You used to sit by the window,
reading the newspaper
in a comfortable silence.
Now that spot’s empty, and the silence—
it’s loud,
it echoes,
in a way that
home doesn’t feel like home.

Mumma doesn’t hum in the kitchen anymore.
She’s quieter now.
She forgets where she lost her calm—
somewhere,
she lost her charm.
Maybe it left
when you were gone.

Our dog still looks over to your seat
and stares into the quiet
missing your head massages,
how you’d peel her oranges
like she was your daughter too.

When I drive around the city,
I amiss you in the passenger seat,
whispering a small prayer
every time we passed a temple.
I see you at every crossroad—
walking slowly, hand in mine,
not because you needed me,
but because it felt safe
in this chaotic world.

I kept your brown Titan watch.
It still tells time,
but it feels slower now.
Everything is stretched,
and stuttered—
like time lost purpose
and forgot where it was going.

The family—
the family drifts further by the second.
Some building walls,
some burning bridges.
The dinner table still yearns
for the sound of your stories
that stitched us back together.

Your friends knew you for six decades.
I only had two.
But Nanu,
sometimes it feels like I missed
an entire lifetime with you.

I know you were hurting,
and heaven’s kinder to you.
But this ache is constant,
and nothing feels the same
without you.

And still, some days,
when the morning light hits just right,
I feel your warmth in the quiet—
not loud,
not ghostly,
just enough
to keep going.