena. While this brings joy, it also stirs a sense of sadness and guilt. Am I forgetting Sana? These thoughts weigh on me, especially when I see how others grieve so openly. A friend in Singapore, who also lost her daughter, often posts pictures and heartfelt messages about her on social media. Her expressions of pain feel like a mirror to my own. Sometimes, I wonder if focusing on the pain of others is my way of numbing my own. Grief is a strange and unpredictable journey. It reshapes how you see the world and yourself. In these moments of reflection, I remind myself that honoring Sana isn’t just about looking back; it’s also about moving forward with the love she left behind. As I prepare to leave Mumbai, I carry with me a heart full of mixed emotions—grief and guilt, but also gratitude and purpose. Sana’s book is a reminder that her story, her light, and her love will always be a part of my life. And while I navigate this complex path, I hold on to the belief that every step I take, no matter how small, is a way of keeping her with me.

A Heart Full of Gratitude, A Heart Full of Ache

A Heart Full of Gratitude, A Heart Full of Ache I just finished a Google Meet call for Sana’s vigil in Singapore. Hearing her friends and family speak about her with so much love brought a flood of emotions. Their words painted such a vivid picture of her kindness, her infectious laugh, and her bubbly personality. As I listened, I found myself transported back to moments when her smile could light up a room and her voice brought warmth to those around her. It struck me how much I miss her—her presence, her laughter, her essence. Though I try to find solace in believing she’s in a better place, my heart aches with an intensity I can’t describe. Sana often believed she didn’t have many friends, but how wrong she was. Hearing her friends share their memories of her made it abundantly clear just how deeply she was loved and how profoundly she touched their lives. She underestimated the impact of her love and kindness, and today, those stories reaffirmed what I’ve always known—Sana was extraordinary. While my heart swells with gratitude for the love poured out for her and the support extended to us, it also feels heavier than ever. The joy of hearing her celebrated is accompanied by the sharp sting of her absence. Idris was physically present at the vigil, and I know his heart, like mine, is full of sadness. We miss her in ways words cannot capture. The loss of Sana has left a void that nothing can fill, and for the first time, I find myself uncertain about how I will heal or move forward. And yet, amid the pain, I am profoundly grateful. Grateful for the beautiful memories that others shared, grateful for the love that continues to surround us, and grateful for the community that honors her in such a heartfelt way. Grief is a journey without a roadmap. But moments like these remind me that while the ache may never leave, neither will the love Sana gave or the love she continues to receive. And perhaps, that’s where healing begins—not in moving on, but in carrying her with us, always.

The Healing Power of Friendship

Spending time with her felt like a soothing balm on my heart. She and I share a history of beautiful memories and countless moments of laughter. For the first time in what feels like forever, I found myself genuinely laughing again, something I hadn’t realized how much I missed. Good friendships are a gift, and I’ve been fortunate to experience this. Sana, too, was blessed in this way. She had a small but tight circle of friends who truly loved her. Those friendships were a testament to her kind and giving nature, and seeing how deeply she touched others continues to comfort me. Today, meeting Madhvi after four long years filled me with gratitude. It reminded me of how friendships, even when separated by time and distance, can rekindle a sense of joy and connection in an instant. As I reflect on this, I think about the vigil Sana’s friends have organized in Singapore to honor her memory. It’s a beautiful gesture—a coming together of people whose lives she touched. Idris will be there to participate, and it gives me immense comfort to know that Sana is being remembered with so much love. Life is fragile, and moments like these remind us of its fleeting nature. Yet, in the midst of loss and grief, the presence of friends and family who truly care becomes an anchor. They hold us steady, surround us with love, and remind us that even in the darkest times, there is light to be found in the bonds we share. As I look back on this week, I feel grateful—for Madhvi, for Sana’s friends, and for the simple yet profound blessings of friendship and love. Life may be short, but the connections we nurture make it infinitely rich and meaningful.