Some days grief feels like a shadow that quietly follows you. Other days, it feels like a storm that knocks the air out of your lungs. And then there are days like today — milestone days — when grief is both heavier and sharper, but also laced with gratitude.
Today Baba would have turned 75. A number that feels both so full and yet, for me, incomplete. Because he isn’t here to celebrate it. It has been ten years since that 3AM phone call that changed everything, ten years since all the son and father fights just seemed meaningless , ten years since silence replaced his voice. And yet, if I close my eyes, I can still hear him — his words, his laughter, his songs. Especially his songs.
The Kind of Pain That Doesn’t Heal
Grief is its own kind of pain. Unlike a scraped knee or a pulled muscle, there’s no ice pack, no pill, no therapy that erases it. Physical pain can be dulled; grief only transforms. It becomes part of who you are. You learn to carry it, to live around it, even to grow with it. But it never really goes away.
As children, pain was soothed so simply: water on a wound, an ice cube pressed to the skin, or most of all, a parent’s embrace. I still remember how Baba’s presence itself was medicine. Looking back, I realize the healing came not from the cool water, but from the warm love that accompanied it.
But when the people who once healed us become memories themselves, the ache is different. It’s quiet, it’s constant, and it resurfaces in the most unexpected of moments — on a birthday, at a family gathering, or in the hauntingly familiar notes of a song.
The Song That Brings Him Back
For me, that song has always been “Jalte Hain Jiske Liye” by Talat Mahmood. Baba sang it beautifully — with such depth, soul, and tenderness that the walls of our home seemed to hold the notes long after he had stopped.
The song itself carries a haunting ache, with lines like:
“Jalte hain jiske liye,
Teri aankhon ke diye…”
(“The one for whom your eyes’ lamps burn,
is kept alive only by that glow…”)
When Baba sang those words, it felt as if the song belonged to him. His voice carried both longing and warmth, making the room fuller, softer, alive. And even today, whenever I hear it, I feel him return — not in body, but in spirit. The grief doesn’t vanish, but it softens. The pain doesn’t end, but it becomes bearable.
Music has been my bridge to him. My way of remembering not only the ache of his absence, but the joy of his presence.
A Legacy Beyond Words
“Your wisdom, strength, and love so true,
Are the gifts you left, a legacy I will try to pursue.”
That legacy is what I hold on to today. Baba never gave grand lectures. Instead, he taught through how he lived:
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Dignity in struggle.
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Generosity even in scarcity.
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Strength that was quiet but unwavering.
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Love that showed itself in everyday gestures, not just words.
On his 75th, I choose not only to mourn what I’ve lost, but to honor what he gave. The lessons. The laughter. The love. The music that still carries his spirit forward.
Carrying Him Forward
So tonight, I’ll play and may be just sing along , “Jalte Hain Jiske Liye”. I’ll let it echo through the room the way his voice once did. And in those moments, I’ll remember him not just with tears, but with gratitude. With song. With love.
Happy 75th, Baba. Miss you every single day. But you’re never truly gone — because you live on in memory, in music, and in me.
