My body knew before my mind did. A well-known heaviness crept into my chest early this January, planting an unexplained discomfort in my thoughts, a sadness overwhelming me. It wasn’t until much later I realized – my father’s birthday was close. Even now, without memory, grief has its own calendar, its own way of marking time.

For months, I have sidestepped and evaded this difficult writing process. Our subconsciousness has its own way of masking emotions that are too hard to face, too raw to feel. Yet somehow, in the safety of my therapy room, words began to find their way out. Talking about my father’s loss and our dynamic in my therapy sessions was the closest I came towards addressing this grief.

Some memories of my father remain difficult to be put into words – feelings that sit deep. How does one begin to unravel the layers of a relationship shaped by time, growth and unspoken understanding? How do we make sense of the cruelty of a pandemic that stole the chance to say goodbye, leaving so many of us with words and presence denied? I know I may never fully express the depth of what I feel, but I try.

Now, as my mind starts to clear, I realize this heaviness isn’t just grief – it’s my body’s way of remembering, of honoring what was lost.

Naana – that’s what I call my father in my language – often kept his emotions guarded, like there were invisible walls around his heart. Growing up, I often wondered what he was thinking, what worries he carried in silence. Life hadn’t been easy for him. I believe behind the tough exterior he showed others, was a vulnerable man who craved for love, who deeply cared, and who worked tirelessly with perseverance.

Being the eldest son in a joint family, he bore traditional responsibilities, yet transformed what could have been a burden into an act of passionate service. My mother quietly stood by him supporting him through everything.

In his younger years, my parents carefully counted every penny to make ends meet. My father often took on extra shifts to cover unexpected expenses. Yet, as I grew older, I witnessed the result of his hard work – transforming his small clinic into a hospital with multiple patient rooms, an operating theatre, and a diagnostic unit. Even when money was tight, his focus was never on wealth but on how it could be used to provide for his family and serve others.

My father shielded us from the financial hardships he quietly bore. Despite working long hours to support not just our family but also those who depended on him, his relationship with money was guided by compassion.

Naana spent most of his days at the hospital, rarely sleeping at home. From my teenage years, I remember seeing him come home in the early mornings, have a quick breakfast, and leave again for the day. He often slept in a small room at the hospital, feeling deeply responsible as the chief doctor to be close to his in-patients. For many, he wasn’t just their doctor – he was a trusted guide, a man who followed the quiet voice of kindness in his heart.

My father’s medical decisions were driven by integrity, never by profit. He was quick to diagnose and gave patients honest advice, ensuring they didn’t spend unnecessarily. He often sent patients home with whatever medicines he had on hand, knowing it would spare them the immediate burden of buying them. For him, relief couldn’t wait for a prescription to be filled – if he could ease someone’s pain in that moment, he did. My father never turned away patients who couldn’t afford treatment, and over time, he became part of their families – attending their celebrations, sharing their joys, and standing by them in difficult times. For many of his patients, they saw God’s work in his hands.

But beyond his work and financial responsibilities, it was his connection with people that defined him most. His generosity wasn’t impulsive; it was thoughtful and precise. My father had the presence of mind to think ten steps ahead, understanding exactly what kind of help someone needed in a crisis. Whether it was arranging financial aid, offering medical guidance, or leveraging his connections to solve problems, he provided help that was both meaningful and lasting. He managed everything meticulously, carrying a small notebook in his bag where he noted every detail – money transactions, promises made, and help to be given. His memory was remarkable, and he never let anyone down.

This attentiveness extended beyond his profession. In a society often divided by caste and social status, my father broke those barriers with ease. He would sit and share meals with people from all walks of life, savoring food lovingly prepared by them. During important moments in our lives, he encouraged us to seek blessings from those who worked for us – our watchman, our maid – teaching us that respect and love mattered more than status. Watching him live this truth shaped who I am today. I learned to value people not for their wealth or position but for their humanity. This empathy runs deep in all my siblings as well.

He firmly believed that education was the greatest gift one could give. His belief was simple: education could lift entire generations. He quietly sponsored the education of many children – from the children of his employees to others in need – supporting them from school through college. He even helped with marriage expenses and other milestones.

That same attentiveness to people extended to the smallest joys in life, especially food. For Naana, food wasn’t just nourishment – it was another way to connect, comfort, and care. He understood that healing wasn’t just about medicine – it was about comfort. For patients who stayed longer at his hospital and missed home-cooked meals, he would sometimes bring them food from home, knowing how much comfort familiar flavors could bring. It wasn’t just about feeding the body; it was about nourishing their spirit. If a patient offered him homemade food, he graciously accepted it, asking about the recipe and trying to recreate it at home.

Naana loved good food, and he could be exacting when it came to taste. I often joked that he would have made an excellent taste tester. He had an incredible ability to detect even the slightest flaw in a dish, and when something didn’t meet his standards, his disappointment was hard to miss. But he didn’t just critique – he took charge. He loved experimenting in the kitchen, often making a mess that we were left to clean up. Cooking was more than a hobby; it was his escape, a way to heal from the stresses of his demanding job.

