Why Am I Not Allowed To Mourn?

I received a notification from my dad and almost had a heart attack, only to realise it was just my brother using his phone. It felt like nothing and everything at the same time.

My dad passed away on 21st September 2025. I had gone to see him the day before. On the 22nd, I was back at university, sitting through an 8 a.m. quiz. Two weeks later, I had my midterms. More than a year has passed since I last wrote poetry. Real poetry. The kind that meant something to me. Now, it is time to visit my family, pay my respects, and perform the final rituals. Ironically, a lab midterm falls on one of the days I'll be away.

I haven’t been able to mourn without stress. Every minor inconvenience feels like a huge obstacle. I wasn’t allowed to mourn. I wasn’t allowed to cry too much. Or rest too much. Or think or feel too much. I don’t feel like I’ve fully mourned. Even now, somehow, it feels like I’m not fully allowed to.

Life can be unkind. Unforgiving. Time goes by. With or without you. I wish I could pause and talk to him. I wish I could pause and think about what happened, what I saw, what I felt, what he felt, what I couldn’t do, what I did say. As I grow older, I feel as though I grow into being more numb and shallow. I don’t reach out for depth in myself anymore. I take myself, my thoughts, my feelings, my reactions, my silence for granted. As I grow older, actually, I think as many people grow older, they seem to take it all for granted. We try to get used to how we are. No one questions it anymore. No one feels as much anymore.

Childlike wonder helped us understand our perception and ourselves the most, and right now, I cover my eyes with my hands. Holding in tears, resisting myself from seeing.

The word that comes up when I think about any of this is disappointment. Disappointment in myself. Disappointment in him. Disappointment in the situation. I can’t even fathom having a conversation with him right now. Maybe he sees all and knows all. Maybe talking to him now will make me feel worse. But maybe he will surprise me. Maybe he’ll be gentle. Maybe he’ll finally see all and know all.

I dream a lot.

Soon after his passing, I dreamed of my mother’s death. I dreamed of having exams the very next day. Frustrated that, yet again, I’m not permitted to mourn. Yet again, my wicked thoughts and wicked tongue have manifested the worst-case scenarios. The way my conscious and subconscious thoughts visualise into vivid images and dreams has always felt surreal, as though there has to be a sign or a message in them. No matter how hard I try to avoid feeling emotional about a particular phase, it follows me and catches up, making me feel things and see things even when my eyes are closed. I felt exhausted. A bit more recently, I dreamed of talking to him on a call. As I was talking to him, he told me about what he knew about myself. And he did not seem angry. He seemed like he cared. Like he genuinely wanted to know why. He wanted to be calm, and he wanted to look out for me. All the while, I’m on the other end, waiting for this to blow up into a violent argument. But I woke up. Or I forgot. My brain tends to be very overprotective of me. It forgives and forgets. It tends to selectively forget a lot, whether it be reality or a reflection of a subconscious thought in the form of a dream. I don’t trust myself at times. Maybe I saw what I wanted to see. Maybe I heard what I wanted to hear.

I miss him. But I’m relieved that he does not suffer anymore. He deserved better. Maybe some more dignity. Maybe some more time. But it does not matter. I thought I’d have more time with him. Still, I don’t have any regrets. I’d done my best.

For many months, it felt like he was just temporarily away. That seemed plausible to me. He was probably just one call away. I’ve just been busy for a few months, so I did not get to call him. But surely, he’s just one call away.

But he’s not. Neither of us could be this busy for over a year. No argument, nay, no amount of work could keep us from talking for over a year. I’ve come to realise he is not just one call away.

Dear S,

I thought that maybe I wouldn’t miss you. That I would get used to the numbness. That I would get used to an absence that came so suddenly. A loss that was not meant to be. Not this way, not to me, not this abruptly, this soon. I thought I would forget the unfinished conversations, the unchecked tasks on our to-do lists. But I did not. I am grateful and angry and sad and numb all at the same time. I know you’ve read my works. I know you enjoyed them, even though they made you cry. I know you are proud, even though you are very upset and mad. I hope you find peace in knowing that I am unsure of my person and of my future. I hope you know there’s peace in uncertainty. There’s a strange sort of faith in the unknown. In the cloudy mist, I have the opportunity to give form to myself and all that surrounds me.

I hope you are good. Somehow, I still feel close to you, even though I push the thought of you away most of the time. I hope that doesn’t upset you. Because it does upset me. I’m overwhelmed. I don’t know if I can bear any more thoughts or feelings. I am not permitted to mourn. Maybe I don’t permit myself to fully mourn. Maybe I should get back to writing poetry. I know you’d enjoy them, even if it’s with misty eyes. Even if they’re not all that good. I like how I use my words, and you’ve mentioned that you liked it too. I’m glad you got to see me. I’m glad you talked to me. I know I will talk to you again. You are dead. But you will undoubtedly live in my faded memory and very vivid imagination. You are, as you used to call me often, my “dil ka tukda”. I love you. Take care.

-J