By Suvir Saran, New Delhi, January 10 : When Papa was dying, the world seemed to tilt on its axis, the enormity of the impending loss casting long shadows over every moment, every breath, every fleeting second of his presence.
My Papa, who was not just ours but everyone's--gregarious, grand, and generous to a fault--was a man who never fit neatly into a singular role. He wasn't just our father; he was the father. He wasn't just my mother's husband; he was her best friend, her partner in adventure, the one who made every room brighter and every problem lighter. Papa was the life of the party, the heartbeat of every gathering, the soul who filled silence with laughter and gloom with joy. He was larger than life, a constellation of warmth and wisdom, touching lives in ways we could never fully catalog, even if we tried.
In those final days, when he was confined to the sterile walls of a hospital, his life was anything but confined. Papa's hospital became a living, breathing testament to who he was: a man who belonged to everyone. Friends came, neighbors came, colleagues from jobs he'd left decades ago came. There were people we hadn't seen in years, people we didn't even know, people who introduced themselves not as strangers but as extensions of him, as threads of the fabric that Papa had stitched together over the course of his remarkable life.
We weren't a family sitting vigil in solitude; we were a community, a collective, a communion of souls united by the gravity of who he was. His hospital wasn't just a hospital--it was a Mela, a festival, a grand gathering of lives he had touched. It was a revolving door of laughter, tears, prayers, and stories. Strangers became friends; acquaintances became family. And in the cacophony of it all, we saw Papa reflected in every face, every voice, every embrace.
But it wasn't easy. For my siblings, my mother, and me, there were moments when we longed for quiet, for stillness, for a chance to simply sit with him, to hold his hand and pretend, if only for a second, that he was still ours alone. There were moments when grief made us selfish, when the presence of others felt intrusive, when we wanted to lock the door and pull the blinds and keep him to ourselves. But how could we? How could we deny these people, these hundreds of people, who saw him not as an acquaintance or a friend but as their Papa? How could we deny their love, their need, their grief, when Papa himself had never denied anyone anything?
Papa had been a father to our friends, a mentor to our neighbors, a confidant to colleagues, a guide to strangers. He was the man who stayed up late helping someone else's child prepare for an interview, who wrote letters for people he barely knew to get them into colleges they'd only dreamed of, who gave advice that healed marriages, who mediated disputes with a kindness that left no bitterness behind. He was the man who knew how to turn problems into puzzles, challenges into opportunities, and lives into legacies. And so, when his life began to wane, it was as though the universe sent every soul he had ever touched to remind us of who he was--to remind us that he had never belonged to just us.
In those days, we learned to let go--not just of Papa, but of our smallness. It took an extraordinary generosity of spirit to share him, to open our hearts and let the flood of love and loss wash over us. But in that letting go, we found something greater. We found gratitude. Gratitude that Papa had lived such a life, a life so rich and abundant that it overflowed into the lives of others. Gratitude that we were not alone in our grief, that the burden of losing him was carried not by four shoulders but by hundreds. Gratitude that in his final days, he was surrounded not by silence but by celebration, by voices telling him, "You mattered. You changed my life. You will never be forgotten."
It was chaotic, yes. It was overwhelming. His hospital felt less like a place of mourning and more like the beginning of a festival--a big, fat Indian wedding without the bride or groom but with all the love and laughter and tears you'd expect. And yet, in that chaos, there was communion. There was a family far larger than we had ever imagined--a family bound not by blood but by the simple, profound fact that they had been touched by Papa. And isn't that what a life well-lived looks like? A life so expansive that it cannot be contained, even in its final chapter?
Papa's passing was not a quiet farewell; it was a crescendo, a grand finale, a symphony of love and loss and life. And as we stood there, amidst the crowd of faces who loved him, we realized something extraordinary: Papa was not leaving us. He was multiplying. He was becoming a part of every story, every memory, every life he had touched. He was leaving behind not just a family but a legacy, a constellation of connections that would carry his light forward long after he was gone.
In the end, grief is not about holding on; it's about letting go in a way that honors the one we are losing. It's about recognizing that they are not ours to keep, that their life is not ours to claim. It's about opening our hearts, even when they are breaking, to let others in. Because when we do, we find that the love we give is returned tenfold. We find that the loss we fear is softened by the presence of others who share it. We find that the life we are saying goodbye to is not diminished but magnified by every voice that says, "He was mine, too."
So when Papa left, he did not leave us in silence. He left us in a chorus of voices, in the embrace of a community that reminded us of the man he was. He left us with stories and laughter and a sense of abundance that carried us through the darkest days. He left us with the knowledge that love is not a finite thing, that it grows and multiplies and carries on.
And when I think of him now, I don't see a hospital or a hospital room or a somber farewell. I see a festival. I see a man who lived a life so grand, so full, so open, that his passing became a celebration of everything he was. I see the faces of strangers who became family. I see the light of his legacy, shining in the lives he touched. I see love, endless and unbroken, carrying him--and us--into the eternity of memory.
For in the end, what greater gift can there be than to leave this world surrounded by the people who loved you, by the echoes of your own kindness, by the unbreakable bonds you forged? Papa gave us that gift. And in sharing him, we gave it back. (ANI/Suvir Saran)
Disclaimer: Suvir Saran is a Masterchef, Author, Hospitality Consultant And Educator. The views expressed in this article are his own.
