There is something about the country in June. Something golden and slow and endless. A
kind of a day that feels as if it may never end, although you are aware deep down
somewhere that it will not.
This was the kind of a day I experienced in the summer of 202, golden and warm primarily
because of her, with my beloved grandmother, Maa. It was the day that taught me more than
any school or book ever did.
Maa was not just any grandmother. There was a strength to her, emanating from
somewhere deep inside, the sort of strength born of love and loss and everything in
between. She ended up marrying a man who served the nation: my grandfather, who
returned from Kargil with battle wounds and a tale no one ever shared. He was a guy you
might describe as an ’80s bad boy: leather jackets, sharp silences, and eyes that had seen
too much. Maa, instead, belonged in among the most venerated houses in a part of nice
town. Elegant, poised, and perpetually a bit ahead of her time.
They were an unlikely pair. But somehow, they fit. Like thunder and rain.
That June day we went fishing. Maa loved the water. Not the loud and adventurous way, but
the quiet, reflective one. We packed bottles of juice — way too many in my opinion — and
drove into the countryside. My cousin sister was there with us as well, but she was half-
asleep most of the time, huddled with herself in the backseat, listening to the smooth
murmur of the road.
From the second we set foot on that little patch of land next to the river, we’ve never sat still
for anything. We laughed too hard. Ate too much. I consumed so many juice boxes that I
began to question whether I might be a tiny bit citrus. I remember us sitting side by side and
sun-kissed, wearily in the best sort of way, staring up at the sky as it was painted in that
dusky pink that only shows up in summertime.
And yet, the memory that lingered with me the most was not from the daylight. It was what
happened after.
That night, we were on the rooftop again. The crickets were beginning their nighttime
symphony, and the stars were out like old friends. I was laying there next to Maa, spent the
way only a good day can leave you. I remember that I said something — perhaps more to
the stars than to her.
“I wish we could do this every day.”
There was a pause. Just long enough to wonder if she’d fallen asleep. But then her voice cut
through the night. Soft, tired, but sharp as ever.
“If you think about it,” she said, “we’re all dying. We’re all walking towards our inevitable
death. The only way to change that… is to actually live our days. Every single second. Live it,
knowing it will inevitably end.”
I didn’t realize it at the time, but that was the last summer we would be able to spend like
that. Maa was sick at the time. We all knew it, and by that I mean that nobody said it aloud.
This was the way she spoke of death — not in fear, but with an acceptance that somehow
made you feel unexpectedly brave as well.
That night, something changed inside of me. Until that time, I’d lived like this endless, stretch
of road I could spend all my days ambling down. But Maa? She taught me it’s less about the
length of the road. It’s more about the things you pay attention to along the way—that
warmth of the sun on your skin, the hangover you shouldn’t have imbibed that tenth bottle of
people you love beside you.
Much I learned from Maa over the years. How secrets can be withheld. How forgiveness can
be granted without it being requested from one. But that one thing spoken on the
rooftop—that is the lesson that seared itself deepest into my heart.
Live your days.
It sounds simple, almost too simple. But when you really think about it, how often do we
actually live? Not just exist, not just get through, but live; eyes open, heart full, aware that it’s
all temporary, all fleeting?
I try to carry that with me now. In the way I talk to people. In the way I take detours just
because the view might be prettier. In the way I say yes more than I say no.
Maa’s gone now. But every time I hear crickets at night, every time I see a sky clear enough
for stars, I remember that day. That warm, wild day in June where we chased fish and
sunlight and laughed like we didn’t have a care in the world. And I remember her words.
We’re all dying. The only way to fight it is to truly live.
And I guess, in her own quiet way, Maa taught me how.