here are those who grieve gracefully — broken yet stoic, crying not screaming. I am not one of them. I yelled, wailed and lashed out becoming the she-demon Amma had warned you about. My entire life, she chided you for making me too entitled, too spoilt, without consequences. She was right, Baba.

Except that losing you was the single most consequential moment of my life. Which snowballed into a never-ending myriad of bittersweet consequences.

What’s the consequence of loving and being loved too much? Immeasurable, insurmountable grief. Except that grief is not a linear stream of silent tears, it’s a haphazard, schizophrenic, eyes-wide-shut state of being. Grieving for you doesn’t entail losing you, that’s not possible, just losing life without you.

If only it were as simple as putting an old man in his grave.

I remember burying you during a thunderstorm. They said we aren’t allowed to look or go back after the burial. Your three orphans walked away resolutely, bare-feet, caked with blood, twigs and freshly dug earth. Soaking wet we lingered in the parking lot, silently smoking a cigarette each - unable to stand by your grave, unwilling to leave the graveyard.

People later said it wasn’t proper for your unmarried daughter and nieces to bury you. But neither your brothers, friends and sons nor the maulana thought anything of it. They knew you wouldn’t have it any other way.

So goes on the reel of vivid and blurry memories, doomed to constantly replay in the broken crevices of our hearts. The last time we spoke, the last hug and I-love-you — and the never dissipating guilt of ‘I should have been there sooner’. Guilt and sorrow are best friends in grief, like Jack and Jill; they never climb a hill without each other. Instead of tumbling after one another though, they pull in opposite directions. Sorrow wants nothing more than to settle in oblivion, confusion and despair. Guilt drives one insane with manic rage, desperately seeking to go back in time and rewrite the unwritten. All that is left is for anger and helplessness to reconcile with each other. But it’s been three years and they haven’t found a compromise — I suspect even a lifetime will not suffice.

Such is grief, the ruthless reckoning of every conflicting feeling under the sun — engulfing the past, present, future and time itself.

Yet, just as grief is callously devastating, it is more devastatingly beautiful. Like a clear grey sky, refusing to let light through, but steadily emanating a cold, white glow. And, we all stand out starkly against it, like naked winter trees shaken down to their roots. For a moment, I thought that death meant you were gone. But those who love can never lose, only suffer. Just as you are never absent, your presence is just different now. You still occupy the same places, spaces, people and things — just differently. An unwavering presence whose light permeates the grey skies, and whose compassionate warmth subdues all shivering. You still provide the safest of spaces to heal and grow. But not everything needs to heal; some wounds are best left open and some scars must remain as a sign of respect.

The storm has passed, but your family still cannot comprehend the change in weather. There is something deeply satisfying knowing that we share an irrational selfishness, of wanting you back. Grief often lends a sadistic touch, the greatest joy in knowing we’ll always miss you too much. Because you’re worth missing for the rest of our lives. There is no love without a touch of madness, and no grief without love. Like the thrill of a sweet chill, on an even colder day.

Initially, one of the things that angered and bereaved me the most was having the least amount of time with you. I was 26 when you died at 70. They say you loved me more than anyone; yet, compared to your sons, wife, nieces, nephews, brothers and sisters I had you for a fraction of time. Shamelessly I’ll admit, it made me rather bitter.

You had lived so much of your life without me, and now I have to as well. Except that I lost you. And losing you without enough memories, enough photos, enough laughs, enough cries outraged me, threw me down my darkest hole.

But that’s where your tribe stepped in, and through their memories I stringed together the story of your life. Your elder sisters remember playing hopscotch, with toddler you glued to their hips. Your nieces recount you dropping them off to their first days of school. And in their recollections of your mundane moments, momentous occasions, funny stories, I find that I do not feel as though I missed out on time we never had or lived apart. I can never explain the depths of my gratitude for them.

Even without recounting your tales, something about you lives on. In your grandson’s smile, your nephew’s humour, your brother’s grace, your sisters’ care. In the impeccable men that you raised, who never for a moment stray from loving, supporting and protecting - like you. In Amma’s resilience, her determined march back to sanity. Look at her now, travelling the world alone, with grey hair and no care. And slowly with time, I saw you in my smile, jokes and habits - bittersweet consequences, like the love of coffee I get from you.

How can we be without you when the legacy of your love surrounds us, flows through us, saves us, and still captivates us as your life did?

What are the consequences of loving and grieving too much? A steady contentment, an indestructible peace, an unshakeable sense of grounding. Just as a change in season can never challenge the supremacy of Nature, there is no losing in grief, and no loss in love.

The writer is a graduate from George Washington University and researches on Sufism