19-10-2025, 11:18 PM
(This post was last modified: Yesterday, 02:01 PM by lee.jae.han. Edited 4 times in total. Edited 4 times in total.)
## Update 2: The Women Who Raised Me
My Suman Chachi loves me with a boundless, fierce affection. She is the reason I never truly felt the absence of my mother. All three of my chachis— Suman, Seema, and meena—treat me as their own, an arrangement that makes me the center of a warm, comforting world.
But that warmth often meets a sharp chill. My chacha is a man of loud words and quick tempers. He doesn't just scold the women; he snaps orders, a hand constantly gesturing, dismissing their opinions before they can finish speaking. They always flinch, a tiny, private movement, before dutifully turning back to their work. This tension is a permanent shadow in the house.
Our family is large, and our living situation reflects it. My three buas are married to men who work in Dubai and only return for one month each year. Our chacha’s house is the hub: he and my Chhoti Chachi share the first bedroom; Seema Chachi and Suman Chachi share the second; and the third, the smallest, is mine.
The only room that changed was Dadaji's. Originally, he was in the old storeroom, which the chachis had lovingly scrubbed, plastered, and converted into a clean space for him when he fell ill.
I tried to ignore the slow decline of the man who loved me most. Dadaji adored me. Perhaps it was because my Badi Bua, Pooja, had two daughters before I was born, making me the eldest boy, the first grandson. He always had a special story just for me.
But watching him grow weaker, seeing the glazed look in his eyes, was a weight I carried every day. Today, my chachis finally made the difficult decision.
The smell of fresh antiseptic was strong in the air. I stood frozen in the doorway, watching them gently lift Dadaji onto a makeshift stretcher. My chest felt tight, a band of cold steel wrapped around my ribs. A tiny, panicked thrumming started in my ears, and I could barely draw a breath. He looked smaller than I had ever seen him.
They carried him out, placing him in the waiting vehicle. The engine started, rumbled, and then silence fell over the house again—a heavy, complete silence that swallowed every comforting sound. Dadaji was gone. He had been moved to the ashram for his treatment.
I knew it was for the best, that the constant care he needed was exhausting the chachis, but standing in the doorway of his empty room—the faint, lingering smell of his medicated oil hanging in the air—I felt a huge, lonely space open up in the family. His treatment is ongoing, but truthfully, his condition hasn't improved much.
My Suman Chachi loves me with a boundless, fierce affection. She is the reason I never truly felt the absence of my mother. All three of my chachis— Suman, Seema, and meena—treat me as their own, an arrangement that makes me the center of a warm, comforting world.
But that warmth often meets a sharp chill. My chacha is a man of loud words and quick tempers. He doesn't just scold the women; he snaps orders, a hand constantly gesturing, dismissing their opinions before they can finish speaking. They always flinch, a tiny, private movement, before dutifully turning back to their work. This tension is a permanent shadow in the house.
Our family is large, and our living situation reflects it. My three buas are married to men who work in Dubai and only return for one month each year. Our chacha’s house is the hub: he and my Chhoti Chachi share the first bedroom; Seema Chachi and Suman Chachi share the second; and the third, the smallest, is mine.
The only room that changed was Dadaji's. Originally, he was in the old storeroom, which the chachis had lovingly scrubbed, plastered, and converted into a clean space for him when he fell ill.
I tried to ignore the slow decline of the man who loved me most. Dadaji adored me. Perhaps it was because my Badi Bua, Pooja, had two daughters before I was born, making me the eldest boy, the first grandson. He always had a special story just for me.
But watching him grow weaker, seeing the glazed look in his eyes, was a weight I carried every day. Today, my chachis finally made the difficult decision.
The smell of fresh antiseptic was strong in the air. I stood frozen in the doorway, watching them gently lift Dadaji onto a makeshift stretcher. My chest felt tight, a band of cold steel wrapped around my ribs. A tiny, panicked thrumming started in my ears, and I could barely draw a breath. He looked smaller than I had ever seen him.
They carried him out, placing him in the waiting vehicle. The engine started, rumbled, and then silence fell over the house again—a heavy, complete silence that swallowed every comforting sound. Dadaji was gone. He had been moved to the ashram for his treatment.
I knew it was for the best, that the constant care he needed was exhausting the chachis, but standing in the doorway of his empty room—the faint, lingering smell of his medicated oil hanging in the air—I felt a huge, lonely space open up in the family. His treatment is ongoing, but truthfully, his condition hasn't improved much.
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