A Tribute to Naxal ko Ama (My Grandmother)
I. They say that when you experience a profound loss, your heart cracks open. I had understood this idea in theory, but now, in the wake of my grandmother’s passing, I feel its weight…this raw, unguarded openness that grief brings. If this is the price we pay for love and affection, then so be it.
II. She wasn’t a commanding presence in my early years, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t there. She was always present, quietly watching over us in an unassuming way. She moved in the background, shaping the atmosphere of the family without needing to be at the forefront.
III. She carried her anxieties with a quiet grace, not for herself but for others. It wasn’t her worries that kept her awake; it was the well-being of her children and grandchildren, the thought of whether we were comfortable, happy, or at ease. At our morning FaceTime calls—which we did almost every day for the last 4-5 years—I used to occasionally joke, “So, what are you worried about today, Naxal ko Ama?!”
IV. Our relationship deepened over the past 8–9 years. As I understood different personality types, I realized that her quietness brought a different presence. I learned to approach her sensitively and speak in ways that made her feel heard and safe, which opened a new space between us.
V. Our conversations about her quiet worries and fears became moments I’ll forever remember. In those exchanges, I saw the depth of her selflessness, her constant striving to ensure any of the family’s troubles were soothed, even if it meant keeping her burdens hidden. I also learned a lot from these interactions.
VI. For her, it was always about “maintaining a good order in the family” – not in a rigid or controlling way, but with a deep desire for everyone to live a life of ease and harmony. Her needs were always secondary to the happiness of those she cared about.
VII. In the summer of 2022, when she and my grandfather visited Texas, I spent two weeks with them. We would take morning walks, the three of us, and she would open up about the things that weighed on her heart. Those walks felt like a gentle ritual between us.
VIII. They returned in October 2023 (last year), and we celebrated Dashain for the first time in over a decade.
IX. The whole family gathered in Nepal this past summer for my grandfather’s memoir launch. It was the first time in over 15 years that everyone was in the same place.
In hindsight, it would be the last time we were all together—a final, unintentional gathering that, in some poetic way, curated an epilogue for her life without us even knowing.
X. I have been reflecting on what it means to be bhagyamaani, or fortunate. It does not mean a life free from suffering—no one is spared from that.
Instead, it is about facing life’s inevitable endings with quiet acceptance, departing this world with grace rather than struggle. She was facing a serious illness, which would have meant a long road of hospital stays and treatments. But she left us quickly and quietly, almost as if some higher power, whom she believed in deeply, had said, “This suffering isn’t for you.” I find a lot of solace in knowing that she didn’t have to endure the pain she didn’t deserve.
XI. I’ll miss you, Naxal ko Ama. As they say, you might have left this “plane of existence,” but the love we shared and you had for all of us isn’t going anywhere. Your love and presence remain woven into the fabric of our lives.
We all feel it.
I still feel it.
Written on October 26, 2024