The Last Shagun!

The Last Shagun Popsie Left Behind

As I pack my bags for some work in Delhi, my heart and all senses betray me. I cannot get myself together to pack my stuff. Delhi without Momsie Popsie is like a body without a soul.

Grief has strange ways of revealing love.

The day we returned from Popsie’s cremation, the house felt unfamiliar. The same walls, the same furniture, the same old wooden almirah standing quietly in the corner of his room—but everything felt hollow, as if the air itself knew someone irreplaceable had just left.

We were moving through the house in a haze. Rituals had been done, relatives had dispersed, and silence had begun settling in.

My sisters and I sat together, exhausted by tears we didn’t even know we had.

And then my brother suddenly called out from Popsie’s room.

“Hey! My dear sisters D, M, J come here. There are three envelopes here… with your names on them! Papaji (as my brother used to lovingly call Popsie) had great foresight.” And he fell quiet

For a moment, none of us reacted. His words seemed too ordinary for a day that had already broken our hearts.

But when we walked into the room, there they were.

Three simple envelopes.

Placed neatly inside Popsie’s almirah.

Each carrying the name of one of his daughters.

My hands trembled as I picked up mine. The handwriting was unmistakably his—steady, careful, and familiar in the way only a father’s writing can be.

Inside was a small amount of money.

Shagun.

Nothing extravagant. Just the kind of blessing elders lovingly give their daughters during happy occasions.

But this… this was no ordinary shagun.

This was Popsie’s final blessing.

Somewhere in the quiet knowledge of his departing time, he had thought of us—his three daughters. He had taken the envelopes, written our names with his own hands, placed the money inside, and carefully kept them in the almirah.

He knew.

He knew we would come.

He knew after bidding him farewell, his son would open the almirah and he would find the white envelopes...

And he wanted to make sure he didn’t leave without giving his daughters his last shagun.

In that moment, grief melted into something deeper. Something sacred.

It felt as if Popsie had reached out from beyond that evening’s flames and placed his hand gently on our heads.

A father’s blessing does not end with his breath.

It lives on—in habits he taught us, in values he quietly instilled, in the courage he left behind.

And sometimes, it lives on in three small envelopes tucked inside an old almirah.

That day we didn’t just open an envelope.

We opened the last chapter of a father’s love.

And even in his absence, Popsie had done what he always did best—

He had taken care of his daughters.

One last time!

Love Yours Chaand!