Papa, I Wish You Were Here for This Chapter

7 September 2026
27 years of separation

Dear Papa,

Twenty-seven years.

Twenty-seven years since 7 September 1999.

I have written about you so many times over the years. About the memories, the loss, the man you were, and the things I wish I could still tell you.

But this year, I don’t want to write only about losing you.

I want to write about the life you missed.

Because this has truly been a milestone year for our family.

Mom turned 70 this year.

And when I look at her now, I can’t help wondering how different these years might have been if you had been beside her.

Perhaps she wouldn’t have grown old quite so soon.

Perhaps she wouldn’t have had to become so strong, because you would have been there to share the weight of life with her.

Perhaps some of the weakness and weariness I see in her today would have been lighter if she would had you beside her.

You should have grown old together.

You should have had each other through the ordinary days, the difficult days and all the little moments that make up a lifetime.

I wish you had been here to see her turn 70, to sit beside her, celebrate with her, fuss over her, and simply be her person.

Sometimes I feel your absence didn’t only take you away from us.

It asked Mom to carry a life that was meant to be carried by two.

And I wish she hadn’t had to do so much of it alone.

Then there is Sia.

Your granddaughter has stepped into her teenage years.

And Krish will soon become an adult.

You never got to meet them, Papa.

They never had the opportunity to know their grandfather, hear your voice, sit beside you, or make even one memory with you.

They know you through photographs, through my stories, and through the little pieces of you that have remained woven into our family.

I often wonder what kind of grandfather you would have been.

Would you have spoilt them?

Would you have teased them?

Would they have climbed all over you?

Would you have secretly given them everything we said they couldn’t have?

I wish I knew.

I wish they knew you.

And then there is Manoj.

You never got to meet him either.

You never got to know the man I chose to spend my life with, or see the family we built together.

This year, Manoj and I will soon celebrate our Silver Jubilee—25 years together.

Twenty-five years, Papa.

And I know how proud you would have been of him.

You would have admired his achievements, but even more than that, I know you would have admired his intellect—the way his mind works, the way he thinks, the depth of his understanding.

I have always felt that about you.

You have always admired people with intellect, substance and a sharp mind. You valued those qualities in the people around you.

And I often tell Manoj that.

I tell him, “I know Papa would have really admired you.”

And he agrees.

He often says that not having met you was a big miss for him.

That always stays with me.

Because I wish you had met.

I wish I could have watched the two of you talk.

I wish I could have sat quietly somewhere and listened to the conversations you would have had.

I wonder what you would have thought of him.

And I wonder what Manoj would have thought of you.

There are so many relationships that were meant to exist but never got the chance.

A father and a son-in-law who never met.

A grandfather and grandchildren who never knew each other.

A husband who never got to grow old with his wife.

A father who never got to see the woman his little girl became.

That is perhaps the hardest part of loss.

It isn’t only losing the person.

It is losing everything that was supposed to happen afterwards.

The conversations.

The celebrations.

The introductions.

The photographs.

The ordinary family moments.

The milestones.

The years.

This year, our family has so much to celebrate.

Mom at 70.

Sia stepped into her teens.

Krish standing at the threshold of adulthood.

Manoj and me reaching 25 years of marriage.

So much life has happened.

And yet, in the middle of every celebration, there is still that little ache.

That familiar thought.

“I wish Papa were here.”

I wish you could see Mom.

I wish you could meet Manoj.

I wish you could know Krish and Sia.

I wish you could see the life we built.

I wish you could sit with us at our little celebrations and achievements.

I wish you could be in the photographs.

I wish you could laugh with us.

I wish you could simply be here.

And more than anything, I wish you could see how far all of us have come.

I wonder what you would think of us today.

Would you recognise me?

Would you be proud of the woman I became?

Would you be proud of your grandchildren?

Would you look at Manoj and think, “Yes, she chose well”?

I hope so.

I hope, wherever you are, you have somehow seen us.

Seen Mom.

Seen me.

Seen Manoj.

Seen Sia.

Seen Krish.

Seen the family that grew after you left.

Because 27 years is a long time.

A lifetime of moments you never got to witness.

And still, you have never stopped being part of ours.

You live in the stories I tell.

In the memories I protect.

In the questions I still ask.

In the values I carry.

And now, in the stories your grandchildren hear about a grandfather they never got the chance to meet.

Perhaps that is what love does.

People leave this world, but they don’t leave our lives.

They remain in our stories, in our memories, in the things we say, in the people we become, and in the generations that come after them.

So today, Papa, I don’t want to say goodbye.

I have said goodbye for 27 years.

Instead, I want to say—

Look how far we have come.

We are still here.

We are growing.

We are celebrating.

We are loving.

We are carrying forward.

And you are still quietly woven into all of it.

This year, when we celebrate these milestones, I will think of you.

I will imagine you sitting among us.

Watching Mom at 70.

Smiling at Sia stepping into her teens.

Looking at Krish and wondering when that little boy grew up.

Meeting Manoj and admiring the man he has become.

Watching your grandchildren.

Looking at all of us.

And perhaps, in that moment, I will imagine hearing the words I have wished for all these years:

“I’m proud of you.”

Papa, there are so many things I wish you could have seen.

So many people I wish you could have known.

So many memories I wish we could have made.

But if there is one thing I hope you somehow know, it is this—

you were never forgotten.

Not in 27 years.

Not for a single milestone.

Not in a single celebration.

You may have missed our milestones,

but you have never missed a place in our hearts.

27 years of separation.

And yet, not a single year without you.

You are still part of every celebration.

Every milestone.

Every story.

Every generation.

And perhaps that is the greatest tribute I can give you—

a family that continues to speak your name, remember your place, and carry your love forward.

I wish you were here, Papa.

To see how far we’ve come.

To see who we’ve become.

To meet the people you never got to meet.

To celebrate the milestones you should have been here for.

And most of all…

to know that after all these years,
your daughter still looks for you.

Always.