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  • What I wish I’d Known About Grief

    What I wish I’d Known About Grief

    Bipin’s Story

    My first real experience of grief came when I lost my Dad.

    It was Easter time in 1992 when we learned he had suffered a stroke. I went to visit him at his flat. I can still see the room now. Quiet. Heavy. The curtains half drawn against the afternoon light.

    Dad was lying in bed looking pale and exhausted. He motioned for me to come closer. I leaned in, expecting him to ask for water or medicine, but instead he looked directly at me and said softly, “I want you to take care of everyone from now on.”

    At the time, I simply nodded.

    I do not think I truly understood the weight of those words.

    Within minutes he was rushed back to hospital after suffering more strokes. Those were the last words he ever spoke to me.

    For years afterwards, grief meant shock to me. The disbelief that someone who had always seemed strong could suddenly disappear from your world. But as I grew older, grief became something deeper.

    It became regret.

    Not regret for anything cruel or terrible. Regret for not asking more questions. For not understanding the burdens my father carried. He had lost his own dad at a young age and had known hardship long before I was born. I was a sickly child with severe asthma. Money was tight. Medical bills must have weighed heavily on him, yet as a child I never saw any of it.

    Children rarely do.

    Looking back now, my heart aches when I think about what life must have been like for him. The pressure. The worry. The quiet sacrifices that parents make without announcing them to the world.

    Then grief visited me again when my mum became seriously ill a few years later.

    She was in hospital and struggling badly. Her heart was failing. I went to see her with my wife. As I turned the corner and saw her lying there, my heart skipped. She looked so thin and pale. Tubes ran beneath her nose as she fought for each breath.

    She called me closer.

    In a weak voice she said, “I want you to stop fighting for me and let me go. Look after everyone.”

    Then she removed a small pendant of our God from around her neck and handed it to me.

    I remember making an excuse to leave the room for a moment, but really I went to a small garden nearby and cried alone. Inside the room, my wife sat beside my mum singing bhajans softly to comfort her.

    Not long afterwards, she passed away.

    As I look back on it now, I realise they left behind a legacy to be proud of.

    Not money or possessions.

    Something far greater.

    Strength. Sacrifice. Family. Duty. Love.

    The older I get, the more I understand the weight they carried so quietly.

    Grief still comes and goes. Sometimes unexpectedly. A memory. A smell. A song. A passing thought when the world has gone quiet.

    But through it all, I remember that a promise was made.

    “Look after everyone.”

    I have tried my very best to keep it.

    That, more than anything, is what grief means to me.

    By Bipin J.

  • Ruppel’s Story

    Ruppel’s Story

    What I wish I’d known about grief…

    Grief isn’t just about you. It’s about everyone else too. You can contain your own grief — just about — but you don’t feel you can subject others to it as well. You think you can, and then you realise you can’t. And that you don’t want to. Whether the person you lost was good to you or difficult, it doesn’t change anything. The grief is yours. Yours alone.

    Get up. Put on a brave face. You do it, even knowing that everyone around you can see straight through it — that you are living inside a coping bubble. Some days you dress down. Some mornings you wake up and think: I can almost see my old self. I just need to reach out and she’ll be back. And then other life kicks in. Stress from somewhere else, someone else who needs you. You put them first. And somewhere in that, you forget yourself.

    Sometimes the grief is overwhelming and there is simply no one to talk to. Sometimes you just have to live inside it. And that’s all right. People will say they care — and some genuinely do — but until it happens to them, they won’t truly understand. Others will use your grief to process their own. That is not your cross to bear.

    Just show up. Every day. Not for them — for yourself.

    I never thought it would happen to me. And then it did. And what I know now is this: it wasn’t your fault. It was never your fault.

    Ruppel

  • What I Wish I’d Known About Grief

    What I Wish I’d Known About Grief

    During her illness, before she became bedbound, she had a chair she always sat in. I had mine too — to her right, just within her line of vision. If I moved to another seat, she would complain. Not dramatically. Just enough to let me know.

