Living with pain is a constant, invisible battle. It touches everything — how we go about our day, how we relate to others, how we show up at work, and how we view the world. It doesn’t just live in the body; it finds its way into the mind and heart, often quietly, but relentlessly.
Naturally, the first human instinct in the face of pain is to wish it away — to hope that it heals, that it subsides with time… or with a little help.
As children, we all experienced that magic: a bumped head, a scraped knee, soothed by nothing more than water, ice, and a parent’s tight hug. Looking back, it’s hard to say what truly healed the pain — the cool touch of water, or the warm embrace of love. Perhaps both. Perhaps mostly the latter.
But not all pain heals.
Some wounds are too deep, too personal, too permanent. With those, we don’t heal — we learn to cope. We live with them. We make space for them. Yet, no matter how much we adjust, there are always triggers. Moments when the ache resurfaces, raw and unbearable.
There’s physical pain, and then there’s the pain of loss — the kind that comes when the very people who gave you your best memories become memories themselves. That’s the kind of grief that brings quiet, private tears… the kind that fall without warning, tracing a slow path down the cheek.
Humanity has invented countless remedies for physical pain — from 16th-century opium to today’s OxyContin. But what do we invent for emotional pain? What’s the antidote for a broken heart?
For me, that emotional fracture began ten years ago — on the morning of 29th July 2015. A 3AM phone call followed by a long, heavy silence. That’s all it took. And from that moment, the pain started — deep, confusing, unrelenting. I’ve been trying to cope with it ever since. Trying to live with it. Trying to understand it. Trying to dull it, even if just a little.
And yes, I’ve had my moments of finding some short-term balm. For me, it has often been music — the universal healer. Especially the songs Baba used to hum. There’s something in those lyrics, in those old melodies, that brings him back. That makes the pain softer… if only for a while.
Ten years later, I still search for the right “medicine” — maybe not to cure the pain, but to carry it better. To remember him not just with tears, but with grace. With a song. With love.
Miss you, Baba. Every single day.
