Dreading the call in the night

some reflections about grief and the immigrant experience

me with my aunt - Rashmi Bua. She’s in the beautiful orange sari. Her kids Nupur didi and Manu dada are in red and green <3

Hi friends,

I lost my aunt this week. It was sudden. It was awful. She took abruptly ill. She got better. Then without much warning, she was gone. I wish I had the words to properly describe the exact shape her death has left in our lives but I’m still trying to figure that out myself. Right now, it feels a little like I’m sitting on the beach and the waves are touching my toes and then receding back. I feel the cold when I remember to but otherwise, I’m just there. Forgive me for the overly morose description, it’s the best I can do right now.

My aunt - Rashmi bua as I knew her - was the brightest spot on my dad’s side of the family. She was warm and cheerful and kind. Every time I would visit her in Delhi she would ask me what books I was reading/had on my list (there’s always been a list) and even when I said I didn’t want anything she’d persist. And inevitably when I arrived at her house, there in the room would be a a stack of books with a personal note from her - wishing me a wonderful life full of blessings and good books. It pains me that the last time I saw her was in 2018. I’ve become so many different people since then. I’ll become so many more in the years to come. And she’ll never get a chance to meet any of them.

the inscriptions she’d write in the books she bought for me :)

Her family - my family - called her Bulbul - which means songbird. When she was little she loved to talk and so her mouth is open in lots of the vintage pictures blessing our family collections - like a bird. I don’t even have to close my eyes to think of her laugh, I can hear it perfectly still. Every year, without fail, she would send my dad a rakhi - across the world - and I would tie it on his wrist on her behalf. She raised two wonderful children and loved to send pictures of her 5 grandchildren to the family WhatsApp group. Without her, the conversation has lapsed into silence.

pictures from the archive. On the left we have my uncle, my dad and my aunt. In the middle we have my dad (look at his cute sweater), my aunt and my uncle. And then on the rightmost we have Rashmi Bua tying a Rakhi on my dad - a tradition she kept up for decades

It’s incredibly difficult to wrap up the whole of what someone meant to you in a newsletter/memoriam. It’s even harder when your memories together are strung together over years of physical distance and postponed trips. There’s so many wonderful things about being the child of immigrants. But there’s a guaranteed pain too. I’m always waiting for the call in the night. The one that sends my parents into a panicked flurry about what flight to take and how soon it can get them to India and whether they’ll be able to say goodbye in time.

Four times we’ve gotten the call - my dad’s mother, my dad’s father, my mother’s father, and now my dad’s sister. All four times, I’ve stayed here - my feet rooted to the ground. I don’t know how to explain the guilt that comes next. That I wasn’t there - that I couldn’t do anything to help. I know it’s not a rational feeling. I probably couldn’t have helped even if I’d been there - likely the opposite. And yet. And yet. And yet.

I think when your family lives on the other side of the world you’re always running calculations. About whether you’ll be able to get enough time off to go to India. Whether you’ll have enough days to go see family in other parts of the country. Whether the hours you spend together will be sufficient to lock in new memories. Whether the goodbye you exchange is a permanent one. And when you lose someone, it feels like you’re auditing those calculations and wondering whether you spent your resources wisely.

the last time we were together in 2018. I was supposed to see her in just a few weeks in India.

My personal audit is still ongoing. And I don’t know yet what shape my grief will take over the time to come. I’m headed to India in a few weeks (I was so close to seeing her again) and it’s the first time since I lost my grandfather in 2023. I suspect being forced to confront these lossess in reality will feel a little like being kicked in the teeth. But I’m going to do my best to enjoy every moment I can with the rest of my family. These are the moments I’ve carved out for myself and I can’t think any more about whether I’m wasting them.

friends - hug your loved ones. call them. send them a corny whatsapp. just do it.

See you next chapter,
Kalyani