The funeral is difficult. But honestly? The funeral has people around you. The funeral has rituals, structure, a beginning and an end. There's chai, there are visitors, there's always something to do.
The hard part comes later. It comes on a normal Tuesday evening when you set the table and reach for one plate too many. It comes during Diwali when their chair is empty and everyone pretends not to notice. It comes on their birthday, when your phone still has the reminder and you don't know whether to delete it or keep it forever.
The ordinary days are the worst
Nobody warns you about this. They warn you about the grief, the sadness, the crying. But nobody tells you about the small, everyday moments that ambush you without warning.
Your mother used to call every Sunday morning. Now Sundays are the quietest day of the week. Your friend used to send you stupid memes at midnight. Now your phone is silent at midnight, and the silence is louder than any notification.
Your father had an opinion about everything, the cricket score, the neighbour's parking, the way you made tea. And now you'd give anything to hear him complain about the tea being too sweet.
These moments aren't dramatic. They don't make for compelling stories. But they're where grief actually lives. Not in the big, obvious moments. In the tiny, private ones that only you would notice.
Festivals and family gatherings
In India, family events are everywhere. Holi, Diwali, Onam, Pongal, Eid, Christmas, Baisakhi, birthdays, anniversaries, weddings. There's always a gathering, and there's always the absence. The person who used to distribute sweets. The one who always told the same joke. The grandmother who made the special dish that nobody else can get quite right.
Some families talk about the person openly. Others go quiet, as if mentioning them might break the fragile peace everyone is maintaining. Both are painful in different ways.
If you're the one who's grieving, here's what I want you to know: you don't have to pretend to be happy at family gatherings. You don't have to perform okayness for everyone else's comfort. If you need to step out for five minutes, step out. If you need to cry in the bathroom, cry. If you need to say their name out loud because everyone else is avoiding it, say it.
Keeping them present
Talk about them. Not in hushed tones. In normal tones. "Appa would have loved this biryani." "Didi would have been the first one on the dance floor." Mention them the way you'd mention any family member. Because they still are one.
Keep a tradition alive. If your mother always made a particular sweet for Diwali, make it yourself. Even if it doesn't taste the same. Even if you burn it the first time. The act of making it is the remembrance.
Set a place for them. Some families light a diya next to a photo during festivals. Some keep a chair empty on purpose. Some simply pause before eating and think of them silently. Do whatever feels right for your family. There is no correct way to remember someone.
Let new traditions form. The gathering will feel different now. It will never be the same. But "different" doesn't have to mean worse. New inside jokes will form. New people will join the table. Your children will create memories of their own. The shape of the family changes, but the family continues.
It does get different
I won't say it gets better, because that word doesn't quite capture it. It gets different. The first Diwali without them is awful. The second one is hard. The fifth one still stings, but by then you've learned where the sting will come, and you've found ways to sit with it instead of being knocked over by it.
The empty chair never stops being empty. But over time, you stop seeing only the emptiness. You start seeing the table. The people who are still here. The food, the laughter, the arguments, the chaos that is family. And you realise that the person you lost would probably want you to pass the rice and eat properly instead of sitting there being sad.
So you pass the rice. And you eat. And sometimes, between the noise and the spices and the people you love, you feel them there anyway. Not gone. Just somewhere just out of sight.
