Nayantara, by now you would’ve been two months old. Imagine that – TWO WHOLE MONTHS OLD. You would’ve been wiggling your tiny fingers, your tiny toes. You would’ve looked around in wonder at your parents struggling to keep up with you. You would’ve pecked your mother’s cheek or pulled your father’s hair.
For the first time in my life, I notice nayantara flowers wherever I go. They are so quiet and of the little I got to see you, you were anything but quiet. You pushed your tiny, immature lungs to squeak out a cry, you wiggled your way out of the covered oxygen mask because you just couldn’t wait to see the world. The flowers, in contrast, are content where they are. They bloom under the sun and rain, they sway in the breeze, they burst out into a million colors.
It isn’t fair that parents have to be so strong. It hurts so much. We aren’t born this strong and we try to hide our weakness by doing stupid things, by pretending to be someone we’re not. I have never felt so emotional, so sentimental, so dazed, so terrible in my entire life. I have never felt so little of myself. Sometimes I feel when you left, you probably took a giant part of me with you and all I’m left with is a terribly sad, bitter, vulnerable, completely-out-of-her-mind, angry, emotional me. I try very hard to recover, to not remember, to distract myself from the excruciating pain I feel throbbing between my lungs. I fail every time.
Parents aren’t so strong. They can be courageous for their children, but what happens to them when the children are up in heaven? What are parents left with then?