14 June 2026 | 2:20 AM
Today was not a normal day.
It started with a dream. Afternoon dream.
A dream so vivid that when I woke up, I sat on my bed and cried like a child.
In the dream, it was my birthday. My Dadaji was there, sitting on his bed, wearing his glasses. Not as a memory. Not as a photograph. He was simply there, as if nothing had happened.
My Bua told me, “Go give some cake to Dadaji as well.”
I don’t know where the cake came from, but somehow I found one and took it to him. He held my arm to steady it and happily ate the cake. That small detail broke me later because in his final years, he had become weak and dependent on others. Yet here he was, smiling and eating cake like himself again.
Then I asked him for something.
I wanted him to write my nickname, “Jasbir,” on a notebook page.
His reply was exactly something he would have said in real life:
“Babu, badhiya page dena nahi to nahi likhenge.”
I found a fresh notebook and handed it to him.
With his eyes almost closed, the way he used to keep them in his later years, he somehow wrote “Jasbir” in Hindi. It wasn’t perfect. It was shaky. But it was readable.
Then I asked him a question.
“Dadaji, Jasbir kiska naam hai ghar me?”
And he answered immediately.
“Tohar ba.”
It’s yours.
That was the end.
I woke up crying.
Not the kind of crying where a few tears come out.
The kind where your chest hurts.
The kind where you wish someone was sitting beside you.
The kind where all you want to do is call someone and say, “I saw him.”
For ten minutes, I couldn’t stop.
Maybe it was because I loved him so much.
Maybe it was because I suddenly remembered how much of my life exists because of him.
He paid for my school fees when money wasn’t abundant.
He taught me algebra.
He took me to the market on his bicycle.
He bought me Balushahi, Jalebi, and chocolates.
He called me “Jasbir.”
For years before his passing, illness slowly took pieces away from him. Dementia, diabetes, cataracts, paralysis, and eventually a life confined to a bed. Watching someone you love go through that is painful.
But today, my dream didn’t show me the illness.
It showed me my grandfather.
Not the patient.
Not the suffering.
Just my Dadaji.
The man who loved sweets despite being diabetic.
The man who joked.
The man who knew exactly who Jasbir was.
The strange part is that today was Amavasya. My Bua told me it is considered a day dedicated to remembering ancestors. Even stranger, today was also Saturday—the same day of the week on which he left us.
I don’t know what dreams mean.
Maybe it was my subconscious.
Maybe it was memory.
Maybe it was something more.
I honestly don’t know.
But I do know this:
For a few precious minutes, I got another chance to meet him.
I got to feed him cake.
I got to hear his voice.
And I got to hear him call me by the name that belonged to us.
Tonight, after talking to my parents, brother, Bua, Dadi, cousins, and uncle, I feel peaceful.
The sadness is still there.
But so is gratitude.
I hope wherever he is, he is free.
Free from pain.
Free from confusion.
Free from suffering.
And if there is a place beyond this life, I hope there are plenty of sweets there.
Because if anyone earned a Balushahi without worrying about diabetes, it was my Dadaji.
Good night, Dadaji.
And thank you.
Your Jasbir.