a Goodbye at Dawn

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

Today was the day I had been dreading.

The day I would take Xena to the sea—not as the living, breathing presence who filled my home, but as ashes held in an urn. It felt like I would be losing her all over again. For days, I had been sitting beside her—talking, crying, writing—trying to make sense of a silence that came too soon, violently, after Zach, whose absence I am still learning to live with.

And then came today.  

Her twelfth birthday.

A day I had always believed she would see in flesh and spirit—but instead, I carried her to the sea.

—

We left just before dawn.  

Geeta, Atif, Anand, and I.

There is something about that hour—the world not fully awake, the sky undecided between darkness and light—that feels like a threshold. It felt right for a goodbye.

We first thought of going near the crematorium at Versova, but life, in its quiet way, redirected us. A step too steep. A small hesitation. And suddenly, we found ourselves at the beach near what used to be Chai Coffee instead.

The sea was at low tide.  

The morning was still.  

And for once, the city was not loud.

—

We walked towards the water.

No ceremony. No performance. Just the four of us, and her.

We opened the urn. And one by one, we let her go.

Her ashes—her bones—her final physical trace—met the sea.

And something unexpected happened.

I felt… calm.

Not the absence of grief, but the presence of something deeper. A quiet rightness. The waves were gentle, lapping at our feet as if they were telling us of all the millions of times they had borne witness to this act. The sea understood the moment better than we did. We stood there, all of us in the water, and watched as she became part of something vast, something endless.

Anand pointed out how a small fragment kept returning with the waves, as though unwilling to leave just yet. And then, eventually, it didn’t.

It went where it was meant to go.

—

There was sadness, of course.  

But there was also peace. And strangely, there were smiles.

Because in that moment, I knew something with certainty—I had given her a life of love. I had given her comfort, dignity, and presence. She was at peace long before today, because she was with me.

And today, I gave her a different kind of peace.

The kind that comes when suffering ends.

—

We came back home.

There was no dramatic silence. No overwhelming collapse.

We spoke. We sat. I made fried eggs for everyone. Life, in its quiet resilience, continued. And then Zuri came to the door—alive, warm, waiting—and in that moment, I was reminded that love, even when broken, does not end.

It changes form. It redistributes itself.

And there is still someone here who needs me.  

And there always will be.

—

I do not feel like I have lost her again.

I feel like I have completed something for her.

Something difficult. Something necessary.

Something a parent must do.

And I know this much—I have been a good parent.

And she knew that.

I Was Loved

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

Are you in those ashes?
Were you burning in the pyre?
Can water take your essence?
Did your love submit to the fire?

As your body burnt I watched;
I could see the cancer still fight;
But wasn’t it you who stood shaking
And loved and played each night?

Who knew that night in May,
When I opened the door of that crate,
You’d make my family complete
And staunchly become my fate?

Your brother I loved;
I called him my first born son;
But how you took over the house –
How you made us run.

You ran too,
even when your limbs said no –
Your eyes shone bright,
Even when I was letting you go.

My love burnt with you in flames,
As it did with each who died before,
And I don’t know if it’s right to say:
But I will always have room for more.

Most don’t understand
How very large love can truly be:
The more it hurts the more it grows –
It bears outward to infinity.

Thank you, all of my children,
I may have shared a few years with you,
But you taught me about life and death
And to cope with a love so very true.

And though now my heart burns still,
Long after your ashes have grown cold,
And pain is a part of my life’s story
They’ll say I was loved when my tale is told.

Love Never Lets Go

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

Tonight is not the last night.

And yet, it feels like it is.

Tomorrow morning, at 6:30, I will take what remains of Xena — her ashes, the last physical truth of her presence — and I will give them back to the sea. I know what that means. I have lived long enough, loved deeply enough, to understand the symbolism of it. Release. Return. Completion.

But knowing does not soften it.

It only sharpens the ache.

This week, the world around me has been full of beginnings. New years, new moons, new prayers. Gudi Padwa. Navroze — my mother’s day of joy. Cheti Chand for Anand. The end of Ramzan for Arif. Eid tomorrow.

Everywhere I look, people are stepping into light.

And I am standing here, holding on to ash, memory and grief.

I am not untouched by the beauty of these days. I see it. I respect it. Somewhere within me, I even honour it. But I cannot enter it. I cannot perform joy when my hands are still trembling with grief. I cannot send out cheerful messages as though something inside me hasn’t been quietly breaking, again and again.

Because this is not just about tomorrow.

Tomorrow, when I let Xena go, I will also be letting go of Zack. Not literally — I know that. But something final will close. Some last physical tether will dissolve. And I will be left with memory alone.

People say memory is enough.

It isn’t.

Not in moments like these, when your body still expects to reach out and find them. When your hands remember the weight of them. When your eyes still search for movement that will never come again.

And the hardest part — the part I cannot seem to say out loud without feeling misunderstood — is this:

People don’t fully understand.

They try. They are kind. They say the right things. But there is always that invisible boundary. That unspoken qualification.

“They were dogs.”

As though love measures species.
As though grief asks for permission.

I have loved before. I lost Zoe in 2013, and it hollowed me out in a way I didn’t think I would survive. I remember believing, with absolute certainty, that I would never love another being the way I loved her.

But I did.

I loved Xena.
I loved Zack.

Just as deeply. Just as completely.

And now I grieve them with the same fullness, the same helplessness.

So when people don’t understand, it isn’t because they don’t care.

It’s because they haven’t stood where I am standing — holding the last remnants of a love that had breath, warmth, presence… and now fits into something you can carry in your hands.

There is a particular kind of silence that comes with this kind of grief. It is not dramatic. It is not loud. It does not always cry.

It just stays.

It sits beside you when you wake up. It follows you through the day. It lies next to you at night. And sometimes, it makes even the most beautiful moments feel distant — like something you can observe, but not touch.

I cannot make people understand this.

And perhaps I don’t need to.

Because love like this — the kind that does not diminish, the kind that dares to return again after being broken — is not meant to be explained.

It is only meant to be lived.

And carried.

Until, one morning, you walk to the sea…
and understand that letting go was never the point.

Only loving is.