Dear Muthacha,

Writing about you in the past tense feels too painful.
As if words themselves are refusing to accept that you’re gone.

I have been there for every milestone of your life that mattered, birthdays, celebrations, ordinary days that became extraordinary simply because you were in them. And yet, when it mattered most, when the world quietly ended for you last night, I wasn’t there. Not physically. Not the way a granddaughter should be.

Everyone who has known me since I was young knows what my grandparents have meant to me. They were not just part of my life, they were the centre of it. To lose one of them feels unbearable.

Last night, in the most cruel modern twist of fate, I watched my grandfather leave this world through video calls and security cameras. 2026’s version of helplessness, watching helplessly as someone you love slips away.
It was the worst experience of my life.

I tell myself I should be grateful. At least I could see you. At least I could watch you leave peacefully. At least I could see your smile, even in death.
But grief doesn’t care about logic. It just sits heavy in your chest and asks why.

I tried to think of my first memory of you. And my last.
I couldn’t.

Because you weren’t a moment, you were a presence. You were woven into everything that mattered. My firsts. The big celebrations. The quiet afternoons. The spaces in between. You were always there.

Even in the last two years, when I called, Ammumma would do most of the talking, but my first question was always the same.
“How is Mr. Krishna Menon?”

Now there is no one to ask that about.
And that truth kills me.

The last two years were hard. Painfully so. Watching you lose pieces of yourself felt like losing you in slow motion. But even then, you were strong. Even if it were in glimpses, you were there. A presence. A comfort. A constant.

Now there is no one I can call “Muthachan” and hear a voice answer back.
And that silence is unbearable.

We installed cameras at home to make sure you and Ammumma were okay.
And now I still look at them. Instinctively.
As if you might still be there.

Not being able to touch you or hold you one last time will stay with me forever. But I hold onto this: you left peacefully, smiling, surrounded by your wife and children, your little universe intact. Finally resting.

You were never one to rest.

You walked everywhere. Everywhere.
The town knew you by name, of course, but also by motion – always moving, always going somewhere, never tired. Even after retiring as a college-level English Literature professor, you refused stillness. You learned homeopathy and became the unofficial doctor of our family. Every small ache, every minor worry, Muthachan had a remedy.

You were cheerful in a way that felt effortless. Your smile entered a room before you did. Philosophical conversations, nostalgic stories, and health advice, your holy trinity of topics.

You were meticulous. Disciplined. You kept a diary every single year, writing in it every single day. You woke up at 5 a.m. sharp for yoga, for your morning walk, for the temple. That rhythm is muscle memory for me now. I carry it without realising.

At your first water run in the middle of the night, you would always pause and watch whatever I was watching or ask me what I was reading. You were always curious. You were always there.

I will miss the way you read things out loud. I will miss the way you used to laugh out loud when you were told to smile for pictures.

I miss you already.

When you grieve, you grieve for others too.

First, for my mother, who didn’t just lose her father, but her best friend. Her biggest supporter. The man who was always on her team. You followed her everywhere, even to the most mundane errands, excited just to be beside her. I hate that she lost her teammate.

I grieve for my Ammumma too, who lost her sparring partner. Her constant. Her equal.

For the times you ran with me to the bus stop, not because you had to, not because you were worried, but simply because you loved walking and loved my company.
For the nights you woke up at 11 p.m. and 3 a.m., surprised every single time to find me awake, asking, “You haven’t slept yet?” as if it was the first time you were seeing it.

The last two years weren’t comfortable for you. I know that.
I hope now you are at peace.
I hope you are happy.
I hope you’re walking again, long distances, meeting your brothers and sister, smiling that familiar smile.

They say there are multiple births.
If that’s true, I hope I get to be your granddaughter in every single one of them.

I’ll see you on the other side, Muthacha.
Until then, thank you for loving me the way you did.

Always yours.

Pallu