Navigating Grief

In May 2023, I found myself attending my father’s funeral, Mom’s annual death anniversary rites, and father-in-law’s cremation within two days of each other. You might be wondering if this story is for real. I, for one, wish that these words belonged to a well-written, dramatic novel.

This past year tested me and my family on many levels. What no one tells you is that when you lose someone really close to you, a part of you dies with them. I grieved my father and the parts of me that were also cremated with him. He was my buddy, confidante, annoying critic, source of gossip, dessert-loving fellow foodie, inspiration for social justice, genetic pool for creative writing, well of unconditional love, reason for exposure to world travels, and so much more. My brother and I get our dark sense of humor and social butterfly energy from our father.

My father, Papa, was a special man. I have my childhood friends who have often said that they have brought up their daughters inspired by how my father raised me. My sister-in-law (brother’s wife in Singapore) said that all her friends envied her relationship with my dad. He was that man who didn’t differentiate between his children and children-in-laws. Every time there is a cricket match, my husband’s face looks sad as he no longer can pick up the phone and discuss athletic performances with my dad. My nieces (brother’s daughters) wrote essays about their Dada (paternal grandfather) in their college application. When my brother dropped me at the airport, he said, “Papa was such a gift.”

There is no hierarchy of grief

In May 2024, I traveled back to India to spend time with loved ones. The last time I saw them was at the funerals. I spent a few days in Singapore with my brother’s family, which was cathartic and healing. My brother is the only one who can identify with my plethora of emotions and losses. I observed how he paid attention to the little things that meant to me and made sure I was pampered throughout my stay. He stepped into the role of the oldest in our family. Instead of dismissing me (We argued tons when our mom-dad were alive), he respected my thoughts and choices. I found myself giving him (and his wife) the respect I would shower on my parents. We focused on what we have and let go of the fluff that no longer matters. Meaning, we all tried to adapt to new family dynamics.

There is no hierarchy of grief that can prove whose loss is the biggest. Every relationship that has existed between people is unique. In Singapore, no one can compared their grief or said whose heartache was bigger or smaller than the other person’s. We didn’t compete over whose relationship to Papa was better (or worse) than somebody else’s. We celebrated him and the legacy he has left behind.

Who am I?

From Singapore, I flew to Mumbai to see my mom-in-law. My husband said, “You were raised really well.” My parents gave my brother and I grounded and solid family values. They showed, not told, us how to show up to relationships, enjoy life, forgive the morons in our lives, and care for our elderly. I was taught that grief makes us kinder, and vulnerabilities can heal communities and families.

In a world where siblings don’t talk to each other and families have become estranged, I undertook the most uncomfortable expedition—traveled to India only to see my husband’s mom before my father-in-law’s one-year death anniversary. I have amazing girlfriends and cousins who reminded me how brave I was to make this solo trip when I could have stayed a few extra days with my brother.

With Dad gone … I have questioned my identity. What’s my relationship with India? Is it the land of my ancestors or home to my Ayurveda and yoga studies or a country where I was born and will now return as a tourist? With both my parents deceased at a young age, I have wondered about my own mortality. How do you belong to life today without anxiety without overlooking the fact that my maternal grandma, Mom, her sister, and brother all died unexpectedly exactly at 66?

Grieving is a personal experience

Traveling into India, where I no longer have my parents, was excruciatingly painful. As I filled out the immigration form before landing in Mumbai, my inner voice screamed Adult Orphan. It hit me for the first time in two decades … My father’s name and address were nonexistent. I felt grief as a slab of cement on my chest that wouldn’t let me breathe. Identity. Isolation. Tears. Mourning. Loneliness. I wailed loudly as the plane’s wheels touched the ground. I could no longer call my father, “Papa, I have landed safely in Mumbai. See you in a few hours.”

While I was in India, someone said to me that their grief and loss mattered more than mine. And that I should “settle down” because losing our parents is a circle of life even if they died young.

Instead of reacting to the harsh words, the Ayurvedic Doctor in me did a quick assessment of this person. I had to remind myself that when it comes to grief, no mentally healthy person would rob any griever of basic dignity and make them feel their loss wasn’t significant. Comparing and competing are both signs of insecurity and danger. Since all relationships are unique, so is each person’s grief.

Grieving and healing is what brought me to the nation of my ancestors; pettiness is what broke my heart. Up until this trip, I truly believed that grief transforms us all. Loss helps us connect with others on a deeper level and pain works as a glue to hold bonds. But I was proven wrong. I learned that inherently mindless, manipulative, and malicious people don’t change despite your or their grief. They use it as a license to perpetuate cruelty.