Bindu is the sister of my high school classmate. We had common friends and family. So, when I met Bindu at church in India some years ago, I was glad. She brought back memories of my childhood , of family, of place, of belonging.
Bindu was beautiful—warm, smiling, gracious. She invited me many times to her home. I promised to go, but I kept postponing. Years passed. She lost her husband a few months ago, and even then, I did not visit. I would remember her often, but I did not know where she lived, and I did not make the effort to find out and go.
Yesterday, I heard that Bindu had passed away that morning. That was sudden. Something tugged at my heart. A deep remorse settled within me. I had not cared enough to look her up, to sit with her, to share memories of her motherland, to offer companionship in her loneliness.
This morning, I went to see her mortal remains. She was as beautiful as ever, lying there in quiet peace. I paid my respects and returned. There were hardly other people then. Then another friend dropped in.
While there, I met her sons—now middle-aged men. They seemed to have come to terms with their loss. There was conversation, but it was light, almost casual. We introduced ourselves, tracing relationships, “How do you know my niece?” “How are you related?” There was mention of their school , of WhatsApp groups, of connections that somehow felt distant from the moment.
Her relatives from abroad had not yet arrived. There was no hush, no stillness. No hymns were being sung. No stories. No quiet gratitude. No name of who she had been. Had it been in her homeland there would have been more than a crowd mourning her passing away.
And I stood there thinking—here is a precious life that has ended. She, Bindu had lived fully. She was the daughter of a respected Principal of a famous school . She
had known friendship, laughter, marriage, and motherhood. She had raised her sons and seen her grandchildren. And yet, there was so little remembrance in that space.
When I lost my sister two years ago, it was different. Grief sat heavily on us. We spoke of her, we remembered her, we held her presence among us even in her absence. But here, I missed that here. .It’s not that my love for my sister was more than the love this family had for their mother.
Perhaps this is how some grieve—quietly, without display. Or life itself had already created a distance that no one quite knew how to bridge.
And I began to wonder—
Is this what happens to some of us as we grow older?
Life slowly thins out. Circles grow smaller. Loss follows loss. And somewhere along the way, a person who once stood at the centre of many lives begins to stand at the edge.
Not because they are less loved, but because life has moved on.
Visits are postponed. Calls are delayed. Intentions remain intentions.
Until one day, it is too late.
Too late to sit together. Too late to listen. Too late to remember aloud.
I wondered about her last days. She had a heart condition but did not pursue investigations or treatment. Was it financial constraint? Was it weariness? Was it loneliness? I do not know. I didn’t find out.
And yet—how can I even ask these questions? She may not have missed me at all. But still—
I, who did not take the trouble to visit her. I, who did not make the time to know her more deeply.
Where was I, while there was still time?
It was too late.
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