I wrote the last issue from Dubai. I published it at twelve and slept. At six, my cousin knocked the door with a terrifying news. Dadi had gone. We rushed to the airport hoping to get on the morning flight to Chandigarh. No luck. Had to wait for 24 hours until I come back home. I missed her last rites.

It’s been about 2 weeks. Probably the hardest two weeks of my life. Think of it rationally and it’s a very normal thing. But my body couldn’t think rationally. My heart was out of my chest for the first few days. It hurt, a lot. I thought it was leading to something drastic but thankfully it wasn’t. It healed itself after the things around normalized.

When my emotions needed a catharsis, my pen lend its shoulder. First time writing anything in Hindi, it was tricky to draw my thoughts on paper. But soon enough, the nib of my pen started to glide. My emotions found the right words. They were melting and welding into phrases that ended on a similar sound. It all made sense. I had written a poem for her.

I wrote it last Sunday, so I could have published it in last week’s issue. But I decided not to. Partly because I was sad. And partly because it seemed unfair. In moments like these, I think we all want the same thing — the permission to grieve. The earth should stop moving, the world should stop working. Nothing else should matter at this point. Just feel what you feel. Maybe breaking the publishing streak was my way of acknowledging that nothing’s more important than what had happened and what we were feeling.

My mind is still not there yet. It’s pretty hard to get back to the old life now that there’s a hole in it. And that’s why it was so important for me to publish this one. Call this my way of putting things back together, hitting the resume button, and taking the next step.

I’ll catch you next week :)
Aachman