Too Good at Goodbyes

I'm way too good at goodbyes.

And, no, not just because I'm bilingual but because I said the hardest goodbye a decade ago. In an era where I expected to only be practising how to start new chapters and finesse my 'hello' I instead found myself starting an era of goodbyes. 16 year old me didn't realise what a goodbye truly is and 26 year old me is very well versed on how firm the sentiment is.

16th October 2015, 8:25am. I'm not surprised this is one of my clearest memories but in a classroom in Reading I had a sudden anxiety attack (at the time I thought due to the history essay due in 20 mins that I had not completed) but really 190 miles away my most favourite person was taking their last breath. Whilst my world began to fall apart my parents did everything to protect me by letting me go about my day none the wiser and even attending a friend's birthday. Oddly my mum chose to pick me up at 8pm from dinner rather than meet me at the station and the minute she said the words 'you know Babba' I knew instantly. Something I hadn't allowed myself to think about was suddenly staring me straight in the face, death. Much of the rest of that time is a blur but I'll never forget walking into my Bibi's house and my cousin saying 'I knew it would be real when I saw you' before running to my Bibi who could only look at me and be reminded of him.

In 10 years I've never put pen to paper about the day and what actually happened, rather I've tried to artfully dance around the subject. However, I now find myself at an age where most of the people around me are unaware of the reason my Babba's death changed who they now know. Which is kind of ridiculous because if anything it's my favourite story to tell. A story of a man who came to this country as a teenager in pursuit of a better life, worked 24hr shifts at the John Cotton factory in Huddersfield, raised 5 kids and then found himself prematurely retired & looking for a new purpose. A story of a man who's son & daughter in law struggled to conceive for 10 years but finally a miracle (kind of alien looking) baby girl came into the world & with little family closer than 4 hours away - an incredibly dynamic duo between that man and baby girl was born. For over 10 years my Babba was my constant because with a boss woman mum, who was often travelling, and a dedicated father working round the clock to provide a better life, my Babba was the one who learnt to plait my hair, walked me to school, sat in my imaginary tea parties, held me whilst I cried and became all round my best friend. A bond that formed because we saved each other. We saved each other as I became his reason to get up in the morning and he became all that I knew. At around 10/11 when he had to relocate back up north to my Bibi as she had suffered a stroke I thought I was experiencing the worst pain I would have to face as I felt like I was being ripped apart from the person I loved most. Hindsight is a bittersweet bitch. Yet, our bond remained unchanged and my favourite memories are still of those sitting in silence together just watching the family around us (I get my people watching from him). Perhaps the funniest thing is that we actually didn't speak much of the same language but between my broken punjabi and me teaching him to write our address in english - no one has ever understood me or seen me for who I am more than my Babba Ji. The bond cemented my foundation for what true unselfish love is and actually I'm sure a therapist would delve deeper as to why in these 10 years I've probably given too much to the people around me because my Babba Ji set the example for how he thought the world should see me.

Aside from the deeper moments there are also countless funny stories I could write about my Babba and actually in the last 10 years I've learnt so much about my Babba outside of his role of being my Babba. A common theme is how selfless and how wonderfully kind he was to everyone, from sneaking my mum fish & chips when she first got married, to hearing what a gentleman he was from my Bibi's brother but also the stories my Dad and I recount to each other of how he used to sneak 'medicine' (whiskey) into his cha & how he once brought home a questionable 'plant' he wanted to put in the sabji. My cousins may remember when he tried to sneak me £10 at the end of a wedding before we all left and one of them caught him so he begrudgingly had to give them all £10 as to not show favoritism and how much we laughed at his lack of subtly when trying to be sneaky. My Babba was a character and I think he'd love to know how fondly he's been remembered but he'd also let out his classic 'leh' with some dry humour that very much mimics that of my dad and I.

A decade feels like, well, a decade - somehow a bigger, deeper emotion than 10 years. In thinking of the last decade I realised there's a list of things I've said goodbye to:

- My teenage years

- Sixth form

- University

- Being Sikh Soc President at King's

- Relearning how to walk after life changing surgery

- A global pandemic

- My dream grad scheme

- A finalist in the British Sikh Awards as One to Watch

- Being on the Brown Power List 2025

- Travelled to over 25 countries and countless cities/places

- My Chacha Ji

- 10 more years around the sun

This is also a list of things my Babba has missed in the last decade and most importantly when I've missed my Babba. However, it's not just in these big moments where I feel his lack of presence but rather I feel it most on the train to work, when I watch Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Ghum and after a long day where I long to hear his laugh or feel the warmth of my favourite hugs one more time.

10 years ago, at 16, I knew I was experiencing something life changing but I don't think I realised I was experiencing something that would mean my life was never the same again. Grief as a child is incredibly hard to comprehend as not only are you dealing with this unknown emotion but tied in with the hormonal imbalances and the developments you go through as you grow it actually shapes your personality in a way that grief in my 20s hasn't. I carry this grief to my core and my somewhat blunt, realist side has long overtaken the inner lover girl that lost herself a little bit the day her Babba died. I've always said that the hardest thing I've ever done is lose my Babba and that sentiment has stayed true for the last 10 years and weirdly it's unlocked a strength in me that I didn't know existed. Relearning to walk, losing my Chacha and dealing with countless minor setbacks - all of which I wholeheartedly believe I would not have gotten through without the strength of knowing I've been through the worst.

If I'm honest, I feel robbed. I feel robbed of so many life experiences where he's the person I'm looking for in the room. I feel robbed of the innocence of experiencing life before a close death and I feel robbed of the innocence of my last few years of childhood. Realistically, that's just a feeling I and many billions of other people have to deal with because I'm also not the only one to have lost someone. Sometimes grief can consume you in a way that makes you think you're the only person to ever understand that pain. In many ways, you are because no-one can experience your own feelings and that specific relationship but in many ways there's a hidden thread that ties us all together. The human experience of life and death. Yet, the most significant thing to happen to me in my life is a mere speck in the history of civilisation when I think about it holistically. Interestingly, in the last 2 years, I've developed a hyper awareness for death but also the fragility of life. I'm forever reminded of how short life is and how quickly it can be taken away. I feel this in how I approach situations, who I spend my time with and what I pour into. Simultaneously, in how much I care & think everything counts whilst also in how little everything matters.

I'm not ashamed to admit that I find myself more emotional this year as I dwell on this big number since my Babba's passing. In fact most days, in quiet moments, I feel tears in my eyes as I think the reality of his passing has finally set in. 10 years on. How silly is that? It's taken me a decade to realise I really will live the rest of my life without him.

I've opened and closed many chapters in the last 10 year and all of them have ended with a form of goodbye. However, the one chapter I'll never say goodbye to is the one of this grief that I will carry with me for the rest of my life. It's also the one of being your granddaughter, Sadhu Singh Kular's pouti, my favourite title.

All this to say, grief is the last act of love and I'm incredibly lucky to have loved so deeply that I'll grieve for a lifetime.

As you always said, meri naam rak, I'll always carry your name high & proud Babba Ji.