Grief Has a Geography.

It has streets. Alleys. Familiar corners.

It has seasons. Languages. Timings.
And once you’ve entered it, you never really leave.
You just learn how to live there.

Some people move in suddenly. A call at midnight. A hospital curtain. A doorbell that rings with bad news.
Others arrive slowly through distance, through silence, through the long decay of what used to be love.

But once you’re inside, you notice something.
The world continues.
Crows still caw.
The internet still celebrates birthdays like they’re holy.
And you…
You walk through all of it like a ghost inside your own skin.

Because grief is not the crying.
It’s the swallowing.
It’s walking past their favourite song in a café and pretending you didn’t hear it.
It’s deleting the draft of a message you’ll never send.
It’s seeing someone who looks like them and losing your breath for half a second.

We think grief is loud.
But it’s quiet.
It slips into your tea.
Your commute.
Your bedtime routine.
It hides in memories that don’t knock before entering.

In India, grief is performative.
You must cry at the right time.
Wear white.
Say “he’s in a better place.”
People count your tears.
They wait for closure.
They give you 13 days.

But the grief doesn’t care for rituals.
It doesn’t arrive with a deadline or leave after the prayer.

It shows up when you’re happy again.
When you’re laughing at a meme and suddenly feel guilty.
When you forget their face for a moment and hate yourself for it.
When you move on and wonder if you’ve betrayed them.

Grief is not linear.
It’s not neat.
It doesn’t follow the 5 stages.
It’s circular.
It loops back when you least expect it.

Sometimes you don’t miss the person.
You miss who you were around them.
The version of you that existed in their eyes.
And now that they’re gone, that version is gone too.

And no one talks about that.

No one tells you that grief can be jealousy.
That you’ll envy people who still have what you lost.
That you’ll hate weddings, or babies, or long friendships
Not because they’re wrong,
But because they’re still whole.

Grief doesn’t need to be death.
It can be a goodbye that was never said.
A love that ended without explanation.
A version of yourself you outgrew but still miss.

So if you’re grieving, and people don’t understand -
That’s okay.
They haven’t travelled here yet.
They don’t know the map.

And if you’re carrying grief quietly -
In playlists, in passwords, in the way you sit still at red lights -
You’re not alone.

There are whole cities of us.
Wearing smiles over our ruins.
Ordering coffee with a lump in our throat.
Making plans while nursing a timeline that broke.

Grief doesn’t need fixing.
It needs space.

Because sometimes, the only way out is not forward.
It’s deeper in.
Until the city becomes familiar.
Until the pain becomes language.
Until you can build a home inside the ache.

Not to escape grief.
But to carry it with grace.

Annexure :

1. Every time something tragic happens, I catch myself wondering if time could just rewind enough to shift one decision, delay one moment, let one outcome fall a different way.
   
   Same emotions have clogged my mind. I keep thinking about the families. The friends who were waiting. The ordinary plans interrupted by an event that doesn’t make sense. A chair that stays empty. A voice that won’t answer back.
   
   My mind keeps running the simulation. Trying to fix what’s already over. Replaying the moment as if one variable could be changed. It doesn’t help, but it keeps happening.
   
   I don’t know what to do with that feeling anymore. I only know it’s real. And maybe the only thing I can do is not turn away from it. Not try to reason it away. Just let it be there.
   
   For the ones who were lost. And the ones still here, holding that space.
   
   🕉 Shanti

2. In tribute and solidarity with those affected by the Air India crash, including the victims, their families, and their friends.