From the terrace to the stars: A Daughter’s letter

Dear Nanna,

10 years.

It’s strange to even write that number. A full decade has passed since you left this world, and yet, every beat of my heart still echoes your name.

Back in 2021, I wrote to you after six years of losing you. I wrote as a daughter who was hurting, breaking, and still learning to breathe in your absence. Today, I write to you as a daughter who has survived—carrying your love, your voice, your lessons, and your silence in everything I do.

So much has changed, Nanna… and yet, nothing has.

I still miss you the same.
I still cry in silence sometimes—never in front of people.
I still search for pieces of you in the sky, in old books, in the smell of a library, in the rhythm of a yoga breath, in the corners of memories that refuse to fade.
But now… I also smile more genuinely when I remember you.

Because I’ve realized, you’re not just in my memories—you live through me.

When I hold a pen, when I sketch on a bad day, when I speak kindly even when I’m hurting, when I try to keep calm in the chaos—that’s you, living through me.

I don’t remember your goodbye, but I’m starting to believe that maybe you never really left. Maybe the universe just found another way to keep you close—not in front of my eyes, but always beside my soul.

I often tell myself, “He’s not in a photo. He’s in the person I’m becoming.”
Because every time I make a hard choice, stand up for myself, or love deeply and without reason—I hear your voice saying “That’s my girl.”

And Nanna… I’ve kept my promises.

I’ve tried my best to keep Amma safe, loved, and strong. I still tease her sometimes, like we used to. I look after her in ways that even surprise me sometimes—I think you’d be proud.

And yes, I still smile 24/7. But now, sometimes, the smile does come from the bottom of my heart.
Because now, I don’t just carry your loss—I carry your legacy.

I still haven’t stopped wishing I had one photo of us together. One proper hug. One last story before sleep. One last “goodnight” or “be good.”
But I've made peace with the truth that some love stories don’t need photographs to be remembered.
Ours lives in every breath I take.

You were the love of my life then, and you still are. Not in a way that makes me stuck in the past, but in a way that lets me walk into the future with more courage.

I still plan to make you proud.
Maybe not in one grand moment. But in every little decision I make with honesty, empathy, and strength—you’ll be there.
I won’t let the world just know me by my name. I’ll let them know whose daughter I am.

And Nanna,
Do you remember the songs you used to play?
I still listen to them.

Those songs—your favorites—have quietly become mine too.
Sometimes, when the world feels too loud or too heavy, I just play one of your old songs.
And it feels like you're sitting beside me again.
Like your voice is humming along.
Like nothing ever changed.

It’s strange how music carries memory—how just a few notes can bring back an entire evening on the terrace, or a drive, or just you… smiling.

Now, those songs are not just melodies—they're memories stitched into rhythm.
They're the sound of your presence, even in your absence.

So yes, I still listen to you, Nanna.
Through lyrics, through tunes, through everything you once loved and left behind for me like little gifts.

So today, on this 10th year of remembering you…
I write not just with grief, but with grace.
Not just with pain, but with purpose.
And not just to say “I miss you”—but to say, thank you.

For loving me.
For shaping me.
For still being here—in the silence, in the stars, in the strength I never knew I had.

I love you forever, Nanna.
And I’ll keep writing.
Until my words reach wherever you are.

With all my love,
Your daughter,
Bhargavi aka Dolly