It's been about 15 days -- I am not sure how many exactly, I lost count after three -- that one of my best friend's (GB's) mother passed away. It was all so horrible and terrible over the past few days that I preferred the quiet around it. Now, the shock has passed us by and what remains is some bitterness, sorrow and a blend of denial and acceptance.
I regret not having said my final goodbyes to Aunty. So here I am, doing just that.

Dearest Aunty,
I am sorry I couldn't make it to Kerala. Feel like a s*** pot about that. I would have loved to see you one final time and told you everything I never told.
Aunty, I would have loved to tell you how strong you were. There was nothing that could bog you down. You went through such trauma -- mental, emotional and physical. When I saw you motionless on the hospital bed some months ago, down with whatever got you down, I was shattered. I couldn't see you -- someone who was so full of life -- lying there lifeless. But you kept all our hopes alive. You kept building yourself up. And with you, all of us were building ourselves up. You were strong and inspirational.
I'd have told you how much I am going to miss your sense of humour. You know aunty, you could laugh with anyone and everyone -- you could laugh with the three (GB, PU and me) of us, you could laugh with our mothers and fathers and their mothers and fathers. And I am sure you could have lived to laugh with our children and theirs.
I would have told you how I am going to miss witnessing your tuition sessions through the pink transparent curtain. How you could handle a bunch of students from different classes in different schools, studying different subjects all in the tiny little room. What surprised me is how you managed to make all of them so deftly. I know you never did it for anything in return. You just wanted them to learn. You inspired me.
I would have told you how I am going to miss your snares and glares every time I came to your house and indulged in loud laughter riots. Reminds me how we stifled all the giggling and laughing and got back to our books or at least pretend to, when your eyes met ours. I am going to miss your work-while-you-work-and-play-while-you-play dictum.
I would have also told you how much I liked slurping up your sambar till there was absolutely nothing left on my plate. I am not sure how much I'll miss it, because your daughter is sure on her way to perfecting the art of making the ideal sambar that you made! Congratulations on that!
I would have told you all this and much, much more. There is so much unsaid and, as cliched as it might sound, life really seems short.