I grew up in a big house. One big house. My grandfather and his youngest brother’s families lived on separate floors, yet shared the same “home”—a home they built on the same plot of land my great-grandfather bought and moved his family to. My grandparents got married here. So did my parents.

Even though our extended family has spread across Mumbai and people have moved out, this is still the only house that can be called the family home. Everyone has memories here.

I was the eldest grandchild. The luckiest. Luckiest to have spent the most time with all of them. I hadn’t lost anyone until my grandmother passed away four years ago, today. I was there. I still remember every moment from that day. Vividly. My six-year-old cousin, in all seriousness, asked my dad if there would be one more star in the sky that night.

I spent the first 18 years of my life growing up here, then moved away for undergrad. My grandmother would call every Sunday to check on me. Even if we only spoke for a few minutes. We spoke. Now that she isn’t here, my grandfather does the same.

My grandmother loved me. A lot. The most. But she loved all her grandchildren. The entire family. So that was a lot of love.

A cousin once told me, when I surprised everyone by coming home for Diwali, that she had seen my grandmother jump for the first time. In joy.

My grandfather’s youngest brother passed away in 2022. I had sent him a picture from San Francisco just a day before. I always lived with two sets of grandparents. And for that, I’m grateful.

We lost our cook in 2023. He was with us for 24 years—that’s how old I was then. Home food meant his food. Home food isn’t the same anymore.

If I have one fear, it’s being away too long. Missing out on time I can spend here. But home doesn’t feel the same.

A friend and I were talking one night about loss. She asked, “Why can’t people give a warning?”

Maybe I don’t want that warning. I don’t want to know.

I’m bad at goodbyes.