98

You would've been such a kickass Ninety-eight year old, it's not even funny.

I can see you shaking your head in dismay, raising that eyebrow and disagreeing with the world. I think I got the Cooking gene from Mama but the fighter one from you. 

You are who I am. You have not died, or moved into another room waiting for us to join or whatever concepts may exist. 

You prevail. 

You are me. 

I see you in my eccentricities, my mood swings, my gemini-ness even though I'm as far as a month away, my grumpiness, my loud laughter, my hatred for each time even as little as a sock in my room is moved, the way I wash porcelain cups, the way I crave for green chilies, teh way I tie my shoelaces, my hidden way to love where no one finds out, especially not the beloved, my need for space, my need for authority and to set a house in order, my need to keep reaching for the stars, my fearlessness, my workaholic-ness, my love for music, my severe stage fright, my  love for all things fine and beautiful in life, my standards, my LOVE for rules and procedures, my love to break free, my love for the QUANTITY in food whether it's to cook or eat. What I didn't get was that hot face, that hairstyle (or lack thereof altogether, not complaining) and that height (COMPLAINING!)

I miss you

It's like living with a phantom limb.

You are me. 

I can never let you go

Happy Birthday Dada Jaan. 

Can't wait for your 100th