    She needed to see me. After forty years, I suppose I needed to be seen.

    That chair is still there. I don’t sit in it.

    I used to think grief was something you went through when you lost someone very dear to you. But grief is more than that. So much more.

    It’s not just losing loved ones. Grief wears many faces.

    For the first two years after losing my wife, I was consumed by guilt. Guilt from being alive. Guilt from the feeling that I hadn’t done enough. Guilt from that niggling voice asking whether I could have pursued different avenues of treatment. I still feel it — to a lesser extent now — but when it resurfaces, the pain is intense. After a great deal of hard self-searching, I’ve learned to ride whatever storm comes. But it took time. It took work.

    Dealing with negative thoughts, with difficult feelings, and with the grief that surrounds us in everyday life — that is no small thing.

    Over the years I have lost both parents, my in-laws, and a very dear sister, who passed away soon after my wife. The recovery time from one loss to the next was very short. Other losses — work colleagues, friends, neighbours — I got through in their own separate ways. The pain varied. Some grief was short-lived; some lasted months. Why that was, I will never fully know.

    So when I lost my wife, I thought it would be the same. I would deal with it. I always had.

    The knot in my throat told me otherwise.

    What surprised me most was this: the losses of people I had loved deeply — my parents, my sister — hadn’t broken me the way losing her did. And I don’t know why. Is it the nature of that particular love? Is it the length of a life built together? Or is grief simply too complex to be measured or compared?

    I may never know. But I’ve stopped expecting it to make sense.

    Those first days and weeks brought a sadness I had never experienced — one that engulfed me in ways I hadn’t thought possible. Especially when the mourners had gone home. When my son and daughter had returned to their lives. When I came back to a house so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

    Forty years of memories filled that silence. The laughter — always the laughter. The food choices, the clothing, the smells around the house, the TV programmes we watched together. Small things. Enormous things. The list is endless.

    Just like grief.

    Some days I walk past her chair and barely notice it. Other days it stops me completely. I have never moved it. I don’t think I ever will.

    She needed to see me. I’m still here.

    –Anil J

  • A Walk That Changed My Day

    A Walk That Changed My Day

    There are walks you do to exercise, and walks that do something to you. Runnymede was the second kind.

    A Promise to Myself

    After I was discharged from hospital following my Covid illness in early 2021, I made myself a promise: I was going to get my life back. That promise started with walking. Not dramatic, long-distance walking — just putting one foot in front of the other and seeing where it took me.

    I took on a challenge to complete 31 days of walking ten thousand steps a day, and along the way I started discovering what the National Trust has quietly looked after for all of us — beautiful places tucked away in the English countryside, waiting to be found. I had no idea how many there were on my doorstep.

    Runnymede and Ankerwyke was one of them.

    Where History Meets the River

    Runnymede is a meadow on the banks of the River Thames, between Windsor and Staines in Surrey. It is where the Magna Carta was sealed on 15th June 1215 — and if you’re not sure what that means, don’t worry, I had to remind myself too. The Magna Carta was the document that established, for the first time, that even a king had to obey the law. It was the beginning of the rights and freedoms we take for granted today. That it happened here, on this quiet stretch of English meadow, is something I find remarkable every time I think about it.

    Standing on that ground puts your own troubles into perspective. At least it did for me.

    The Walk Itself

    The National Trust has done a really good job here. The paths are solid, the signage is clear, and everything is accessible — which mattered to me at that point, still getting my breath back after months of illness.

    One of the routes follows the River Thames, and it is genuinely lovely. Houseboats moored along the bank, small yachts going about their business, the occasional larger vessel passing through. And always the sound of the water — constant, unhurried, completely indifferent to whatever is going on in your life. I found that oddly comforting.

    The River Thames at Runnymede
    The River Thames at Runnymede — constant, unhurried, and oddly comforting

    Further along, the hard paths give way to grass and natural trails through the park itself. Wide open skies, big old trees, birds making a proper noise all around you. There’s a café too, and washrooms, and a large car park which makes the whole thing very accessible. But I’m getting ahead of myself — that’s not what I remember about this walk.

