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A Safe Space in Time

It has been almost two years since I lost my Nani, my grandmother. She wasn’t just a part of my life—she was my whole life. We lived in the same city, just a short walk apart, and I spent most of my childhood at her home. Every good memory I have is tied to her in some way.

Two years ago, we found out she had cancer. The doctors told us she didn’t have much time left. Watching her suffer was unbearable—she was in pain every day, and we could do nothing but be there, witnessing her fade away. It wasn’t just losing her that hurt; it was the slow, inevitable goodbye.

But when I think of her, I don’t want to remember the pain. I want to remember the warmth of her stories, the way she would sit with me and share bits and pieces of her past. She loved talking about her childhood, my mother’s childhood, and the trips she took with my grandfather. Her words carried laughter, nostalgia, and emotions so raw that they made time stand still.

She always felt things deeply—happiness, sadness, love—and sometimes, I think I take after her. In today’s world, people tell you not to feel too much, to let things go, to harden yourself so you can survive. But my Nani was different. She embraced every emotion fully, and I think that’s the most beautiful thing I inherited from her.

Even now, when I miss her, I close my eyes and go back in time. I picture myself sitting beside her as she tells me how to make laddoos, or how things were different when she was young. In those moments, nothing else mattered. It was just me and her, lost in a conversation that had no purpose other than to share a piece of life with each other. That, to me, was home. That was love.

But now that she’s gone, life feels different. People only talk when they need something. There’s no one who sits with me just to talk, just to be. Because everyone is busy. And sometimes, in this fast-moving world, I feel like I don’t belong—like a soul searching for a place where time slows down again.

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The Pause

Sometimes, life feels like it’s slipping away—no job, no money, just a lingering sense of being stuck. At 25, it’s easy to feel behind, watching others chase dreams in distant cities while I remain here, dependent, uncertain.

But then, I see the other side. I’m home. I get to be with my parents, help my grandparents, exist in moments that many only wish they had time for. Maybe I haven’t achieved what I want yet, but not every season is about running.

Some seasons are meant for pausing, for being present, for making memories. And that, too, is living.

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A Ride Through Time

Yesterday, I took Dadaji to the store on my scooty. As we passed my old play school, a memory surfaced—years ago, he used to take me there on his cycle. He’d drop me off, pick me up, buy me little treats when I cried. Back then, my parents were in another city, building a life, and I was here, in my grandparents’ world, safe in their care.

Now, decades later, I was the one taking him somewhere. He sat behind me, just like I once sat behind him. The years had flipped our places, but for a moment, it felt like nothing had changed.

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I think my entire personality revolves around talking about my childhood—mentioning the things my old self loved, reliving memories, and holding onto the past. And I’m tired of people telling me to move on, to focus on the future, to live in the present.

But how do I stop pointing out the places I loved, the ones that hold my best memories? How do I stop mentioning my best days—the color of my school bag, the first time I danced at an annual function, the thrill of winning a spoon race? How do I stop talking about how much I love my city, or the memories that shaped me ?

Maybe I don’t want to stop. Maybe I don’t have to.

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rumi’s field

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