I was really nervous about this test—ridiculously nervous. It didn’t make sense at all. I had given hundreds of mock tests before, but each one made my heart race, my stomach churn and worse, made me question my worth. I half hoped for an earthquake or zombie attack- anything to cancel the test!

Little did I know, an earthquake was about to unfold… just not the one I had in mind.

My class teacher walked in and asked me to pack my bag. My mind raced…. Why? What did I do? Was I being demoted? No, that can’t be, can it? —I had done fairly well in the last test. I was looking at him like he’d just asked for my last slice of pizza…until he handed me the phone. It was Papa who was pretty unusual. His voice, steady but heavy, spoke just four words:

“Ajji is no more.”

Blank. My mind was just blank. I didn’t cry. I wasn’t shocked. I simply was. It was almost as if I had expected it. And that realisation alone filled me with guilt. What kind of person doesn’t feel devastated when their grandmother passes away?

She was 75, battling pancreatic cancer. The last time I saw her, she was frail and bedridden, barely able to speak. She couldn’t recognise me—but she touched me. That gentle touch, I still remember, was much, much more than words. It was her silent blessing. And now, she is gone.

Through these trains of thoughts when my brain finally started thinking, one thought hit me like a punch to the gut. Amma. How was she? She had lost her father years ago, and now her mother, too. The only thing my eyes wanted was to see her.

I rushed home, my heart pounding harder than it had in the exam hall. And then I saw her. One glance at her, and it all hit me like a wave.

She looked… Vulnerable. I had never seen her like that before, and god I never want to see her like that again. Her strong, steady presence was crumbling before me. Her eyes were swollen and red. It made my chest tighten. I didn’t know what to do. What could I say? That it would be okay? It wouldn’t. She wasn’t coming back.

So, I did the only thing I could. I handed her a glass of water.

She sipped it between quiet sobs,  and I just sat beside her, completely useless. I felt like a shadow powerless and empty. My father wasn’t there. I was the only one. The adult. But I felt like a child pretending to be something bigger that I wasn’t.

The journey back home was silent except for her quiet cries. I tried to remember moments with Ajji—fragments of my childhood. It was like snapshots- her warmth, her smile. The whole house would fill with the scent of spices when she cooked. It was like a memory I could almost taste—warm and comforting.

She had nine children, countless grandchildren and me. I was just one of them. But I never felt that. She made me feel like I was the one she was waiting for. Her tomato rice and mango pickle still made my mouth water. And damn here I was, thinking about food instead of mourning her death.

What kind of person was I?

But the truth was, I had only ever truly known the love of my parents. Maybe I never understood any other love. Maybe that’s why I felt nothing but emptiness.

We finally reached home. I stepped inside and saw her.

Ajji was just lying there, still, peaceful, as if she had simply fallen asleep. But I knew- she wasn’t sleeping. She wasn’t breathing.

People were wailing, crying, breaking apart around me. My mother was inconsolable. Yet I just stood there, staring without seeing. Not a single tear came.

I kept telling myself—she’s gone, she’s gone, she’s never coming back.

And still, I didn’t cry.

I don’t understand death. I don’t understand why some people cry until their bodies tremble while others—like me—feel hollow. Did I have only a teaspoon of emotion? Was I heartless? Was I cruel? Or was I just… lost?

Maybe grief isn’t always loud. Maybe it doesn’t always come in tears.

Maybe, sometimes, it’s just a quiet ache—a weight in your chest that never really leaves.

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