I never imagined having to experience the loss of a loved one. I've been privileged in that sense, I guess. Or, I was.

On January 16, 2018, my grandfather passed away of old age in his home in Madurai, Tamil Nadu, India. It was unexpected news for us to hear. When we came to know of the details, it twisted the knife of the news further into the hearts of my mother and I. The day of his passing, he had called all five of his children to converse, as any parent does. When it's evening time in India though, it's mid-day here in the United States. That day, my mother had called him in the morning (US time 7 a.m., India time 5 p.m.) and talked to him, like she did daily.

Her first question would always be "Have you eaten?", a custom in India. Seeing as how cooking and food is the center of the culture, this query demonstrates the highest level of compassion and care for someone. Going back to the day, my mother has often said she recalls that he sounded different than a usual — a bit down, and he just didn't sound like his usual, jolly self. After that phone call, he had made about five other calls that evening, around 8 pm India time, to the following people: my two eldest aunts, and my dad. When my grandfather called my father, it was 7 pm and my dad didn't pick up. He did, however, inform my mom that Thatha (grandpa) had called, and my mom decided to just call him the next morning instead.

My grandfather died at 11 pm in India, and my mother didn't find out until it was 2 am there, 4 pm here. She then came to pick me up from my internship. In the early hours of the morning, it seems he had stood up to catch his breath and then passed, falling onto the floor. My grandmother found him a few hours later, face down. Having back pain and arthritis herself, she wasn't strong enough to turn him over and had to turn to the help of neighbors instead-a devastating situation for any spouse to experience. It was almost as if he knew it was his last day when he made those last calls to his loved ones.

My mother found out over a text message from her second oldest sister while I was at my internship. When she came to pick me up that evening, I threw my backpack in the backseat of her red 2007 Honda Fit, grabbed my phone, and slouched in the front passenger seat. I wasn't immediately aware of the strange atmosphere in the car until after we had pulled out of the parking lot of the Women's Clinic where I worked and onto the highway. The feeling didn't come to me in the form of words but in the form of a dead silence. It was so quiet that I could hear the weird, strained exhalations of my mother's lungs. And that was never something that happened in our car. I first assumed that she must have just had a frustrating day at her job as a university research professional. But it was the lack of the radio playing overproduced pop music that made my mind slow down and contemplate if something was wrong. She wouldn't look at me, and she wouldn't turn away from the window. What happened next were these exchanged words, in my mother tongue of Tamil, but roughly translated into English:

"What happened, Amma (mother)?"

*more silence, and then the whimpering, pained, grief-stricken voice of my mother*

"My Appa (father) passed away."

My heart froze, stopped, skipped, panicked. My heart did everything but act normal. And the sobs flew out, first out of my mouth, then out of my mothers. Here we were, sitting in traffic, experiencing the highest level of grief I had known. Two women, crying for the loss of the most amazing, good-hearted man in our lives. For my mother, it was her father. For me, it was my only extended family member who loved me endlessly, even though he only saw me four times after we moved to the United States. He raised me for my first year of life and had to let me go as my father pursued the American Dream. After that, a three month stay in my home country in 2007. Eight years later, a two month stay in my mother's hometown. Three months later, an extremely grainy video chat call, facilitated by my cousin's smartphone. Two more years later, a week's stay in my grandfather's home. And then never again.

My mother was devastated, as any child would be. For a long time after that day, I hated that I was born, and I hated we were living in the US, because it meant that she was unable to go to his funeral. Being more than 9,000 miles away meant she couldn't fly to her family before they cremated him. And it meant she couldn't send him off, because she had to think of me and my well-being if she left to send him off.

The following week, I felt as if a higher power (God, Mother Nature, your choice) was sending my mother and I signs. The day after he passed, I was able to get out of school because of snow days and we just spent the week indoors- alternating between who comforted who. In the end, I was the one who soothed her while she tried fall asleep in her own tears.

Little me, and big me.Instagram.

I have always resented myself for not calling him more. I would occasionally talk to him during my mother's phone calls, and he'd always tell me to eat well, to study well, to make everyone proud by becoming a doctor, and to be at the top of my class. And he'd always always mention that he had my school pictures by his bedside and prayed for me at night.

I can't even remember his voice now.

Chubby me.Instagram.

I also hate myself for not writing him more letters. When I visited India in 2015, he had mentioned he wanted us to write letters back and forth. I pride myself in the fact that I was the only grandchild of his who he wanted to write a letter to. Granted, I didn't get to grow up very close to him, so the letter is all I have. In his day, he was the smartest student and was excellent at English. He always received the top marks in his school for his papers and English exams. One story of his scholarship is about how he was the only student in his class who knew the plural form of the word "ox". I guess that's where I got my knack for writing and spelling from. When I visited, he'd always quiz me on grammar and spelling. He even asked me the famous "ox" question. He wrote me a lovely letter-the only letter I have from him- in a flower design notebook. It's sixteen pages long. My letter to him was at most two pages front and back.

His letter is the beautiful story of his upbringing, his education, and his family. It spans his entire lifespan and even includes funny stories about my mother. Along with the letter/novel, he sent pictures of his family, my mother, my grandmother, and a peacock feather: the national bird of India. My mother owns the first camera he ever bought. I own his pocket watch. But the letter is perhaps one of my most cherished belongings. And now, it's all I have left of him.

My mom is in the front row, near the edge of the boat. With the pigtails.Instagram.

I always try to make those around me proud; not for narcissism, but so I can do my best to only be a positive influence in their lives. But since he passed, one of my inner wishes is to make him the proudest of all my relatives. I never experienced the privilege of growing up around him, so in a way, I always feel like I was at a disadvantage compared to my cousins when it came to family and togetherness. Even today, I don't feel entirely connected with all of them. That's the way life is though; sacrifices and hardship. Regardless, I want to live a life that will live up to his name. I want to build a health clinic in his name, hopefully in my birthplace of Madurai- the city he helped construct as a top government engineer in Madurai. I currently don't have a middle name, but one day, I want to change my name so that my name includes his. Engineer Ramiah's granddaughter, who studies and lives in America, but who is still Tamil, through and through: Suvitha Ramiah Viswanathan.

On his one year death anniversary, as I write this article, my only thoughts are the last words he ever wrote me. I'll end with that. If you've read this far, thank you.

"To my Grandchild Suvitha in America. Grandfather and Aachi (Grandmother) of Nachikulam. May the Almighty shower His blessings on you and enlighten the path of your life and the precious family. Signed, Thatha and Aachi. Madurai, April 2016."

I am blessed to be your granddaughter. Thank you for loving me as your own daughter. I love you. Rest in peace.