    The Moment That Stayed With Me

    What I remember is sitting down on a bench at the river’s edge. Close enough to the water that I could have trailed a hand in it.

    The birds carried on above me. A pair of swans went past and couldn’t have cared less that I was there. The river kept moving. And for the first time in a long time — after Covid, after losing my wife, after months of just trying to get through each day — I felt something close to peace.

    Nothing was fixed that day. I wasn’t suddenly better. But I didn’t need to be. I just had to sit there, by the water, and breathe.

    What It Has Given Me Since

    I’ve been back to Runnymede several times now. Each visit gives me something slightly different — sometimes it’s a clearer head, sometimes it’s just the pleasure of being outside and moving. What I’ve come to understand is that walking does something for the mind that it’s hard to get any other way. The rhythm of it, the fresh air, the simple fact of going somewhere — it breaks up the worry and the grief that can otherwise fill every quiet moment.

    Runnymede has become one of those places I go when I need to remember that the world is bigger than whatever is troubling me. I didn’t know that on my first visit. I just went for a walk.

    The twelve juror chairs at Runnymede
    The twelve juror chairs at Runnymede — a reminder of the Magna Carta’s enduring legacy

    Go and Find Your Own Place

    If you haven’t been to Runnymede, I’d say go. Take the river path, find a bench, sit for a bit. You don’t need a particular reason. Just a comfortable pair of shoes and a willingness to slow down.

    And if you already have a place like this — somewhere that helps you breathe more easily or think more clearly — I’d love to hear about it in the comments. These places matter more than we sometimes realise. Someone reading this might be looking for exactly what you’ve already found.

    — Anil

  • Where do you see yourself in 10 years?

    Where do you see yourself in 10 years?

    A comment by my daughter made me think.

    During many discussions about life in general, subjects crop up that many people do not want to talk about. One that is common is Death!

    I turned 70 this year.Hurrah! Taking into account all the things that life has thrown at me, making it upto here has been a journey.

    So will I make it to 80? That started a discussion in the kitchen, mug of tea in hand and thoughts of what the future could bring. Well, a war started and that alone has put question marks on where we’ll all be in 10 years.That question alone is a I know where I want to be, what I need to finish doing and the big question of health.

    I see challenges ahead, not insurmountable but never the less, still there. My daughter saw me with a backpack, two trekking sticks , wearing a windbreaker and my favourite woolly hat atop a mountain, no less!

    Did I see that? The picture yes but in reality I was holding a mug of tea.Sitting atop a breakfast chair in the kitchen Maybe, I’ll get the tealeaves read. That will surely predict my future!!

  • Where I Am Now — A Health Update

    Where I Am Now — A Health Update

    Some of you have been with me since the very beginning of this blog. You followed my New Beginnings diary in early 2022, when I set out to reverse my diabetes and lose weight following Dr Mosley’s 8-week blood sugar diet. You cheered me on through the 1 Million Steps Challenge for Diabetes UK. You read about the Covid isolation ward, the breathlessness, the slow walk back to fitness.

    And then I went quiet.

    So I think you deserve an honest update. Here’s where things stand.

    The diabetes

    I have been a diabetic since 1992 — over thirty years now. When I started the New Beginnings diary, my blood sugar levels were not where they needed to be and my weight had crept up to 95kg. I set myself the goal of getting to 85kg and bringing those numbers under control.

    I successfully maintained my weight, achieving a level of 90 kgs that my doctor deems acceptable. While my blood sugar levels initially fluctuated, I established a routine that stabilized them. My HbA1c readings are now within the range that doctors consider to be in acceptable control. I’m pleased with this progress, and I consistently work to keep my glucose levels in check. Adopting a healthy, high-protein, low-carbohydrate diet has been a key factor in my success. I also commit to exercising daily, even if it’s just for thirty minutes. These health challenges certainly keep me proactive and engaged in my well-being.

