My Guiding Star

My Guiding Star As I step into my new tenure-track position, I find myself feeling overwhelmed. The responsibilities, the expectations, the weight of it all—it can be daunting. In moments like these, my thoughts inevitably go back to Sana. Starting something new always felt overwhelming for her too. She was a perfectionist in the truest sense, and with that came both pressure and brilliance. I remember how she would stress at the beginning, but then she would find her way forward by organizing herself. Sana had her systems—her planner, sticky notes, and carefully laid-out lists. She always made sure she had a plan in place. It was her way of finding calm in the chaos. I, on the other hand, have always been different. I tend to keep everything in my head, juggling tasks and deadlines in a way that often leaves me scattered. But for this new chapter, I decided to take a page out of Sana’s book. I chose to follow her example, to ground myself with the same tools she once used to make sense of things. And you know what? It helped. Writing things down, making lists, setting priorities—it brought me clarity and focus. For the first time in a long time, I felt ahead of the curve instead of chasing it. Sana continues to guide me, even from afar. She is my north star, the one who shows me the way when I lose my footing. I only wish she were here beside me, sharing this journey, reminding me with her smile and quiet determination that I am capable of finding balance. In many ways, she still does. ---

A Beautiful Coincidence

A Beautiful Coincidence Sometimes in grief, the universe surprises us with moments that feel too meaningful to be random. I had one of those moments recently, and I’ve been holding onto it tightly. Not long after Sana passed, I received a message from Mishti, one of her seniors from the Singapore American School. I immediately remembered the name because Sana often spoke about her with such fondness. The two of them were kindred spirits—both bookworms, and Sana often found tucked away in the SAS library, swapping books and losing track of time in that quiet, magical space. Mishti told me that she now serves on the school’s alumni committee and wanted to find a way for the library to honor Sana’s memory. Despite her demanding schedule, she took the time to brainstorm thoughtful ideas, and when she shared them with me, I felt deeply moved. It reminded me of something I’ve been learning over and over since losing Sana: people don’t just remember what you achieved, they remember how you made them feel. The fact that Mishti—outside of our family circle—carries enough love and respect for Sana to do this means more than I can express. And then came another connection, one that felt almost uncanny. When Sana was completing her master’s, her very last course was in Creative Arts. I still remember how she worked on her final presentation with such intensity, sending me draft after draft, never quite satisfied. That was Sana—always striving, always perfecting. In the end, she earned an “A,” along with the kindest words from her professor. This semester, by a twist of fate, the course I’m teaching is also called Creative Arts. The realization stopped me in my tracks. Was this just coincidence, or was it Sana’s way of gently reaching out—her way of reminding me she’s still here, still guiding me in some way? I like to believe it’s the latter. Maybe it’s my way of keeping her close, but it feels like her light is weaving itself into my path, nudging me forward. And in those moments, I feel not just the weight of loss, but also the comfort of connection—the sense that her story, her legacy, continues through me in ways I could never have planned.

The Kindness I Learned from Sana

Today, in the middle of a conversation between close friends, a small misunderstanding came up. It was about whether talking about someone behind their back meant gossip—or whether it could sometimes come from a place of care. In that moment, my mind went straight to Sana. Sana never spoke about her friends—or anyone, really—unless she truly needed to vent. Even then, it was rare. She could be deeply upset with someone, but she had this remarkable ability to let go and forgive quickly. I’ve learned that forgiving and letting go are not easy. They are rare qualities, and I believe they come from a heart that is wired differently—one that values compassion over holding on to hurt. Sana was also deeply nonjudgmental. She would get upset with me if I ever called someone fat, thin, or ugly. This trip to India, I’ve noticed how casual judgment can be, how quickly it’s accepted as part of everyday conversation. I can almost picture Sana squirming every time she heard someone make a comment about another person’s appearance or life choices. Looking back, I realize I didn’t always appreciate just how remarkable this was. My mother used to say, Sana is the kindest.At the time, I heard it. Today, I feel it. I now see these qualities for what they were: a quiet strength, a deep well of empathy, and a kindness that asked for nothing in return. If only I had told her more often how much that meant.

Bittersweet Goodbyes: Carrying Sana's Light from Mumbai to Chicago

As I pack my bags for the last two days in Mumbai, a wave of mixed emotions washes over me. This trip has been a bittersweet journey, with countless memories of Sana woven into the fabric of my everyday routine here. It's in these moments, as I reflect, that I truly understand the depth of her impact on my life. My mom, bless her heart, constantly brings up Sana. "Why hasn't she come for so long?" she'll ask, her voice tinged with longing, adding, "She liked Sana the best." It's a gentle reminder of the love Sana shared with everyone around her, and it pulls at my heartstrings every time. Today brought another poignant moment. I finally had to choose the cover for Sana’s book—a project I’ve put off for far too long. Seeing her beautiful, smiling face in the photo broke my heart into a million pieces. Yet, there's a strange comfort in moving forward with it. It's Sana's spirit, her unwavering belief in me, that has truly shaped my path. I remember her always saying, "Mom, why don't you teach a course in early childhood?" when I helped her with her master's assignments. Her words, her wishes, and her pure happiness have, in a way, manifested into this incredible opportunity I now have: to teach a full-time Early Childhood Education course. It feels like her legacy, her dream, continues to live on through me. And so, as I prepare to leave Mumbai, I find myself ready to return home to Chicago. In a way, being there makes me feel closer to her, as if her presence lingers in the familiar spaces we shared. This journey has been a testament to enduring love, and I carry Sana's light with me, always.

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.