“Mamba turned 18 last week—a milestone she once dreamed of celebrating in a big way. But this year was different. With your absence, her priorities changed, and all she wanted was a quiet day. I tried to make it special for her, knowing that’s what you’d have wanted too. Through the cakes, the laughter, the shopping, we kept talking about you. You were there in every moment, just not in the way we wished.”
“Leaving our old home felt like losing Adi all over again. Every corner held his laughter, his footsteps, his presence. In this new home, I place his red chair on the balcony and imagine him there—watching, smiling, still with us.”
It’s been six months since Adi left us. Six months of silence where his laughter once filled our home. Some days I find myself lost in the memories of my pregnancy with him—the joy, the music, the little moments that belonged only to us. And then reality hits, leaving behind a void words can’t fill. Yet, in every prayer and every song, I still feel his presence, reminding me that our bond will always remain.
“This Rakhi felt so empty without you, Adi. Mamba placed her rakhi at the temple instead of tying it on your wrist, and my heart broke all over again. You were supposed to be here — for her, for us — but now I can only hope you’re watching over your sisters from wherever you are.”
Hi Adu Baby, A few days ago, we went to watch Sitare Zameen Par, Aamir Khan’s new film. I didn’t really know what it was about, but Deta and Mamba were keen, so I went along. I’m so glad I did. Throughout the movie, I kept thinking of you. I couldn’t hold back my tears. …
Dear Adi, Today marks four months since you left us. Four months of living without our dearest Adi — the heartbeat of our family. While a lot has changed on the surface, deep down, nothing has. Not the ache. Not the memories. Not the love. Mamba passed her 12th exams with flying colours. Even though …
The last time we flew, you were running around the airport with endless curiosity, headphones on, lost in your music — calm and content, unlike any other child. Little did I know that would be our final journey together. Every mile since has carried the quiet ache of your absence.
Writing to you keeps me going, Adi. On the good days and the hard ones, these letters are my way of staying close to you. In my dreams, in my heart—you are always there.
You stopped playing, stopped calling me “mamma”, and it broke me. But we waited. We held on. And when you began returning to us—little by little—we learned that nothing in life is truly ordinary. You taught us that.
It rained yesterday, and I missed him all over again. A stranger’s question reopened the night I’ve never truly left—the night my son’s heart stopped. In moments like these, I realise: grief doesn’t end. It returns, quietly, suddenly, again and again.