Alone in a new city. Two kids. A world locked down. And yet, somewhere between the chaos and the quiet, I found strength I didn’t know I had. This is a story of surviving — and learning to live fully, even when the world outside felt like it was falling apart.
Adu Baby, It’s been five months since you left us. Not a moment passes by when I don’t think of you. I miss you so much, can’t explain in mere words! You know what? Mamba has completely changed her room. We sold the bed, the table, everything. Since you left, she couldn’t bear to be …
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. …
We had just settled into life in Singapore and had begun to truly enjoy it. It was clean, safe, and incredibly convenient. I could take Adi out in his pram without worry, and my daughter moved around the city on her own or with friends. Life had found its rhythm—and we were happy. But soon, …
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.
A quiet morning by the sea, the breeze, the sand, and Adi’s laughter echoing through it all. In this letter, I hold on to one of our simplest, happiest memories—one that still gives me strength today.
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.