The Surprise Visit
Diwali came with a gift I didn’t plan the chance to go home. It was supposed to be a surprise, a burst of light in what had been a difficult year. My grandfather, nearly 90, had been ill for twelve long months. But when I saw him, something magical happened. Despite everything, he remembered me. I kissed him, and in that moment, the year of illness faded into the background of our bond.
For five days, I was surrounded by the warmth of family mom, dad, grandma, big mother, big father, small mother, small father, and my five siblings. The house was full, the way homes should be during festivals. We laughed, we ate, we were together. It felt normal, beautifully normal.
The Distance Returns
Then came the journey back 800 kilometers between my workplace and home. The distance isn’t new; I’ve traveled it before. But this time felt different, though I couldn’t say why.
Everything seemed fine that week. Work was work. Life continued its rhythm. Until Saturday night.
When the Soul Knows Before the Mind
I came home from work and suddenly, inexplicably, I started crying. Not delicate tears deep, wracking sobs like a baby cries, raw and uncontrolled. For an entire hour, I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t explain it. There was no reason, no trigger, just an overwhelming grief that came from somewhere I couldn’t name.
I ate dinner through the tears. I called my mother, searching her voice for answers I didn’t know I was looking for. She sounded normal. We talked normally. If she was hiding something, I couldn’t hear it. I went to sleep confused by my own emotions.
The Call
Sunday morning, my phone rang. My brother, calling from Chennai where he was preparing for semester exams. I was still sleeping when he said the words: “Nandhini… Thatha erandhutanga.”
Grandpa died.
I accepted it. Some part of me had been accepting it for a year. I had watched him suffer, had prayed to God to take him peacefully. And He had listened.
But here’s what I didn’t know: Grandpa had died on Saturday. Saturday evening. The same Saturday night I cried for an hour without knowing why.
Blood thicker than water.
My family hadn’t told me. They hadn’t told my brother either. They thought they were protecting us me with my work 800 kilometers away, my brother with his exams. Another cousin called my brother, and that’s how we found out.
The Video Call
When I called my family, they said what I knew they would say: “You can’t come. It’s too far. We can’t keep the body waiting.”
So my brother and I did a video call instead. And there he was our grandfather, lying peacefully in new clothes, surrounded by flowers. Beautiful. Dignified. Free from the suffering that had marked his last year.
I cried. My brother cried.
Then I stopped my tears and told him, “Don’t cry. Focus on your exam.”
I had to be strong so he could be strong. That’s what we do, isn’t it? We push our grief down, fold it into a small, manageable package, and carry on. He went back to studying. I went back to work.
But grief doesn’t stay folded.
The Ritual
November 1st—the day Grandpa left this world. According to our customs, we observe rituals for 11, 12, or 13 days. Today, November 13th, was the final day. The family would decorate Grandpa’s picture and feed the whole village a feast in his honor, a celebration of his life.
This morning, I woke up thinking about that feast. I felt the ache of missing it, of being 800 kilometers away while my family gathered to honor him.
I went to work, carrying that quiet sadness.
The Feast That Found Me
Today was the thirteenth day the day my family fed the village in my grandpa’s name.
I thought I had missed it, being 800 kilometers away.
But life had its quiet magic waiting for me.
Then something unexpected happened. My colleague suddenly said, “Come, let’s go to the feast.” Once a year, the Telugu community here gathers to cook and share a traditional meal together.
I went, sat on the floor with strangers, banana leaf before me, and food that tasted like home. Each bite felt like love like my grandpa had found a way to feed me, too. As if he whispered, “You’re still part of the family table, my child.”
My stomach was full of good, tasty food, the kind that reminds you of celebrations and family and belonging. She dropped me back, and I returned to my room.
And then I understood.
I started crying, not in sorrow, but in wonder because love travels farther than distance, and even heaven remembers to care.
Grandpa’s Last Gift
My grandfather, lying 800 kilometers away in his final rest, had somehow made sure I didn’t miss the feast. Not his feast exactly, but a feast—one that appeared on the exact day of his final ritual, when I was thinking about him, missing him, wishing I could be there.
Maybe it’s coincidence. Maybe the Telugu community feast just happened to fall on this day. Maybe it means nothing.
But I choose to believe differently.
I believe that somehow, in ways we can’t measure or prove, love continues. Bonds don’t break just because someone stops breathing. My grandfather, who remembered me even through illness, who shared a connection so deep I cried before I knew he was gone, found a way to include me in his final celebration.
Even 800 kilometers couldn’t keep him from making sure his granddaughter was fed, was cared for, was loved.
Blood thicker than water.
What I’ve Learned
Grief is strange. It arrives before we expect it, in tears that have no explanation. It hides in phone calls where voices sound normal but aren’t. It lives in the distance between where we are and where we need to be.
But love is stranger still. It transcends distance, defies death, and shows up in unexpected feasts when we need them most.
I miss my grandfather. I will always miss him. But I carry him with me—in memories, in tears that came before I knew to cry them, and in full stomachs on days when I thought I’d feel empty.
He made sure of that.
Rest peacefully, Thatha. Thank you for the feast. Thank you for remembering me, always.
Even now. Especially now.
In loving memory of my grandfather—who taught me that family is not just who we live with, but who lives in us, no matter the distance.
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