It was around 11 p.m. on a Monday night, which meant it was morning in India. My brother shook me awake. He told me to come to our mom’s room and left. I was confused. Ignoring my glasses on the nightstand, I groggily walked with a blurry vision to my mom’s room. My eyes couldn’t focus with the bulging yellow light on, but I saw my mom on the edge of her bed talking to someone on the phone in Gujarati.

Seriously? They woke me up to talk to my relatives in India, I thought. I was dazed and unable to see who was on the phone. I flopped onto the bed, waiting to be handed the phone. 

“Don’t cry Nilesh”, my mom lets out. What? “ You have to be strong.”

Confused, I stared at my mom. She placed her hand on my arm and wailed, “Dadha’s gone.” 

  My eyes widened and my jaw dropped. My mind went blank and yet a million thoughts were spiraling around. How could this have happened? I just talked to him. This can’t be true. This isn’t how it was supposed to happen. My attention went to the multiple different voices on the phone. Some were crying, the others were silent yet loud, and one was comforting my dad. Distracted by these sounds, I didn’t process what I had just been told. I was absorbed in figuring out who was on the other side of the phone. Just trying to get my mind to comprehend, I squinted to reveal the faces on the bright screen. I saw my dad. Crying. I’d never seen that before. My aunts and uncles, people I’d never seen so vulnerable, had eyes bloodshot.

Finally digesting what happened, my head dropped onto my arms and I cowered. A lump formed in my throat, tears welled up in my eyes, and cold water rolled down my face. My ears were filled with sounds of cracking and pain. It was as if my entire world was just breaking down. 

After my eyes had dried up with no tears left, the noises died down. My mom had hung up the phone. A few sniffles later, she told me to go to bed. I slid off the bed and walked in a trance. Images flashed into my brain. His face. His walk. Him eating mal pouda. All those times on video call. All those times I was annoyed at having to talk to him. All those times I thought I had nothing to talk about and all we talked about was what time it was, his health, or his forgetting my name. Walking into my room, the guilt sunk in me. Why didn’t I talk to him more? Why didn’t I spend more time with him when he came here? Why couldn't I appreciate him more? We had failed him. He wanted to see one of his grandchildren get married but my cousin still hasn’t. Now it’s too late. It’s too late. He wanted to come here. He always told me that he’d come to America again soon. Now he can’t. It’s too late.

These thoughts stabbed my brain. If only I had wished more. I knew he was in the hospital for COVID. I knew that he wasn’t feeling well. I prayed every night that he would get better. But some nights I didn’t because it slipped my mind. I just didn’t pray enough. It wasn’t genuine enough. It’s all my fault. 

It’s all my fault.

 I sat on the edge of the bed, looking at myself in the mirror. I grabbed my glasses. Still, in disbelief, I sagged into my bed and burrowed underneath my covers. I turned on my phone. My eyes strained with the white light. My thumb, shaking, scrolled mindlessly. I didn’t know what to do. I didn't know how to grieve. I tried to get my mind off it so I could sleep. But shame sat in. How could I be on my phone when Grandpa just died? How heartless could I be? Confused, looking for an answer, my fingers typed in, “How to grieve”. Millions of articles came up, all of them saying different things. I clicked on one. There were so many words. I saw a list: 

1) Talk to others. 

2) Talk to others. 

3) Take care of yourself. 

4) Return to your hobbies. 

5) Join a support group.

This isn’t enough. I need a fast solution. I can’t handle this. I clicked the back arrow. Again, I typed in, “Is it ok to distract yourself from grieving”. I saw answers that it takes forever to move on or that it’s completely okay to grieve whichever you want. It made me realize that there’s no right way to feel loss. I let out a breath.

I put my phone on my pillow. I turned to face the ceiling and looked up. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

My heartbeat slowed, my palms dried, and my body stopped quaking. My eyelids drooped and my mind drifted off. 

I blinked awake to a blazing sun shining through my window. 7:29 a.m. I opened my Chromebook and joined my online class. It hit me, last night wasn’t a dream. It actually happened. The teacher talked for an hour and then I went to take a shower during the free period.

The water stung as I bawled my eyes out. Repeating the whole cycle over again. When will this end? Will I ever feel better? Do I even deserve to grieve for him? I looked at the time—9:10 a.m. Class will start soon. Brushing my hair, I thought to myself, I’m not ready for this. I don't know how to do this. I don't know what to do. I grabbed an elastic and tied my hair up. 

I walked to my room, feeling the cold March breeze wafting through my open window. I heard someone talking. I leaned in to see my mom was on the phone. I recognized the voice on the other side, my aunt. I couldn’t distinguish what they were talking about, but my mom’s voice started cracking. A few words later, she completely broke down. Her head in her hand and her body crouched down. I didn’t need to hear what she was muttering under her breath to know it was about my grandpa. My chest hurt. I fell back onto my bed. It hit me that I haven’t talked to anyone since last night. Neither from my house nor from India. What do I say when I see Dad? What do I say when I see Mom? Inhale. Exhale. My muscles relaxed. Ok, Prutha, calm down. You’re ok. Dadha’s in a better place. You don’t have to feel amazing right now. You’re allowed to feel however you want.

It’s ok.