If my grandfather was alive, he would have been 85 years old.

If my grandfather was alive today, we would have discussed the Chennai Floods and quite probably found ourselves on the opposite sides.

This is when things get vague. I dig deep into my memories, the deepest and darkest parts of me grabbing at random pieces of my childhood and try remember his voice and thoughts. They remain blurred. I get frustrated at my faded thoughts and my inability to recollect. I get angry. My own thoughts and views have changed a lot since I had a conversation with my grandfather, I wonder how he would react to me.

If my grandfather was alive today, I would have read the editorial from The Hindu aloud to him. We would have discussed and argued. At times I wonder if  all I miss is having someone to challenge my views and the way I see the world. Someone who prods me to explore beyond my comfort zone.

Today I think about the ifs as I watch Houston embrace summer. I  laugh and read. I talk and write. I hug kuttyma with my eyes darting towards the pictures I have of you. I will go on with my routines feeling bereft.

Years move on. Grief doesn’t. It clings and I won’t want it any other way.