13th May 2026
Dear precious angel,
In childhood, we all search for excuses to step outside with those we love. I, too, would chase such moments—any chance to wander beyond our door with my family. And my nana, whom I have always cherished as my father, was my favorite companion. Not only did I long to go out with him, but I also swelled with pride simply walking beside him, letting every soul in BHEL colony know: This is my nana. Whenever curious strangers would stop us and ask, “Who is this child?” my nana would reply, “Ye mera naathi hai”—He is my grandson. And hearing those words, my heart would bloom like a flower kissed by the sun. But that was not the only moment pride found me. When I visited his office at BHEL, the security guards at the gate would salute him, greeting him with such respect. Standing beside him holding his finger in that moment, I felt a different kind of pride—one that whispered, He is not only mine; the world also bows to him. Inside the office, his colleagues would turn to him with the same question about me, and he would answer the same way he answered our neighbors in the colony. Always the same. Always warm.
He would offer me his finger to hold, and I would clasp it tightly—as if the world might try to pull us apart. Never did I imagine that a day would come when I held that finger for the last time. A strange, heavy feeling crept into me—a whisper that I might never hold it again. So I did not just hold his finger that day. I wrapped his entire hand. His whole being, pressed into my palm. I even took photographs—foolish, precious photographs—of that final embrace—pictures of my hand wrapped around his fingers, as if trying to trap time itself. Even now, as I write this, I can hear his voice calling me: Vicky. It echoes somewhere deep in my chest. I can still feel the softness of his hair—the same hair I would caress every night beside him in bed when he grew ill. The same hair I would comb gently with his pocket comb during my childhood. I love you, my dearest nana. I miss you each and every day.
My angel, how I wish I could hold your fingers too. How I wish I could sit beside you at Akshardham Temple or Tughlakabad Fort and pour out every word that has been gathering in my heart. But since I cannot, I speak to you through my writing instead. I hope you are reading my articles. And even if you are not, I hope that one day you will leaf through these pages—and perhaps, just perhaps, feel a little pity for the one who never stopped loving you.
Your gem, Vivek Prasad
