Today marks the 35th anniversary of my father’s passing, yet the memories are as vivid as if it were yesterday. His presence, his guidance, and his love continue to resonate in my life, shaping the person I am today. As I reflect on his life and the impact he had on those around him, I can’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of pride and gratitude.

Thirty-five ordinary Novembers have passed, yet each one still arrives carrying the same familiar ache.

I was twenty—a first-year M.Sc. student at Delhi University—sleeping the careless sleep of youth. It was a cold winter morning when an unfamiliar, guttural sound ripped through the silence and jolted my mother and me awake. We rushed to the bathroom and found you, my beloved Babuji, lying on the floor, clutching your chest, struggling for breath.

“Panic” is too small a word for what followed.

Piklu, my cousin who was staying with us at the time, managed to stay calm. He rushed into the predawn darkness to find a taxi while Ma tried to dress you with shaking hands. I remember running barefoot to the nearby CGHS centre to call the emergency doctor. He came within minutes, examined you, and said the words that drained all colour from my world:

“Coronary attack. We have to reach the hospital now.”

In that hired Ambassador taxi, your head rested on my lap. I kept stroking your forehead, whispering helpless reassurances, bargaining silently with every god I knew. The streets of Delhi were still half-asleep. The driver drove like a man racing time itself. I believed—refused not to believe—that if we reached quickly enough, everything would be alright.

We reached Safdarjung Hospital. The same hospital where you first held me twenty years earlier, now received you for the last time. They wheeled you in. Minutes later, a doctor stepped out, his eyes lowered, and he shook his head.

Just like that, you were gone!

How we survived the days that followed remains a mystery. Friends and neighbours gathered around us, offering support and solace in our darkest hour. Their kindness became a lifeline, easing the weight of our grief, even if only for fleeting moments. I will remain forever grateful for their unwavering compassion during those turbulent days.

I could not cry—not when I saw my mother collapse into tears. I took it upon myself to inform my sister and relatives, and to make arrangements for the funeral. Though our neighbours handled everything with remarkable care, they kept me involved and informed, gently shielding my mother from any further distress.

After the funeral, when everyone had finally left and the house grew silent, I locked myself in the bathroom and cried in solitude. My heart still aches when I recall that night—standing alone, overwhelmed by loss. Yet, somewhere in the midst of that sorrow, I found the strength to emerge. I knew I had to be the pillar my mother could lean on.

Over thirty-five years, the pain has changed shape. It no longer slices through the chest like it once did. It has softened into something quieter—a constant undertone beneath every joy. And yet, every 30th November, the first thing I wake up to is your absence.

You left too soon, Babuji, but you left behind a lifetime’s worth of gifts: your gentle strength, your warm laughter, your unwavering sense of right and wrong, your immense pride in even our smallest achievements. I still make decisions, wondering what you would have advised. I still hear your voice when I guide my own children the way you guided me—love wrapped in firmness.

Today, as I light a diya for you, an ancient verse comes to mind:

Pita swarga, Pita dharma, Pita hi paramang tapo,
Pitori pritimapannay, Priyantay sarva devata ||

Father is heaven, father is dharma, father is the highest penance.
When the father is pleased, all the gods are pleased.

You are my heaven, Babuji.
You are my dharma.
Living in a way that would make you proud remains the quiet vow guiding my life.

James Patterson once wrote, “The weird, weird thing about devastating loss is that life actually goes on.” And it does. The world kept spinning; I grew older, built a life, and became a father myself. Yet every 30th November, time folds back, and I am twenty again—sitting in the back of that taxi, holding you, begging the universe for five more minutes.

Thank you for the years we had.
Thank you for the values you etched into my soul.
Thank you for still walking beside me, even when I cannot see you.

Rest in eternal peace in Baikunthadham, Babuji.
Your son loves you, misses you, and carries you in every heartbeat.

Om Shanti. 🙏