The Roads That Carried My Grief and Gave Me Hope….
I didn’t cry that day. I didn’t cry at her funeral or in the weeks that followed. I went through the motions—offering tea to visitors, nodding at their hollow words of comfort, folding Meera’s sarees into the trunk we had bought together. Grief became my shadow, clinging to me in ways I couldn’t shake. But no one saw it. They saw the dutiful husband who had been “so strong” and “so composed.”
Strength. It was what they admired most about me, and what I hated most about myself.
For three years, my life became a series of routines. I woke up, went to work, ate alone, and slept in a bed that felt far too large. The days blended into each other, colourless and quiet. I became a ghost in my own life.
One evening, as I was cleaning out old drawers, I found Meera’s journal. She’d been an obsessive list-maker, jotting down everything from grocery reminders to her wildest dreams. On one page, in her rounded script, she had written:
“Places to visit: Paris, Udaipur, Kyoto, Istanbul, Ladakh. With him.”
The words stopped me cold. With him. She had written it so simply, so confidently, as though we had all the time in the world.
That night, for the first time in years, I cried. And when I woke up the next morning, something had shifted. I wasn’t ready to face the world, but I knew I couldn’t keep living like this. Or rather, I knew Meera wouldn’t have wanted me to.
I booked my first trip impulsively—Udaipur, a city we’d always talked about. The idea of traveling alone terrified me. Meera had been the planner, the navigator. I was the one who followed her lead, marvelling at her ability to turn every trip into an adventure.
The first day in Udaipur was unbearable. The city was beautiful—its whitewashed palaces reflected in the tranquil waters of Lake Pichola—but all I could see was her absence. Every couple strolling hand in hand felt like a personal reminder of what I had lost. I spent the evening sitting by the lake, unable to do anything but stare at the water.
But the next morning, something small but significant happened. A local guide approached me and offered to show me around the City Palace. I almost declined, but something in his cheerful persistence made me say yes. For the next few hours, he walked me through the halls of history, his voice full of stories about kings and queens, betrayals and triumphs. I found myself listening, not just hearing, and for the first time in years, I felt a flicker of curiosity.
Curiosity became my lifeline. From Udaipur, I went to Jaipur, then Rishikesh, then the tea estates of Darjeeling. Each trip felt like a small rebellion against the numbness that had taken over my life.
But it wasn’t always easy. There were days when the grief hit me like a tidal wave—standing on a crowded platform in Varanasi, surrounded by life and color, yet feeling like I was drowning. There were moments when I questioned why I was doing this, when the loneliness felt too heavy to bear.
And yet, there were also moments of wonder. Watching the sunrise over the Himalayas in Ladakh, I felt a sense of awe so profound it brought me to my knees.
Sitting in a quiet temple in Kyoto, surrounded by cherry blossoms, I felt Meera’s presence so vividly it was as though she had never left. These moments didn’t erase the pain, but they reminded me that life, in all its messiness, still had beauty to offer.
It was in Istanbul that everything changed. I was sitting in a small café near the Bosphorus, sipping tea and watching the boats go by. A woman at the next table struck up a conversation—she was a painter from Italy, traveling solo to find inspiration. We talked for hours, sharing stories of loss and hope, laughter, and pain.
When she asked why I was traveling alone, I hesitated. Then, for the first time, I told someone the whole truth. About Meera, about the journal, about how I was trying to find myself in the places we’d dreamed of visiting together.
She listened, her eyes filled with understanding. “You’re not traveling alone,” she said softly. “You’re traveling with her.”
Her words stayed with me.
Now, three years into this journey, I’ve stopped counting the places I’ve been. It’s not about ticking destinations off a list anymore. It’s about the quiet moments—getting lost in the alleys of Venice, watching fireflies in the forests of Coorg, sharing stories with strangers who feel like old friends.
Traveling solo at 50 wasn’t the life I planned, but it’s the life I’ve embraced. It’s taught me that grief doesn’t go away; it becomes a part of you. But it doesn’t have to define you.
Meera is still with me, not just in the places we dreamed of but in the courage, I’ve found to step into the unknown. She’s in the sunsets I watch alone, in the laughter I share with strangers, in the quiet strength that has grown in her absence.
This journey hasn’t healed me, but it has changed me. It’s shown me that even in the depths of loss, there is room for wonder, for connection, and for rediscovering the parts of yourself you thought were gone forever.
And that is the greatest gift I could have ever given myself.
