A Year Without Him

Disclaimer: Today’s newsletter is a contribution by Sadaf Amit Hirani as she reflects on the loss of her husband. This email contains content that may be emotionally triggering for individuals who have experienced the loss of a loved one.

Over the past year, I’ve missed you so deeply that I’ve cried and felt lost in a life without you, hating every moment of it. But today, on the first anniversary of your death, it dawned on me how much you cherished life, how much you wanted to live. In my grief, I forgot to celebrate the life in which we shared our love, our laughter, our tears, our arguments, and even the quiet moments we spent together.

We first met in that board meeting, a moment I still find hard to believe was orchestrated by fate. I wasn’t even meant to be there, but Richard invited me at the last minute, and that’s where our paths crossed - two complete strangers from entirely different worlds.

Our first date at Nando’s still lingers in my memory, with both of us so mean to each other i called you “behood” and you called me “Taxi”... And then there was our first drive, how could I forget? You ran out of petrol, and I was so mad! But even that moment, in hindsight, was just another piece of the puzzle that formed our story.

We worked together, and you loved every moment of it or so you always said. You had a passion for your work, but your love for Nihari was something else entirely. Our Sunday dates were sacred, though I always gave you a 10 a.m. time, yet never got up before 3 p.m. Still, you waited for me in the car for hours, patient as ever. We would sit outside Flamingo, chatting away, lost in our own world.

Then came the shooting incident a terrifying moment that somehow drew us even closer. It was fate, I suppose. Our physiotherapy trips, your first apartment in Bukhari, how I worked to make it livable, turning it into a home. Long before we committed to each other, we had already become a team, building a life together without even realizing it.

On the day you proposed, I remember how you knelt down beside our sushi table. How could I ever forget the birthday we celebrated at Fujiyama’s? Or the other birthday when I expected roses and chocolates, but instead, you sat at the table, toothpicks arranged to spell out "Happy Birthday," with a laptop playing music. I know, I was deeply disappointed then. I cried out of anger, I was just a young girl at the time. But, as you always said, it's the gesture that counts.

Then came our wedding day not a fairytale wedding, but one that was incredibly beautiful in its own way. I remember how eagerly I signed the papers, with everyone around me wondering: "What's the hurry, girl?"

Our first walk as husband and wife, and then our honeymoon. That’s when the real test began, because not every love story ends with a wedding. Ours grew stronger over these 9.5 years. You were my everything, my world revolved around you.

I still remember the early days of our marriage, waiting by the window for hours just to see you drive back home in the evening. Our morning rituals, your big, hearty breakfasts, your love for food and movies, and how you couldn’t stand my obsession with Korean dramas. I know you were jealous of the Korean actors I admired. But I cherished every single moment of those days... Every bit of them.

Our silly jokes, those moments when I was angry and you’d respond with that goofy smile of yours, it always caught me off guard. You would laugh every time I cried, saying I looked funny when I did, though I could never understand what was so amusing. And for some reason, you loved watching me sleep. I remember finding so many pictures of me asleep on your phone now. Honestly, you were a terrible photographer, thank goodness you didn’t choose it as a profession. And thank goodness I didn’t know about those pictures at the time.

I miss your singing, your dancing, and our attempts at rapping Linkin Park songs. You even made every song into a Gujarati version until you completely ruined them for me. Your passion for basketball and the NBA was infectious - you managed to drag me into it too. Now I’m a Marvel fan who loves action heroes. You’ve changed me so much over the course of our life together. Your influence on me is everlasting.

It’s funny, really. I just realized that over the years, you had started to talk like me, and I’ve become so much like you. It’s as if we had become reflections of each other, shaped by the decade we spent together.

You always loved celebrating moments and special dates, but you could never contain your excitement. The child in you was always front and center, and that playful spirit was a major part of what kept us together. You filled all the emptiness that life had left us with.

When I found out about your illness, I remember holding that report in my hand, standing on the road for three or four hours, unable to find the courage to come home. No one knew our struggles, and that was the beginning of my sleepless nights. A girl who once cherished her sleep suddenly became an insomniac. That single report changed everything about our story. Our roles reversed, I had to become the man of the house, your caretaker. Even now, I still don’t know how I managed.

Every late-night drive to the hospital wore me down. I remember one time when we were both covered in your blood, and I was like a ghost, dead walking towards the emergency room. You started to change, becoming someone I didn’t recognize so bitter and cruel. I knew it was the disease, not you. But it hurt all the same. I’ll never forget the day you broke down in front of the doctor, crying for me. It was then that I resolved not to let you fail in this fight. But no matter how hard I tried, even offering my liver wasn’t enough to change God’s plan.

My mother used to say that we always remember the good parts of the people who leave us, that their mistakes and all the bad things go with them. Now, after losing you, I finally understand her words. Since you’ve been gone, I’ve never dwelled on the bad things that happened between us. Instead, I find myself grieving the time we lost and will never get back. I mourn you every day, in pieces. Sometimes, it feels so comforting to talk about you non-stop. By the way, I’ve finally started complaining about you like other married women do.

Of course, I hate hospitals now. I hate life, I even hate food because you loved it so much. I’ve lost all the extra pounds you made me gain by always feeding me. When I go to restaurants, I still can’t bring myself to order anything, and I despise delivery food. I hate the nights most of all; it feels like I’m an unofficial night watchman now.

You know, your clothes are better than mine, so I wear them every day, your t-shirts, shorts, and pyjamas. I can still smell you in them. Your drawer, your keys, your bathroom kit, your medicines, your shoes everything is exactly as you left it. After my phone broke, I started using yours, but I haven’t changed a single thing on it.

People say that we love the ones we’ve lost, more than we ever did while they were with us. I think: I have to love you even more now than I did when you were here. Because how could I ever forget all of you, when so much of you still lives within me?