I lost my father when I was in school, too young to grasp the depth of death but old enough to feel the sharp void it left behind. I was the middle one of three sisters, and our world shifted overnight. It was June 1, 1990. My mother, a woman of unwavering grit, became the centre of our universe. She raised us with the kind of strength that only comes from being broken but refusing to stay that way. Saddam Hussein had become her nomenclature, protecting her offsprings.
But for me, the absence of my dad left a longing and a void that I could never quite name. I missed having that solid figure who would watch over me, guide me, and defend me. The world views fatherless girls through many lenses; we have experienced it all. Sympathy, easy prey, caution, and sometimes even judgment. Those unspoken labels shaped me just as much as my unexpressed grief did.
Interestingly, life changed so fast that we as a family of four did not get enough time or space to grieve his death. Life was moving very fast; each day was different. We were coping with everyday challenges and bigger decisions that we suddenly had to make.
The family legacy
The pressure to uphold the family legacy, to always behave in a certain manner, and to never slip up made me grow up a bit too early. My teenage and college years passed in a jiffy. Somewhere between school books and household responsibilities, I overlooked the joy of being a child. I couldn’t afford to be carefree or make mistakes. Sometimes, decisions that I could never agree with were imposed, for which I still seek answers. Now, I better understand that I wasn’t strong enough to confront them. Also, whatever happens is meant to! And that heaviness stayed. But strangely, so did strength.
I became a go-getter. It was not because I had a clear plan or knew where I was headed, but rather because I didn’t want to be seen as fragile or incomplete. I aimed to become financially independent, not wishing to ask my mum for money, to earn respect, to build a name, and to prove that we didn’t need to be “saved.”
Unconventional roads
I changed cities, in fact, states, embracing a new culture that was very different from the small-town cocooned vibe—travelling on local buses, using public transport, studying, and doing a part-time job, living in a working women’s hostel, and walking three km to make a quick STD call home. I was extremely excited when I landed my first full-time job at an advertising agency in Delhi, but the feeling was mixed. It was thrilling to fund my living and shopping. At the same time, I had to explain to folks about the workings of the advertising agency, a field that no one in my close circle had ventured into at that time. Trying to walk a lesser-travelled path has its price. It created a need for validation, apprehension, and a fear of abandonment, as well as a fear of letdown, even in times of triumph. It’s said people gain the right to advise the fatherless! Everyone had a voice; some screamed louder to get control.
Yet, despite this armour of resilience I wear, something has remained tender and untouched deep within me. Over the years, as I saw more loss of close family members passing on, including my in-laws breathing their last in my arms, a quiet spiritual space began to open up inside me. Watching someone leave this world while holding their hand is a moment that words can never describe. It strips life to its rawest truth. It doesn’t terrify but humbles. And it whispers to you that there is something beyond, something you can feel but not explain.
The white dove
That whisper grew louder with an incident I still can’t fully understand. For a little more than a year, standing on my bedroom balcony, I had been noticing a white dove on and off in the evenings, flying with its friends in the sky or perching on a tree at a distance. Internally, I had befriended the bird; every time I would see it, it felt as if I had seen an angel. It was a bond with it. If I didn’t see it for some days, I missed it; and suddenly, it would appear from somewhere, flying with a flock of pigeons, sometimes alone, taking a flight, like a silent guardian.
Just a few weeks ago, for the first time, the dove perched on my balcony. It was unwell. I watched helplessly as it struggled to breathe. I did everything I could for hours. But eventually, it took its last breath right there in front of me. I howled like a child. I called my spiritual mentor, seeking to understand what this meant. However, some moments aren’t meant to be explained. They’re meant to be felt, and more.
That dove was more than a bird. It was a symbol of something I can only call grace. A reminder of the unseen connections we have, of love that doesn’t come with definitions, nor can the deepest connections be decoded. This experience in silence left me with something precious, a connection that just is. A spark that doesn’t die, even when the form disappears.
Now, when I look back, I see how my life, though shaped by absence and pain, has also been held gently by something bigger than me. Love, loss, longing, and the quiet comfort of the unknown. It all coexists. I may have lost my dad far too early, but the journey he left me with has been one of profound transformation. And somewhere in that journey, I found myself strong, open-hearted, and always seeking. Yes, humble as well, very late in life, I realised humility is not always considered a virtue. I have learned many lessons, and I am a work in progress, a slow learner. I dropped the need for outside validations or the fight for attention or space. I finally realised I’m not a warrior!
And on a lighter note, if you’ve ever tried to look me up online and thought, why don’t my social media accounts match my official documents? Here’s the inside scoop: I still go by my maiden name on social media. No blue ticks, no trending badges of honour, just a proud digital rebellion and maybe a little social as well. Jerath is etched so deeply in my sensory wiring that even auto-correct doesn’t dare mess with it. It’s not just a name, it’s an archive of childhood memories, family pride, and the occasional spicy debate that the extended family still wants to thrive on. I believe our society is predominantly patriarchal.
Every time someone tells me, “Aap Dilli ke toh nahin lagte!” I grin. Because in that moment, the girl who played with skipping ropes and marbles and walked barefoot on warm Kota stone floors finds her way back. She is rooted, radiant at the same time, a little messy, straightforward, and chaotic with her thoughts. Nonetheless, ready to keep moving forward with trust in divine order.
I firmly believe that we are the sum of our experiences and learnings. I am a work in progress on becoming a woman who doesn’t flinch, feels deeply, and is resilient. Not perfect, but humane enough and authentic.