My first baby

My First Baby Today is my niece Ritika’s birthday. She has always held such a special place in my heart. From the time she was born, I used to say she was my “first baby.” I spent countless hours with her, and the bond we share has always been something truly unique and precious. This, however, was often a point of contention with Sana. She would roll her eyes whenever I referred to Ritika as my first baby. Sana was gentle, kind, and forgiving in most aspects of life, but this topic always sparked a different kind of reaction in her. She wanted to be my one and only, and I think that was her way of showing how deeply she loved me. Her last trip was to Italy with Ritika. That trip was different—Sana was very clear that she wanted to go without me. In the past, Italy was always our place, a destination we shared together. But this time, she insisted she wanted to experience it with Ritika alone. She was adamant, and I stepped back, though it stung a little at the time. Looking back now, I can see how much that trip meant to her. She enjoyed herself, connected deeply with everyone she met, and built an especially strong bond with Ritika. It feels almost as if she had a list of experiences she wanted to fulfill, and this trip was one of the most important ones to her. I never imagined that it would be her last trip. But perhaps there is some comfort in knowing that she spent it doing what she loved—traveling, laughing, bonding, and cherishing the people dearest to her. And today, as I celebrate Ritika’s birthday, I feel both the sweetness of our bond and the echoes of Sana’s presence. In some way, Sana gifted Ritika and me something lasting through that trip—a reminder of love that continues to ripple through our lives, even in her absence.

A Birthday Remembered

Celebrating Vaidehi: A Birthday Remembered Today is Vaidehi's birthday. She was Sana's oldest and dearest friend, and their bond was truly something special to witness. Every year, their birthdays weren't just a single day of celebration; they were a weeks-long creative endeavor. They would pour so much thought and energy into finding the perfect, most imaginative gifts for one another. Their friendship was a tapestry woven with shared understanding and easy companionship. I remember how much time Sana spent at Vaidehi's home. It was her second home, a place where she felt completely at ease, where laughter and heartfelt talks were as common as the air they breathed. Vaidehi’s family was an extension of our own, and the memories they created together are a gift that we will cherish forever. As I think back on all those birthdays past, I can picture Sana in my mind, her eyes alight with excitement as she meticulously planned a surprise for Vaidehi. She would start weeks in advance, her mind buzzing with ideas, never content with just a simple present. It had to be unique, personal, and a testament to their deep friendship. I know that today, Sana is looking down at us with that same familiar smile on her face. A smile that says, "I'm still here, still celebrating with you." While her physical presence is deeply missed, the love and beautiful memories she created with Vaidehi and all of us remain. They are a comfort on days like this, reminding us that true friendships, like true love, never fade.

15 months

Fifteen Months Today marks 15 months. For the world, that might feel like a long time ago, a moment in the past that life has moved on from. But for our family, 15 months hasn't lessened the pain; it has deepened it. It's like living with a chronic ailment—the ache is a constant companion. And yet, life continues to change around us. I have a new job, Maahir and Serena are planning their wedding, and Idris is settling into his new life in Chicago. Is that what moving on means? Does it happen even when you're not ready for it? Amidst these changes, there’s a constant, concerted effort to keep Sana’s memory alive. Her photo book is being created, and the Singapore American School is planning a tribute to her on her birthday. Her friend, Mishti, is also organizing a fundraiser in her honor. With these projects in motion, Sana is a constant presence in our lives, in every moment of every day. I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude toward everyone who is helping to make this possible. The question of "how and why" this happened is one that never leaves us. It’s a silent, constant query in our minds. On my first day of class, I shared photos of my family, including one with Sana. Students asked, "Is that your daughter? She's so pretty." I couldn't bring myself to say she's no longer with us. In that moment, it was easier to let her live on in their eyes, just for a second longer.

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.