A letter to my Aji, who left this world when i was 6 or 7 years old. I am wearing the stone not to forget the fear, but to remember the woman who endured it.
Disclaimer: I write from lived experience, not professional authority. This space is for connection and reflection, not diagnosis or treatment. If you need support, please speak to a trained mental health professional.
Dearest Aaji,
I bow to your feet with love.
I found myself thinking of you again today. I wanted to tell you that I’ve bought a special stone called Black Agate. It will reach me in seven days. I asked them to engrave your name—।। वत्सला ।।—on it. I never gave you a gift when you were alive. I was just 6 or 7. This is my way of keeping you close now, in the only way I know how.
There is one memory of you that has never faded. The details are blurred, but the feeling is sharp, like it was carved into me.
It was just you, my mother, and me at home. Suddenly, you collapsed. Your body hit the floor hard. My mother rushed to you, but your body was already convulsing. Foam gathered at your mouth. Your eyes were shut tight. My mother was screaming your name, panic tearing through her voice.
I had never seen anything like this before. I didn’t know what a seizure was. I only knew that something terrible was happening to my Aaji.
In the middle of the chaos, my mother shouted at me, “Mukesh, go get an onion from the basket!”
I froze.
I stood there, staring at the basket, unable to decide which onion to take. My mother shouted again, louder, sharper—fear does that to voices. I grabbed one and ran back, but I couldn’t bring myself to get close to you. She snapped again.
“This one is rotten. Get another one!”
I didn’t know what rotten meant. I was just a scared child, trying not to make things worse. I ran back and grabbed the first onion my hand touched. This time, it was good. My mother crushed it in her fist and held it to your nose.
Today, I know that smelling an onion doesn’t stop a seizure. But that day, my mother did the only thing she knew —out of love, desperation, and fear of losing you.
And slowly, the shaking stopped.
You gasped for air. You sat up. With my mother’s help, you moved to the bed. Life resumed, as if something enormous hadn’t just happened in front of a child who would never forget it.
I don’t remember what came next. But the fear stayed. The helplessness stayed. The feeling that I hadn’t done enough stayed.
Looking back, I think that was one of the first times I learned what failure felt like—without knowing its name. The sense that something terrible could happen, and I wouldn’t be strong enough, fast enough, or brave enough to stop it.
Sometimes I wonder if I inherited more from you than just blood. Ever since childhood, my mind has been crowded with negative thoughts, with fear, with the quiet urge to give up when things feel overwhelming. Mental health struggles have followed me through every stage of life.
Even now, I often feel defeated—financially, emotionally, relationally. I want to give my mother all the happiness she deserves, but anxiety stands between intention and action like an invisible wall.
Yet, when I think of you, I don’t think of weakness. I think of endurance. I think of surviving what the body throws at you and still being gentle with the people around you.
Maybe that’s where the shift began—not in fixing anything, but in learning that love can exist alongside helplessness. That being afraid doesn’t mean being broken. That doing your best, even when it feels insufficient, still counts.
I’m writing this now, Aaji, because I’m trying to turn this long struggle into something meaningful. This blog is my way of sitting with the pain instead of running from it. My way of offering a light to people who feel trapped in the same darkness.
Give me strength, Aaji.
Not to be fearless—but to keep going.
Your grandson.
A gentle question to sit with:
When you think about moments from childhood where you felt helpless, do you judge yourself—or can you see the fear and innocence that were always there?
No answer required. Just notice.
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