You were never one
to take up space with noise
instead, you moved quietly,
the kind of presence
that never needed announcing
to be felt.
In those early years
of first love and soft rebellions,
you hovered at the edges
a gentle presence,
neither intrusive nor distant,
but always there.
Later, when life turned fragile,
as my father began his slow goodbye,
you showed up again
checking in,
offering comfort in the simplest of ways.
A gentle presence
that asked for nothing in return.
You never tried to define your place
in anyone’s story,
but somehow,
you were part of mine
woven through love, loss,
and quiet resilience.
And now,
as another voice from that generation fades,
I find myself mourning not just you,
but the vanishing art
of quiet care.
Rest softly, Uncle Prasanna.
You were part of the love stories,
the heartbreaks,
and the healing.
Always quietly,
but always there.
