17. A Piece of My Heart

 

It all began one luminous morning when I was twentyfive, confident in my shoes and determined in my stepping—yet something stayed behind the moment I kissed Jahnavi goodbye and left her at home with her grandmother. I was off to the office, believing I’d built a strong heart—but a little piece of it, fresh and bright, refused to come along.

When she turned one, the day I dropped her at the crèche was another parting—but this time, the weight was different. She hadn’t quite learned to eat by herself, didn’t babble the big words yet—and oh, how my heart thudded as I walked away. I would still discover that morninglight in her smile waiting for me after work, like a little sunbeam just for me.

Year after year, she became my courage, my calm, my cheerfulness incarnate. She was my daily dose of Purpose and Hope and Giggly Fun rolled into one. And when my son followed her into this world, she stepped up so naturally—as if she woke up one day and said, “Don’t worry, Mum, I’ve got him from here.” She took care of him at home, in the crèche, in school—practically the first parent he saw.

Her teachers, time and again, would ask, “But where was Jahnavi yesterday?” — “Why was the class so unruly without her?” I admit I used to chuckle: someone had paid to teach that class, yet they depended on my little girl to sort things out! When I wondered aloud how she kept forty kids in check, teachers simply smiled—as if to say it wasn’t magic, but matteroffact control. I believed it because at home, I needed her laugh to keep me going.

She also became my little schooladministrator: fee payments, diaries, holiday lists, exam rosters, sports day timelines—Jahnavi handled them all. She told me the schedule ahead of time, I just followed—she practically ran a school from the backseat of our car.

After she finished 12th, the farewell ceremony made her classmates tear up (and yes, my son too—when he realized school wouldn’t be the same without his sister). He somehow made it through another year without even buying a school diary—his handmedown of her organisation skills.

When it came time for her to stay as a paying guest at a friend’s parents’ home, I felt another piece of my heart being carried off—but I believed in letting her learn how to stand on her own. She always kept us looped in on her world—her routine, her updates, her triumphs—while growing stronger each day.

I had my dreams mapped out: she would come home after her undergraduate in Mumbai, do postgrad here, find a lovely life—maybe meet someone special when the time was right. But then she announced: “Mom, I’m going to the U.S. for my PG.” Another part of me flew away, but only in the physical sense. I’d loved how school taught her to spread her wings. I couldn’t clip them now—even if my heart ached.

I remember packing for that international trip: I was confident we had three suitcases covered at 23 kg each. Two of them maybe totaled 69 kg in my head—but oh, the airport scale threw them off. She had to buy another suitcase, shuffle everything, and I swear even the conveyor belt was judging us. I stood there and didn’t realize half my heart had slipped into her suitcase.

The next day, I was in my office, screen blinking with live flight status updates. My beloved Jahnavi was soaring above oceans—building a life of her own. Though she wasn’t physically with me, my best wishes circled her like confetti clouds.

In May 2019, we flew out for her convocation. I hugged her tight—felt her presence like sunshine on a chilly morning—and when she left us again outside the Fairfield Marriott, standing for her car pickup, my feet turned to jelly. Another piece of me went with her.

Since then, every airport goodbye, every time zone crossing—my heart still gets slightly numb for days. We visit Boston sometimes; she visits Mumbai a couple times a year. Each reunion fills me with sunlight; each departure leaves me missing.

I whisper to the sky whenever I see her off: “Be safe. Be happy. Be brilliantly independent. And come back soon.” Because my heart knows it's always safer when held in her embrace.

I’m waiting impatiently for the day when it’s just she and I, windchimes and laughter and maybe latenight chai on the balcony—maybe when she becomes a mother herself and relives the magic of being in my arms again. Those few days together will be when I reclaim all those little pieces of my heart I left behind. Until then, I rest in the joy of watching her fly—my toddler turned strong, brave woman—knowing that even above the clouds, our hearts keep beating in tune.