When the sun goes down

An attempt to answer the age old curious question of what happens when the sun vanishes on a random Friday

It was 7th August 2025, me and my family were in the hospital for the last 10 days. My dad was diagnosed with CKD (chronic kidney disease) out of nowhere. It was around 11PM in the night, I had bit of fever and was sleeping when my uncle came and told me “Papa ki death ho gaya”. After carrying him in a rickshaw to the emergency hospital, getting to know that his kidneys aren’t working anymore and watching him making progress over the next 10 days, these were the words I had feared most.

When I look back now from a third person perspective, my dad was the most improved human being over the last decade. From my perspective, he went from being this always angry looking to a fun-loving, kind and progressive person. We didn’t talk a lot, growing up I was afraid of even standing in front of him but over a period of time as I grew up, I could talk to him about anything but our conversations were limited to “Khaana kya khaaya”, “Aap ki tabiyat kaisi hai”, “Kaam achche se karna”, “apna dhyaan dena”, etc. He also complained to mom that he only calls you, he doesn’t call me directly (which was a valid complain). I talk to him more now that he’s no longer here.

For me, he was the sun. Generous and warm by nature, but with a heat that reminded you of your limits. He never took a day off — and neither did his love. And like the sun, each day began by turning to him first. The thing about the sun is that you never fear losing it. It has always been there — before you, before your questions, before your doubts. So you stop seeing it as something you could ever lose. It becomes an anchor. A stambh. The quiet foundation beneath everything. But now that he's gone, my mornings don't know where to begin. The warmth I never thought to question — it's simply not there anymore. And in its place, a cold I can't name, sitting quietly in my chest. It's as if the question — what happens when the sun goes down — was already answered before it was ever asked.

There are regrets I will carry to my grave. The ‘I love you’ I never said out loud. The anniversaries I missed. The Royal Enfield I never got him, though I saw how his eyes lit up at it. These will stay with me.

But so will everything he gave me. He taught me, quietly and consistently, how to be a better person — or at least how to try. And maybe that is how I find my way back. Not by filling the silence he left, but by becoming someone worthy of having been his.

After a long time, things have become a little better. I can sit now. I can focus. I can show up for my work and for life, even if some days are still harder than others. Many people reached out during this time, and I will not forget that. Among them, my therapist Anupama, who gave me the space to fall apart and find my way back. And my friends — Swapnil and Chaitanya — who stayed close when I needed it most. Thank you.

Here’s the last photo of me and my dad together :