“Some losses don’t come with goodbyes; they come with slow, quiet disappearances.”
Mruganka never thought she would feel like a visitor in her own home.
Before she got married, home was a place that smelled of her mother’s mogra-scented hair oil and her father’s crisp aftershave. It was where Subodh, her younger brother, would barge into her room just to annoy her, where Baba would check if she had eaten on time, where Aai’s voice would echo through the house—half scolding, half singing.
And Baba—oh, he was something else. A man of style, discipline, and an obsession with cleanliness. He wouldn’t let a single speck of dust settle on the furniture. “A clean home reflects a clean mind,” he would say, his voice firm but affectionate. Friday nights meant movies, no exceptions. He would take them all—Aai, Mruganka, Subodh—to the theater, his excitement matching that of a child. He’d whistle at hero entries, predict plot twists, and on the way back home, sing the songs from the movie as if they were his own. Baba wasn’t just a father; he was a rhythm, a melody that played in their everyday life.
But now, everything had changed.
Ever since Mruganka got married and moved out, home didn’t feel like home anymore. Baba, once sharp and lively, now seemed lost. At 68, Alzheimer’s had crept in like an uninvited guest, stealing parts of him piece by piece. The man who once prided himself on his spotless home now didn’t care if things were out of place. Shoes lay scattered, newspapers piled up, and dust collected on forgotten corners. His crisp shirts were now replaced by mismatched pajamas, and he often forgot to comb his hair.
Worse, he no longer asked about her.
The father who once waited for her return, who noticed the slightest change in her voice, now barely remembered to ask, "How are things, Mrugu?" Some days, he mistook her for a guest. Some days, he didn’t ask at all.
And Aai… she had changed too. She no longer hummed bhajans while making tea, no longer wore fresh flowers in her hair. The grace that once defined her had faded. She spent most of her time sitting in silence, staring at nothing, as if waiting for something that would never return. Maybe she had lost more than a husband—maybe she had lost herself along the way.
Subodh tried, but he was young, carrying the weight of responsibilities that had once been Baba’s. The house, once filled with voices, now had only echoes.
That evening, as Mruganka was about to leave, she heard Baba humming. A tune from an old movie, a song he once loved. For a brief moment, something in him flickered—the man he used to be, the father she missed.
She sat beside him and softly sang along. Maybe he wouldn't remember her fully, maybe Aai would never be the same, maybe home would never go back to what it was.
But for now, for this moment, she would hold on to whatever remained.
Moral: Sometimes, the hardest part of life isn’t moving on—it’s watching those you love slowly fade away while you’re still right there. 💔