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,...
When I realized that writing isn't as hard as how our schools taught us it to be, I started a blog.