Dregs of Yore

Greetings readers! Dregs of Yore  has been both a daring and rewarding exercise over the past few years. Many ideas, once mere dreams, found their voice here, evolving into complete essays. As this voyage continues, I'm excited to announce a new endeavour that's been brewing for quite some time. I bring to you my second blog with a fresh focus: White Picket Fence . In this new space, I'll delve into themes of home, hearth, and the simple joys of everyday life. Join me as we explore the beauty of domestic life. Thank you for your continued support and enthusiasm. Here's to new beginnings! Warm regards, Sadhika.

The sun beats down with a relentless fury on North India these days. Summer has reached its peak, the mercury climbing well beyond 45 degrees Celsius (113 degrees Fahrenheit). Heatwave alerts have been issued and the parks are empty even during the ongoing summer break in schools. Fires spring up unexpectedly in vehicles, air conditioning units, and electrical panels, each day bringing a new tale of destruction. Just the other day, one such incident occurred not far from where I live. It was 6:30 in the morning, and I was on my way for my morning swim. As I approached one of the familiar apartment buildings on my route, a massive fire caught my eye. Enormous clouds of black smoke billowed into the sky and there was utter chaos among the bystanders. On the first-floor balcony, an old man, perhaps seventy years of age, teetered on the brink of unconsciousness. Fortune smiled that day, as the fire engine roared up just in time. An ambulance arrived shortly after, followed by the police....

My friends find themselves at that stage in life where death lurks around the edges, occasionally reaching out to snatch away a parent or grandparent. In those moments of loss, words of comfort seem feeble, almost pointless. You'd think that having lost six kin in the past ten years would grant me some mastery over grief, some ability to soothe it. But grief is a stubborn beast. It doesn't get easier with practice. Yet, through these dark times, a particular realisation has dawned on me. One common regret among people who’ve lost a close one, is the memory of conflicts with the departed—arguments, harsh words, moments of irritable snapping. When they’re gone, those left behind torment themselves with these memories, sometimes for years. I know this regret well. My relationship with my father in his final years was particularly stormy. I had one too many arguments with him. Some over little things, and some over big things now made little with perspective. Underneath, was a very...

Today is my father’s birthday. He would have been 66 years old today.  In the span of my first 24 years, I walked alongside my father until his departure from this world. However, my relationship with him continues into the present. Over the years, it went through many ups and downs. There were the happy years of my life when I looked up to him like the finest man I ever knew. Then came moments of uncertainty, where I questioned his choices and capabilities, like every naive child in his early twenties who sees his father's faults magnified and his own aspirations burning bright. Some months felt strangely distant; our conversations revolved around safe topics, avoiding conflict or emotional turmoil. Resentment, too, found a foothold, the ungrateful murmurs of a child yet unseasoned by life's harsh lessons. I daresay I was even angry at him, for leaving me alone when he passed away. While he now rests in peace, it took me over two years after his passing to reconcile and make p...