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!