267/365

As we grow up, we do so alongside a diverse group of people, including our parents, siblings, and grandparents. The ones who often radiate the most joy are those I've saved for last in this list - our grandparents!

Few of us are fortunate enough to experience our formative years with them. I count myself among the lucky ones. I had the privilege of growing up under the loving and joyful care of my Aai and Baba from both sides. The sheer delight on their faces whenever I'd dash to them every time I laid eyes on them is etched in my memory.

While growing up, my mother would usually be preoccupied with household chores or work, while my father would be laboring tirelessly. This remained the norm until my sister entered the tenth grade.

Aai and Baba always ensured we stayed connected with both sides of the family, the Karkares and the Pandits. Aaji and Ajoba (Mom's parents) would visit us, or we'd visit them. Appa and Ajji (Dad's parents) would come to Mumbai every 2-3/6 months, and I vividly recall that they never arrived empty-handed. They always brought something for us kids, be it a small packet of chips or biscuits. These simple gifts brought immense joy, not just to me but also to them. Even today, when I close my eyes and reminisce about those moments, I see the twinkle in their eyes and those heartwarming smiles that take my breath away.

Grandparents play an integral role in our lives; they are the reason we exist, as they bring our parents to life, and our parents, in turn, bring us into the world. Sometimes, we may overlook the importance of appreciating them, and we might wonder why they always bring these little gifts. When I was a child, there were times I expected something grand each time they visited, but eventually, I learned to cherish the happiness their smiles brought into my life.

In May, amidst the challenges of COVID-19 and the lockdown, it became difficult to visit Ajoba and Ajji, who lived in Mulund with my mom's brother.

On May 1st, it was a somber day for my family. We had to admit Appa to a care center where we believed he would be safer. You see, Appa was suffering from Alzheimer's disease, and for the past six years, he had been living with us, and we had witnessed his gradual decline. In April, it had become increasingly taxing on Baba, as caring for him and maintaining his hygiene around the clock had become incredibly challenging. With heavy hearts and after much deliberation, on his 94th birthday, May 1st, both Baba and I took him to the center in Mulund.

We remained in constant contact with the doctors to monitor his well-being, but on May 4th, Mama (Mom's brother) called us through a video call and asked us to speak to Ajoba. I remember his distant, almost trance-like expression. Mama then informed us that Ajoba had been refusing food and had been surviving solely on liquids.

After seeing Ajoba on the call, we realized that "the day" could arrive at any moment. His pallor was concerning, and he was far from his usual self, no longer solving Sudoku puzzles in the newspaper or engaging in conversation. It was a day we would never forget, a profound sense of heartache that pierced through us all. Aai, though she tried not to show it, was clearly suffering. Unfortunately, due to the lockdown, we couldn't take her to see him. The day passed, and we received a call on May 5th at 4:45 AM - he had peacefully passed away in his own home, surrounded by loved ones, without a fuss.

It was a horrifying experience, unexpected and painful. Everyone gathered themselves and headed to Mulund. Aai was in shock, barely uttering a word throughout the day. We could see she was grappling with immense sorrow. There was little we could do, given the circumstances. When we entered the house and went to see him one last time, I remember that moment with absolute clarity. He lay there, deep in slumber, eyes closed. A part of me silently pleaded for him to wake up one last time for Aai and her siblings, but deep down, I knew it was an impossible wish.

We bid our final farewell to him, and a sense of melancholy enveloped the house. I remember Ajoba like it was yesterday: his voice, his warm smile, his intense concentration while solving Sudoku, his afternoon naps, and his tea rituals. He would often bring us chips, biscuits, and more, and he was a firm presence wherever he went.

Now, a month has passed since his passing, and whenever I close my eyes and think of him, I envision him smiling down on us, imparting strength. I am immensely grateful to have had a grandfather like him and an exceptional father to Aai and Mama Mavshi.

Four days later, we received a call from the center where Appa was residing.

