It’s been almost a year since my dadi passed away. She left us in late October, but the house hasn’t been the same since. When you live with someone your whole life, their absence is not just felt in big moments. It’s in every hallway, every sound, every smell. The silence feels heavier now.
I miss her in ways that only make sense if you’ve shared a home with someone. I miss hearing her call out to ask if it’s time for namaz. Her voice would travel from her room to wherever I was, like a gentle reminder that faith was part of our daily rhythm. I miss the way she’d make the crispiest parathas, their smell filling the entire house so you’d know breakfast was ready before you even entered the kitchen.
I miss her namaz dupatta, always neatly folded beside her prayer mat, carrying the faint scent of her creams. I miss how she’d tell me to study instead of cleaning, saying, “Dust will still be there tomorrow, but your grades matter now.” Living with her meant having that constant presence, someone who always had your back, someone who was rooting for you every day.
We shared so many simple, ordinary moments that are now precious memories. She’d watch movies with me even when she didn’t understand what was going on. I still remember one evening we watched a Thai movie called Remember Me. She didn’t get the story, but she sat beside me the whole time, asking small questions and smiling whenever I laughed. It wasn’t about the movie, it was about being together.
I miss showing her my outfits before going out, standing in her doorway while she adjusted her glasses to look at me properly. I miss telling her about my results and seeing her face light up when I told her I got good marks. I miss her soft hands, especially when she’d wash my face after I came home from playing outside all day. It wasn’t just about cleaning my face, it was love in action, the kind of care that’s wordless but unforgettable.
Evening was our favorite time together. Whenever Maghrib came near, I could always count on her voice saying, “Chai ka paani rakhna, chai peetay hain.” We’d sit in the kitchen or on the balcony, sipping tea, talking about nothing and everything. I also miss the way I’d take care of her medicines, bringing them to her room, making sure she didn’t forget. At the time, it was just part of the routine. Now, I realize I miss that responsibility because it made me feel connected to her in a very real way.
Her passing has changed me in ways I didn’t see coming. I’ve learned that when someone you live with is gone, you don’t just lose them. You lose the version of home that existed with them in it. You walk into rooms that feel smaller because their presence isn’t there to fill them. You cook meals that taste a little different because they’re missing the hands that once made them. You feel the gap in the air, even if no one talks about it.
I’ve also learned to appreciate the little things people do for you. When I think of Dadi, I don’t just remember the big moments. I remember her reminding me to pray, pouring me chai, asking about my studies, telling me stories from her younger days, or just sitting quietly beside me. It’s the little things that make you realize how deeply someone was woven into your life.
Now, almost a year later, certain moments hit harder than others. Family gatherings feel incomplete. Festivals feel quieter. Even everyday things like making parathas or drinking tea bring back waves of memories. But at the same time, I feel grateful. Grateful that I got to live with her, to see her daily, to share the ordinary moments most people don’t get with their grandparents.
I don’t think grief ever fully leaves when it’s someone you lived with. It just changes. The first few months were heavy with disbelief, but now the sadness comes in softer waves, though sometimes they still knock me over unexpectedly. And that’s okay. It’s a reminder of the love we shared.
Dadi, if I could tell you one more thing, I’d tell you that I miss you every single day. I miss your voice calling me for namaz, your parathas, your chai, your hands, your laughter when you didn’t understand a movie scene but laughed with me anyway. I miss the way the house felt with you in it.
You taught me that love is in the small details, a gentle reminder to pray, a plate of crispy parathas, a cup of tea at Maghrib, the soft touch of washing someone’s face after they’ve been outside all day. Those moments are stitched into the walls of this house and into my heart.
It’s been almost a year without you here, but in my mind, you’re still in the kitchen, still in your prayer corner, still sitting beside me during a random movie night. And I think a part of you will always be here with me, in this house we once shared.
I hope you're in a better place and you can see me from wherever you are, I still feel your prayers and well wishes for me, I still hear your gentle voice calling me, and you will always be in my heart.
Something I want to say again is that "Dadi cheeni kam piya karein" (Dadi, try to drink less sugar)
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