We Have Room for Celebrations. Do We Have Room for Each Other?

Today is Dussehra.

I am sitting at Starbucks with my earphones plugged in, amidst the daily hustle and bustle.
Tears keep filling my eyes as I write. I am venting, trying to give some direction to emotions
that feel too heavy to hold inside.

Around me, people are talking, coffee is being made, orders are being called out. For someone sitting alone, even this everyday noise can feel like music to the ears.

Ask those of us who live alone what it means to be somewhere with people around.

Sometimes, even speaking to someone to place a coffee order feels therapeutic. A small exchange, a familiar greeting, someone asking what you would like—it can mean so much on a lonely day.

When Mom was alive and cooking, Dussehra was special. The kitchen would be bustling.
Special food being prepared, pooris frying, that familiar smell filling the entire house. Mom
in the kitchen. Dad around spring cleaning home. The conversations, the disagreements, the
little routines, the anticipation of a meal together.

Back then, it was simply our life. I did not know how deeply I would one day miss those
ordinary details. WhenWhen Mom died, at least Dad was there. Her absence left a huge vacuum, but I still had him.

Someone who remembered her as I did.Someone with whom I shared a home, a history, a family.

After losing Dad, the grief has multiplied. I miss him. I miss her. And I miss who we were
together.

Alongside that grief is the everyday work of managing everything on my own. Decisions,
responsibilities, things that break down, things that need doing. Life keeps asking things of
you, even on the days when you wish someone would look after you for a little while.
I am managing. But I am also hurting. Both are happening every day. Festivals make the
loneliness feels heavier.

Around you, families are making plans, deciding menus, visiting each other. You remember
when you belonged to that rhythm too. Now, you have to work out how to get through a day
that once felt so naturally full.

I find myself dreading festivals like Diwali and Holi because they bring that absence into
such sharp focus.

And I keep wondering have we become so caught up in our own lives that we have
forgotten to make room for each other?

I know everyone has challenges. Work, children, ageing parents, health, money, relationships. I know how much life asks of us.

But somewhere within all of this, can we make a little space for a friend who is grieving?
A phone call. A shared meal. An invitation to join the celebration already happening in your
home.“Come over. Spend the evening with us. Sometimes, those simple words are what
someone needs.

Six months after losing Dad, with a few exceptions, not many friends have reached out to
check on me. According to my mobile contact list, I have friends. Yet on difficult days, I struggle to know whom I can call and say, “I am lonely. I need some company.”

That is painful to admit. I have always been the efficient one. The one who checks on
people, follows up, remembers and manages. Perhaps people assume I will manage this
too.

Being capable does not make the need for care disappear. Nearly forty years ago, my best
friend died. Through the years, I made it a point to stay in touch with her mother. Only in the
last few years, while struggling with Dad’s care after his dementia diagnosis, did I find it
difficult to meet Auntie as often.

My friend was gone, but my connection with her mother continued. I knew that even as
everyone else’s life moved forward, Auntie would still be living with her daughter’s absence.
Staying connected is possible. Imperfectly, sometimes with gaps, through our own difficult
seasons. We can keep someone in our thoughts and find ways to let them know.

Today, I find myself wishing for that same remembrance. I know most friends do not mean
to hurt us. Often, when I finally reach out and share how I have been feeling, they say, “Why
didn’t you tell me earlier? You should have called.”

I believe they mean it. But why does the reaching out always have to begin with the person
who is struggling?

You know I have lost both my parents. You know I live alone. Must I also explain, each time,
that a festival might be difficult? Must I ask to be remembered?

I do not expect friends to read my mind or be available all the time. But is it too much to
hope that someone will occasionally take the initiative?

Call without being prompted. Make a plan. Say, “I was thinking of you. How are you, really?”
And stay long enough to hear the answer.

When you are grieving, asking for company can feel exhausting. You wonder whether you
are intruding, whether people will feel obliged, whether you will have to explain your pain all
over again.

Sometimes, you stay silent. That silence does not mean you are doing well. People say,
“Stay strong. Stay positive.”

Sometimes I wish they would say, “You don’t have to put on a brave face with me. Come
and sit for a while.”

Could there be room for me even when I am quieter than usual? Even if I become
emotional? Even if I cannot bring festive cheer with me?

And when this need is called an “expectation,” I wonder what we believe friendship is
supposed to hold.

Surely there must be room in it for needing one another. For the seasons when one person
has less energy to call, organize or ask.

Wanting a little care from people you love feels like a very human expectation to me.
I am writing from my own hurt, but I hope this makes us think beyond my situation.

Who in your life has lost someone? Who lives alone? Who has stopped turning up? Who
keeps saying, “I’m fine,” because they do not know what else to say?
Whom have you been meaning to call for months?

We see their posts, like their photographs, perhaps exchange an emoji, and assume we
know how they are doing. But when did we last give them the time and space to answer
honestly?

We cannot fully know another person’s grief. We can still spend time with them.
Today, as we celebrate Dussehra and reflect on what we want to overcome within
ourselves, perhaps we can also examine how self-centred our everyday lives have
become. How easily care gets postponed until everything else is done.

“I’ll call when things settle down.”

“We must meet sometime.”

“Let me know if you need anything.”

There is always something else to do. If connection keeps waiting for a convenient time,
months can pass while someone we love struggles alone.

Make the call. Suggest a day. Offer to pick them up. Put another plate on the table.
If they decline once, reach out another time. Grief can make company difficult even when
loneliness hurts.

And check in after the festival too, when everyone has returned to their routines and the
quiet remains.

I want us to build lives with space for others. Space in our calendars, our homes, our
celebrations and the ordinary weeks in between. Enough space to notice when someone
needs more care than they can bring themselves to ask for.

Today, I miss Mom’s kitchen. I miss Dad’s presence. I miss being expected somewhere
without needing to ask.

For now, I am sitting in a coffee shop, finding a little comfort in the sounds of people going
about their day.

I hope these words make someone pause and think of a person whose day might feel a
little less lonely with their company.

Perhaps you already have someone in mind.

Please reach out.