    The walking

    Walking became my medicine after Covid. What started as circuits around the living room — genuinely, just walking from the lounge to the kitchen and back — became 10,000 steps a day, then a million steps for Diabetes UK, then regular outings with the Windsor and District Ramblers through the most beautiful corners of Berkshire, Buckinghamshire and Hampshire.

    I left the Ramblers about two years ago to go on my adventure abroad, but I kept up with my daily walks and soaked in all the nature around me. My favourite walks happen in the gorgeous Waterloo, Ontario, Canada, and I can’t help but feel so happy every time I’m there. Whenever I visit my sister, I make sure to take in those stunning views because Canada is just so beautiful and clean. The walking trails and paths that zigzag through the estates and beyond are like a dream for any nature fan. Recently, I had an awesome time doing a circular walk from Cooper’s Hill in Englefield Green, taking in the amazing Runnymede meadows, the beautiful River Thames, and checking out three incredible memorials: the John F. Kennedy Memorial, the Magna Carta Memorial, and the Air Forces Memorial. When I need some alone time to think, I love wandering around the peaceful Runnymede meadows, where every step makes me feel more relaxed.

    The general health picture

    Overall I am in a better place than I have been for many years. The combination of walking, eating well and staying active has made a real difference. I still manage my diabetes daily — it never fully goes away — but it no longer runs my life the way it once did.

    What’s next

    I’m back to writing regularly — or at least, that’s the intention! I have stories to tell, walks to share, and plenty more to say about the ongoing business of keeping body and mind in reasonable working order as the years tick by.

    If you’ve been here from the start, thank you for sticking around. If you’re new — welcome. Pull up a chair and stay a while.

    — Anil

  • Six Years On — Life After Loss

    Six Years On — Life After Loss

    Six years. That’s how long it’s been since I lost my wife.

    August 2019. A date that is burned into me in a way that nothing else quite is. She had been ill for years — I had been her carer, her companion, her everything — and yet when the moment came, nothing truly prepares you for it. The house that had been full of her presence became something else entirely. Quieter. Heavier. A different place.

    I wasn’t sure I’d write about this. I find it easier, sometimes, to write about walking — the paths, the weather, the people I meet along the way. Walking, I’ve discovered, is a very good way of not having to sit still with your thoughts. But the thoughts find you anyway. They always do.

    The first years

    The first two years after losing her were the hardest of my life. That’s saying something, given that the years before — watching her decline, being her carer, holding everything together while quietly falling apart myself — were not easy either. But grief in those early years was total. It was in every room, every meal, every quiet evening, in the music, the TV shows, the clothing etc.

    Then Covid came, and I spent ten days in an isolation ward not knowing if I would come home. In a strange way, that experience shook something loose in me. When I was discharged and began the slow walk back to health, I made myself a promise: I was going to live. Really live. Not just get through the days.

    Six years on

    What do I say about the past six years? They have been challenging, yet deep down, I felt that she would have wanted me to embrace life and even seek companionship again. We had had conversations about this long before her illness, discussing the difficult topic of “what will you do when I die?” This was a reality we both acknowledged, regardless of who would face it first. To be candid, even with those discussions, I wasn’t truly ready for the heartache that came with her passing. According to Hindu customs, the first fifteen days of mourning seem to go by in a blur, filled with well-wishers that leave little room for personal grief. The true weight of loss hits when that support fades away, leaving an overwhelming sense of emptiness. Honestly, if it weren’t for my work, I fear I would have found it incredibly difficult to manage. Recently, my niece, who is navigating her own journey through grief, asked me how I coped, reminding me of the need for connection and understanding in these trying times.

    And truly, taking it one day at a time was how I navigated the pain of my loss and feelings of loneliness. It brings me joy to share that I’ve made significant progress, embracing a new chapter in my life since retirement, where I’ve learned to live for myself and find happiness again.

