Grief is a solitary journey that everyone takes differently. Some sit by the roadside, scared of the monster that grief can become. Some trudge along despite the dark sadness pushing them back, knocking them down. Some befriend grief and let it walk with them. I don’t know where I am on this journey. I seem to be traveling with a monster that keeps scratching and mauling—just enough to keep the pain alive but not deep enough to make me crumble to the ground.

Grief is not a single monster; it takes different forms and wears different faces. Sometimes, it smells of quiet acceptance. I lost Dobby and Mirchi this time last year to old age. It was inevitable. The grief of losing them didn’t maul. It just clutched at my heart, making it difficult to breathe for a while, and then it let the good memories of those goofy kids paint over the pain. It stayed, but it didn’t look ugly.

Sometimes, grief creeps up suddenly and cruelly. It is like a bone-chilling draft that sweeps through the room, freezing everything, leaving you gasping for breath—paralyzed with pain and shock. My sweet Kulfi was snatched away too quickly for us to even understand. The shock of the cold, cruel loss precedes the grief, hides it for a while. And just when you start to comprehend, grief takes its pound of flesh. You are left gasping on the floor, trying to scream, but no sound comes out.

And then there are times when grief reels you in with a hook of hopelessness. The hook lodges itself under your skin. You hope that you will be able to reduce the pain or remove the hook. You flail your arms, you try to reach it, you pull, you scratch—but the hook just digs deeper, and grief pulls you in while you are busy trying to do something, anything.

Gabbar left on the 16th. I choke at the mention of his name. I cry at his pictures. He was my chamcha, as the man fondly called him. He knew when I was upset, when I needed a cuddle, and when I needed to throw the ball for the 136th time so he could cover it in slime and bring it back for the 137th. The door has scratch marks where he would put his paw to open it. The chair leg has tiny bite marks. 

He died a slow, painful death. But even in his final moments, his tail was wagging and his eyes were fixed on me. This is the monster that is grief—it yanks your heart out, tosses it around, squishes it in its claws, and then hurls it against the wall, leaving a sickening splat. And you are left with nothing.

All grief is a lonely ride, but the grief of losing the living or the pets who have moved on is especially isolating because the world doesn’t understand it. The shadows of people who are now strangers, the fading little paws that once climbed up to greet you every time you entered the house, the person who now seems to exist in another dimension while you helplessly look on, the startled wake-up call from a ghost snout nudging you in the early hours of the morning, making you wish it were real. Grief bends your mind, twists it out of shape, and just when you think it has settled, it claws at you a little more.

I know it will take time before I can take grief’s hand and let it walk beside me forever—the pain of those who left, the pain of those who became unrecognizable. Until then, I know grief will keep ambushing me when I least expect it. There are howls and tears as I wait at a crossing full of honking cars and impatient people. There are wet pillows, and then there are tears that are fought back. There is that pause at the door I don’t want to open. There are moments when I just want to curl up and surrender to the monster.

I know that someday, the beast will tire itself out and settle into a quiet corner of my heart, creating aches and pangs every now and then. It will stop drowning me. That elusive moment could be weeks or years away. Until then, all I can do is keep gulping in air, keep swimming—and sometimes, keep drowning—in the pain of a home that is now awfully quiet, in the hurt that love carries with it, in the numbness that resides inside a bruised heart.