On May 9th, we were informed that one of the elderly residents at the center had passed away, with COVID-19 being a contributing factor. This news sent shockwaves through our household, as Appa was also at the center. Fortunately, we had a supportive family who rallied around us to provide comfort during this trying time.

By May 12th, we were anxiously awaiting test results, fervently hoping they would come back negative. Unfortunately, the news was disheartening; he had tested positive for COVID-19. Our world turned upside down in a matter of hours, and we had to quickly arrange for Appa's transfer to a COVID hospital in Thane. The process was long and grueling.

Those four hours were among the most agonizing of our lives, and during that time, all Baba and I wished for was to see Appa. It was 12:30 in the night when we finally caught a glimpse of him in the ambulance. Because he was a COVID patient, we couldn't approach him physically, but we spoke to him, trying to reassure him with our voices, hoping he would recognize us.

It was heartbreaking to see him in that condition, and sleep was elusive as our thoughts were consumed by Appa. The days passed with a glimmer of hope, as the doctors continually assured us that he was stable and asymptomatic, aside from the worsening effects of his Alzheimer's disease.

Then, on the evening of May 18th, around 7:30 PM, we received a call from the doctor. Appa's kidneys were exhibiting signs of distress and were not functioning as they should. At around 2:30 AM, a follow-up call delivered devastating news - his kidneys had completely failed, and his health was deteriorating rapidly. Due to his age, the doctor explained, they wouldn't perform any extensive procedures. Instead, we were advised to wait for nature to take its course.

That night, a sense of guilt and fear overwhelmed us. We grappled with the decision to send him to the center and the looming dread of losing him. No one slept that night; it was a nightmarish ordeal. The following morning, restlessness consumed everyone. Baba had been restless since Appa's departure, constantly consumed by thoughts of him. We desperately wished to see him one last time, but due to hospital protocols, it was impossible.

Around 2:30 in the afternoon, the doctors called and told us that it was time. Appa's oxygen levels were plummeting, and he had entered a state known as Altered Sensorium, the final stage of Alzheimer's disease. No one is ever truly prepared for such news, but during those 18 days, I couldn't imagine being any more prepared to hear those two words: "It's over."

Around 3:30 PM, we received the call confirming that it was indeed over. Appa had passed away. We were all numb, unable to find words to express our feelings. Baba composed himself and began making the necessary calls and arrangements for Appa's cremation.

One lingering regret that will forever remain with us is that we couldn't see him one last time. Due to his positive COVID test, the BMC conducted all the rites, and we could only watch the ambulance transport him to the crematorium. Life became incredibly challenging after that, but we persevered as a family, carrying their memories in our hearts.

The nights were long and difficult, marked by the longing to see him one last time.

So, yes, within a span of 14 days, I lost both my grandfathers. This experience has forever changed my perspective on life. I was never prepared to lose Appa, as I had always felt a deep connection with him. I was equally unprepared to say goodbye to Ajoba, although I struggle to find the words to describe my feelings for him.

Both were beautiful souls - genuine, filled with love and honesty, and profoundly humble. Today, I talk about them one last time because I want to express my gratitude for all the years they spent with us. They are undoubtedly in a better place now, happier than ever. Their loss is deeply felt within the family, but we believe they continue to watch over us and bless us.

I had promised myself that I wouldn't shed tears and that I would remain strong whenever anyone spoke of them. Yet, here I am, still hurting, as I haven't been able to see them in their natural states, and their absence is palpable. Nonetheless, I understand that their journey had to end, and they did so with immense love and strength.

As someone once wisely said, when you love someone, you are willing to let them go, not because you've stopped loving them, but because their happiness takes precedence. So, yes, I love them enough to let them go because, at this point, nothing else matters except their happiness.

One last time, I miss them both every single day, and the love I feel for them transcends everything. Their love is our strength, and their memories keep us going, reminding us of the wonderful individuals they were when they were here. I believe they are happy and safe, watching over us.

Thank you, for being you.

- S K