    What she would have made of all this

    I know that my wife would have felt immense pride in me. She would have celebrated my accomplishments, particularly the milestone of receiving my first medal for completing a million steps. I find myself yearning for a little self-praise, too. The Ramblers truly transformed my life; I forged new friendships, discovered hidden walking paths, and savored wonderful moments with great company. When I close my eyes and think of my wife, I envision her radiant smile, reflecting the joy that she genuinely embraced.

    Carrying on

    Grief, I’ve learned, doesn’t end. It changes shape. It becomes part of you rather than something that is happening to you. There are days when it is very heavy and days when it sits more quietly. I have learned to be grateful for both — the heavy days remind me how much she mattered, and the quieter ones remind me that I am still here.

    And I am still here. Writing, walking, getting on with it. She would have expected nothing less.

    — Anil

  • A Memorable Experience

    A Memorable Experience

    Some memories never fade; they linger in the quiet spaces of our minds, surfacing when we least expect them. This is one of those memories—an incident from 2010, when my wife and I were flying back from Mumbai, India. It was a journey that changed everything.

    We had attended a wedding before spending a blissful week in Goa. But beneath the joy of that trip, there was an undercurrent of concern. My wife was already at the onset of health issues that would go on to test us all, especially our family. We left for the airport, exhausted but ready to head home to the UK. However, traveling on staff tickets comes with its own set of uncertainties, and we soon found ourselves offloaded from our flight. The next available flight wouldn’t depart until 10 p.m., leaving us stranded at the airport at 11 a.m., weary and frustrated.

    With over fourteen hours of wakefulness behind us, exhaustion was creeping in—more so for my wife, whose health was fragile. Fortunately, one of her cousins had an apartment in Mumbai, and we decided to spend the waiting hours there. While I could sense the mounting tension, I did my best to hold it together for her sake. She managed to sleep for a couple of hours, and by evening, we made our way back to the airport.

    Finally, some good news—business class seats. It was a welcome comfort after an already taxing day. My wife, now in a wheelchair, was visibly drained. I, too, was beyond tired, but there was a sense of relief as we boarded. The flight took off on time, and as we settled into our seats, I allowed myself to drift into sleep.

    Then, barely two hours into the journey, I was jolted awake by a stewardess. My wife had suffered an epileptic fit and had lost consciousness. A call for medical assistance was made, and by sheer luck, three doctors were on board. One of them examined her and determined that her blood pressure and glucose levels were dangerously high. The co-pilot took me aside and informed me that we would have to divert to Dubai—the nearest airport.

    The moment the plane touched down, an ambulance was waiting. As my wife was rushed to the medical center, the reality of the situation hit me like a storm. The flight took off without us, leaving me alone in a foreign airport, my mind spiraling with worst-case scenarios. A hundred thoughts ran through my head, none of them comforting. But amidst the fear, there was a single hope—that she would wake up.

    And then, she did.

    As she opened her eyes in the stark white hospital room, she turned to me, confusion flickering in her gaze.

    “What are you doing here?” she asked. “Am I dead?”

    For a moment, I was taken aback. Then I realized—the pristine white walls, the nurses, the doctors in white coats—she thought she was in heaven. I almost laughed, despite everything.

    She was later transferred to a local hospital, where a thorough check-up, including a CT scan, revealed the truth—two lesions on her front temporal lobe. One from a mini-stroke she had suffered in 2005, the other from untreated epilepsy. It was a revelation that deepened the weight of what she had been silently battling.

    Throughout this ordeal, one unexpected presence stood by our side—the British Airways Area Manager. She remained with us, offering support beyond what duty required. In those dark hours, her kindness was a beacon.

    We eventually made it home, safe but forever changed. This experience left me questioning what unseen forces were at play that night, and what higher power might have been watching over us. Because, looking back, I know—it could have been much worse.

    I write this now because I dreamt of it. The memory surfaced, vivid and unshakable, taking me back to those uncertain hours. And with it came the reminder of my wife—her strength, her resilience, and the life we shared. She passed away in 2019, but moments like these keep her alive in my heart.

    Some memories never fade. Some stories demand to be told.