I remember childhood evenings when he gathered us on the terrace under the moonlight. Sitting on the floor with all of us around him, he would passionately mix the food with his hands and feed us large, flavorful portions. We had to finish eating quickly before he circled back to us with another handful. It was impossible to refuse him, and he made sure we ate well. This ritual, often sparked by my mother’s complaints about our picky eating, was his way of teaching us how to savor food – how to mix the right flavors to create the perfect taste. He delighted in feeding us, insisting that good food was its own kind of medicine. “Eat with passion,” he would say, believing that enjoying food with joy and gratitude was more important than any strict diet. Moderation, not restriction, was his way.

Just as he found comfort in the flavors of a well-cooked meal, he found equal joy in music. His love for singing was another expression of how he embraced life.

Though he never had the chance to formally learn music, Naana’s passion for it was undeniable. He could listen to Carnatic music and watch old movies and classic film songs for hours. I remember him calling me to sit with him as he watched old black-and-white Tamil or Telugu films, singing along and quizzing me about the raagas. I often tried to escape to help my mother in the kitchen, but he never stopped trying to share his joy for music.

He began to train in Carnatic music in the last years of his life, often singing the songs he had learned during our calls. I would practice my music lessons as he listened intently, offering feedback with a mix of enthusiasm and encouragement. Those were some of the most meaningful moments with him.

Though his physical presence was commanding – tall, stout, with his ever-present leather pouch – it was in his softer, more playful moments that I felt closest to him. Just as he expressed joy through music, he shared lightheartedness in the simplest, silliest ways. He would make playful cat sounds just to tease me, a habit that seemed trivial at the time but now feels deeply endearing. I catch myself doing the same with my own children – acting silly, laughing freely.

He loved having me close, insisting I sit on his lap to watch movies, even when I was well into my teens. Now, as a mother to teenage boys, I recognize this same quality in myself – the way I instinctively draw my children close, inviting them to sit on my lap, even when they think they’re too old for it. It’s a connection I cherish, one that has subconsciously stayed with me.

Naana’s way of expressing affection wasn’t always through words – it was in the unspoken gestures and quiet understanding we shared. I had a way with him – a particular smile and with just that smile, he’d slip me a little extra pocket money, understanding exactly what I wanted without me having to ask.

Perhaps it was this deep connection to people – expressed in small but meaningful gestures that shaped how he lived his life – that made his final battle with COVID so heartbreakingly ironic. A man who had dedicated his life to being present for others, who found joy in shared meals and conversations, spent his last days in isolation.

The world changed in 2020. By March, we were all working remotely, isolated behind masks, afraid even to pass familiar faces on the street. The pandemic spread rapidly in India, and strict lockdowns were imposed. While most people stayed home, my father chose otherwise. He continued serving on the front lines, treating COVID patients without hesitation. We urged him to stay home, but he firmly refused. His conviction was unshakable – if he were to fall ill while caring for his patients, so be it. His duty came first.

In late May 2021, after caring for family members who had contracted COVID, he fell ill himself. At first, it was just a fever and fatigue, but soon his condition worsened. He messaged me once, admitting he was afraid he might not see me again. That message still haunts me.

Despite our pleas, he stayed in the hospital where he worked, quarantining alone. My sister managed to send him home-cooked meals every day, knowing how much comfort food brought him. Cooking had always been his solace, his way of connecting with others. But within a week, his condition deteriorated. A severe lung infection forced him to be moved to a larger hospital and into the ICU. He was alone.

I often think about how Naana would bring home-cooked meals for patients who had to stay in the hospital for long periods. He knew how much they missed their own families and took it upon himself to ease their longing. To him, food wasn’t just nourishment – it was comfort, connection, and a small reminder of home.

During his own isolation in the hospital, when his condition worsened, he asked for the familiar foods he loved. I wonder if, in those moments, he was reaching for the comfort he had so often given to others. As a doctor, he must have understood the gravity of his condition. When the time came, he bravely obliged to being placed on the ventilator, knowing full well what it meant. It breaks my heart to think of how alone he must have felt, facing those final moments without the comfort of family or the warmth of a human touch. I wish I had been there – to hold his hand, to offer him even a fraction of the solace he had given to so many others.

This helplessness – knowing I couldn’t be there, couldn’t hold his hand, couldn’t say goodbye – was a pain that words can’t capture. Being thousands of miles away in the U.S., unable to travel home because of lockdowns, felt deeply unnatural. The heartbreak of those moments lingers, a wound that time can soften but never truly heal.

Yet, even in his final moments, my father was true to himself – a man who lived with compassion, loved deeply, and stood by his principles. His absence left a silence in our lives, but his values, his generosity, and his unwavering acts of service for people continue to guide me.

Knowing that my father spent his final days in the isolation of an ICU, far from the comfort of home and family, is a pain I still carry. A man who found joy in sharing meals, conversations, and connections was left without those very things that defined him.

I hold on to the hope that, in those quiet moments, he found comfort in reflecting on his life – a life rich with purpose and love. I hope he made peace with what he couldn’t control, finding closure with God, forgiving and seeking forgiveness, and knowing that our love reached him, even from afar.

Though his physical presence is gone, Naana’s spirit lives on – in every quiet act of kindness, in every shared meal. This is how I carry him forward – not just in memory, but in the way I choose to live my life.

The irony of life is that it continues even after we lose our loved ones. We remember our special moments, in the mutual love and respect that binds us, and in the lessons, they left behind. Losing Naana brought me a profound spiritual understanding: to take life as it comes, to celebrate people while they are still here, and to not be overly entangled in their flaws. It taught me to live fully, as though there’s no tomorrow, and to honor my own truth. Through this, I honor him.