Loss is something that each one of us experiences. In some form or the other, at some point of time or the other.
As a child, my first brush with loss was when my grandfather passed away. I was 5. A short and frenzied landline call. Panic among the adults. Pouring rain as the windshield viper swept it away. My dad, driving our trusty old Fiat, tears streaming down his face, and little me next to him looking puzzled and wondering where Thatha could have gone that he couldn't return.

There is a certain visceral feeling one experiences when coming to terms with grief. For me, it starts with feeling like I've been punched in the gut, followed by being unable to hear anything or focus on anything after. The tears well up soon after and my chest feels tight, like I can't breathe. And then, an outpouring.

Yesterday, I found out that a friend had suddenly passed away - just a day after a fun conversation and playing silly games with him and a few others, on Clubhouse. We had all known him for just a little over a month or two; but the impression he left on all of us was incredible. And so all of us felt shattered beyond belief.
We'd all only heard his voice and seen pictures, but he was one of those people who radiated warmth and light. He was kind, gentle and had a quietly modest sort of air about him. He loved cats, books, music, travel and was a huge part of a community I was in about ADHD. He was also very vocal about queer and Dalit rights, and most knew him by his infectious laugh.
Conversations with him were always a mix of fascinating and fun. he was also my co-host for a Clubhouse room I did every Saturday. It was all about music - playing it, talking about it and taking recommendations, all to come together in one Spotify playlist called The Playlist That Never Ends. A title that seems cruel in the circumstances...
Today, as I listen to Midnight in Harlem, Lanchi Binye, Space Oddity, and a ton of other incredible songs he recommended to us, I feel those familiar physical sensations I described above. I realise that time doesn't dictate friendship, that grief is something we each experience differently, in different degrees.
Some of us think back on the fun times, and revisit familiar times. Some of us let it all out in tears. And sometimes, there is a numbness, a loss of words, an inability to comprehend anything. Sometimes, there's all of the above.

I think of his family, his friends, and all the people whose lives he influenced, knowingly or unknowingly. I often wonder why it's the lives that shine the brightest, that end so soon.
To JD.
You were light, kindness and laughter.
We'll all miss you terribly.
And we'll make sure the music lives on for you.