Dear Adi,
Today was your Deta’s birthday. Mamba and I planned a small surprise for him. I baked a cake and we got him a few gifts. At midnight, when we woke him up to cut the cake, the first thing he said was, “I wish our puchuku was here.” He said, “Last year he was here with us… now he’s not.”
His words were a painful reminder of the constant ache that Deta, Mamba, and I carry every single moment.
We went out for breakfast and unknowingly ordered a lot of food. That’s when we started talking about you again. About how much you loved your food. We talked about how you would always help Mamba finish her share. And then we just kept talking about you for a long time. You manage to sneak into all our conversations, without fail.
Later at night, we took your Aita (dadi) out for dinner. The restaurant had long glass windows, and we were seated near one of them. Suddenly, a cute little child came and started peering at us through the glass. Once again, I was reminded of you. That’s exactly how you used to be when we walked to the clubhouse—peering into the gym through the big glass windows.
I saw quite a few kids around your age running around the mall, each one reminding me if you. We ordered noodles—your favourite food. Even the restaurant was playing your favourite music… music we had stopped listening to for almost a year now.
When we got back home, I went through old photos, searching for pictures of you on your Deta’s birthday. There were so many of them. Every single picture reminded me of your absence.
A couple of days ago, I had a dream. You had come back from school, and I had gone to pick you up. You came running straight into my arms. When we reached home, you flung open the door to Mamba’s room and started playing around. The dream felt so real that, for a moment, I forgot you weren’t here. I forgot that you wouldn’t run into my arms and hug me again. That realisation—every single day—is so painful, I can’t put it into words.
Even now, as I write this, my heart aches unbearably. I feel like I can’t breathe. My throat feels choked. It’s going to be a year now, and the pain hasn’t lessened even a bit. I’ve just become better at hiding it.
Life without you feels colourless, quiet, and without any flavour. I miss you so much, Adi. I wish you had stayed.
I will love you forever.
Yours,
Mamma
