Nothing Hurts Like Regret

It was the morning of December 13, 2024. I noticed a missed call from my mom. Assuming she was bored at a relative’s wedding, I called her back casually. But deep down, I felt a sense of unease—my father hadn’t been well since the previous evening. When I spoke to him last night, I could hear the heaviness in his voice. A quiet fear lingered within me, especially since my mother never called me this early in the morning.

When she answered, her voice was heavy with sadness. She told me she was at the hospital and had been there since the night before, my father had experienced chest pain. She asked me not to inform my younger brother but assured me that she had already told my elder brother. My cousin uncle had also arrived at the hospital, which gave me some relief knowing there was someone to take care of him.

I reassured myself further, trusting in fate. My father had undergone two major surgeries before and survived. I believed this time would be no different.

After enduring an entire night in a government hospital, suffering from chest pain while confined to a wheelchair, at a time when I was fast asleep, my father was finally transferred to a private hospital.

That afternoon, he was diagnosed with pneumonia and admitted immediately.

I spent the whole day waiting, hoping for a good feeling, a positive sign, some reassuring news. But nothing seemed to go our way. In fact, I just wanted the day to end. I kept waiting to find out whether my father would be traveling to Kolkata with my brother, so I could decide my next move.

In the end, it was my elder brother’s words that gave me a sense of relief.

I am waiting for his oxygen level to stabilize and post that I won’t leave him here and I will take him to Kolkata

My papa was a sensitive man. He liked to stay in touch with his children, to hear all of our voices everyday, even if only for a minute. The entire Friday evening, I dreaded the silence. For the first time since I left Varanasi, he hadn’t called me. Still, I consoled myself, convincing myself that he would call next week.

Finally, the day ended… At 5:30 a.m., my phone rang, it was my brother. He told me to come back to Varanasi. My heart sank. I feared the worst, yet I clung to hope, desperately wishing someone would tell me otherwise. I wanted to hear that my father was serious but still alive.

But that was not the case.

The time between learning my father was ill and losing him was just one day. If something like that could happen, then anything could. That was my logic, and it was sound. The odds that someone I loved might suddenly, without warning, stop existing were greater than zero. This wasn’t irrational.

The real problem was that I couldn’t accept any probability other than zero. I couldn’t relax.

To stay sane, you have to lean into trust, to free-fall into it, because 99 times out of 100, things will be okay. But one day, they won’t. And there’s no escaping that. You have to live every day knowing the odds are never truly zero.

And yet, you have to live anyway.

You have to live anyway, with regrets, with countless regrets.

If only I had spent more time with him.
If only I had agreed with everything he wanted.
If only I had talked to him more.
If only I had been by his side, easing his insecurities.
If only I had stopped him from attending that wedding.
If only I had taken his symptoms on Thursday, December 12, more seriously.
If only I had arrived in Varanasi on Friday.

And the list goes on…