The Many Lives of March 24

March 24.

A date that has always meant everything, for all the right reasons.

My father’s birthday.

Years later, my cousin Rahul was born on the same day.

And then, a few years after that, I married the love of my life on this very date.

A single day that came to hold so many versions of joy.

Today, I turn five in my marriage. When I look back at everything it took to get here, it feels both long and fleeting at once, like time stretched itself for us and yet slipped quietly through our fingers.

But the last four years have changed what this day feels like.

We no longer celebrate it the way we used to. Not fully. Not freely. Because this was always my dad’s day first. And ever since we lost him in 2022, March 24 has carried a different weight.

I still remember how it used to be. Waking up excited, making the most imperfect handmade cards as children, hiding gifts as we grew older, whispering plans so we would not ruin the surprise, even though he and the whole world knew. As adults, it became family dinners and lunches. Life changed. Work came in. Some birthdays were not at 12 AM, and that was okay. We never really believed in that kind of celebration anyway. Some days were tiring, so we celebrated the previous evening or the next day. It never really mattered to him, as long as we were together, doing the same little rituals we always had. That never changed. No matter how old we got, we always wanted to make him feel special.

Maybe because he never expected anything.

He lived in a way that felt simple and present. There were days when life was not bright, when things felt heavy even for him, but he still showed us what it meant to just be. To live without constantly wanting more. To find contentment in what is, and to be happy with what we have.

We did not understand it then. We do now.

This day used to be full. Double celebrations, sometimes double cakes, and eventually three reasons to celebrate. His birthday, Rahul’s birthday, and our anniversary. One cake, three moments. One day that held everything.

On March 24, 2022, exactly a week before he passed, my husband and I drove down in the middle of the day with a cake and a laptop bag he had been asking for, just to surprise him. In those moments, the surprise was not just for him, but also for my mom, my grandparents, and even our dogs. We sat together, shared a meal, and then made our way back home.

I know now how blessed I was to have lived those versions of March 24, even if they were shorter than I had imagined. I always assumed we would continue these family dinners for years to come, for this day and for all our birthdays, simply because we could.

From 2023 onwards, everything shifted.

The day became quieter. Heavier. I did not feel like celebrating. There was something inside me I did not fully understand. It felt like anger at times, but more than that, it was grief sitting deep within me, refusing to soften.

People say time heals.

But grief does not work like that. It does not move in a straight line. It does not shrink in a way you can measure. It changes shape. It changes texture. It surprises you.

Grief has many colours, and most of them we do not recognise until we are inside it.

There is the loud grief, the kind that makes you cry without warning, that catches you in the middle of an ordinary moment and pulls you back into memory.

There is the quiet grief, the kind that sits beside you when you are laughing, reminding you that someone is missing from the frame.

There is the heavy grief, the kind that makes even simple days feel like effort.

There is the strange grief, where you feel nothing at all and then feel guilty for that too.

And then there is the everyday grief, the kind no one talks about. The absence in small things. The instinct to call him. The urge to share something trivial. The way certain dates carry a silence that only you can hear.

Losing a parent is not something that passes. It does not become okay. They have always been, and will always be, your cushion. The person you turn to when something good happens, when you fall sick, when you need comfort, or even when you just want familiar food and familiar love. They are your safety net.

You do not move on from it. You learn how to move with it. You learn how to carry it into rooms where there is laughter. You learn how to sit with it on days that feel too quiet. You learn how to let it exist without letting it take everything from you.

Some days are lighter. Some days you remember and smile. Some days you sit with old memories like they are still happening. And some days, the weight of it all returns as if nothing has changed.

And then there are days like today.

A day that asks me to hold everything at once.

Because today is also my anniversary. A milestone. A life I chose, a love I continue to build.

And somewhere in between celebrating that, I find myself wondering if I am allowed to feel joy on a day that also holds so much loss. If I am doing it right. If I am forgetting him, even for a moment.

But maybe grief is not about choosing one feeling over another. Maybe it is about allowing both to exist.

And maybe this is what it looks like for us now. We are slowly finding our way back to what this day meant. We have started coming together again, sitting for family dinners, talking about him, remembering him in the smallest ways. He is there in our conversations, in our habits, in the way we show up for each other.

We are learning to live with him in all of us.

Because deep down, I know this.

He would have been proud.

Proud of the life we are building. Proud that we are still holding on to each other. Proud that we are finding our way back to love, even through the grief.

So maybe this day does not have to be one thing.

It can be love and loss.

Joy and ache.

Celebration and remembrance.

All existing together, just like he taught us, quietly, without expectations, fully in the present.

*photo of my dad and I at our 86 year old ancestral home :)