Petals in the Wind, Roots in Our Hearts

India Gazette

11-07-2025

By Suvir Saran
New Delhi [India], July 11 (ANI): Life does not end when the body rests. It does not dim when the breath quiets. For those who've loved, for those who've lived with grace, for those who've given of themselves unstintingly, unflinchingly, unselfishly -- they live on in ways no flame can ever snuff, no night can ever eclipse. When someone like my maa jaisi, my like-a-mother, my Maasi, my Aruna Maasi leaves, she does not leave us smaller -- she leaves us infinitely bigger, infinitely richer, infinitely fuller, even as we grieve.
Aruna Lakhwara -- Boo Maasi, Babbu, Boo -- was not just one woman. She was many women in one. A woman who could wear a chiffon sari with the elegance of an empress and slip into a little black dress and look like a million dollars. A woman who could run twelve, fifteen, eighteen miles in a day with the stamina of a champion, and then sit on a park bench and eat salted caramel ice cream like a shy schoolgirl. A woman who could speak softly but think sharply, whose smile could light a room but whose determination could silence one too. She was small in frame but so large in life, so vast in her presence that even now -- hours after she has gone -- she remains omnipresent, humming through our memories, shimmering through our DNA.
We all have an aunt like this. Don't we? The one who never seems to age, who dances when others demur, who stays up late when others tire. The one who remembers everyone's birthday and everyone's favorite dish, who tucks away stories and secrets like heirlooms, who knows just how to say the thing that needs saying. The one who stands in the corner of a crowded party and somehow commands the whole room's gaze, just by being herself -- poised, polished, radiant.
That was Aruna.
She was born into a family of four siblings, my mother being the eldest, then Aruna, then my uncle Sushil, the calm, Buddha-like doctor, and then my uncle Sunil, the August-born CPA, the youngest of them all. Together they were a quartet of love and laughter, of fierce loyalty and mutual pride, always each other's quietest confidants and loudest cheerleaders. Aruna always marveled at my mom's patience -- her ability to endure and endure and endure challenges and traumas without ever crumbling. She would look at me and say, Baba, how does she do it? Where does she find that strength? And she would say, she reminds me of our father, Chaman Lal Bhardwaj. And to my mom, Aruna reminded her of my grandmother Shanti Bhardwaj -- full of spunk, of spark, of unstoppable spirit. These siblings carried their parents forward in them -- my grandfather's grace, my grandmother's grit -- and passed it on to us. Every family has these sibling stories, these links to their parents, to their lineage, to something larger than themselves. That is how we stay connected to the past, how we keep our ancestors alive -- through the ways we laugh together, support each other, send each other off when the time comes.
And when her time came, she had her family at her side -- her brother Sunil, her daughter Anjali and her family, her son Vikram. To have her loved ones there at her bedside, holding her hand, must have meant the world to her. She couldn't have asked for a better send-off, a more loving circle around her.
How lucky they all were -- and how lucky we were -- to witness that kind of siblinghood. A lesson for all of us, really. That no matter how far we scatter, no matter how many decades pass, we must find each other, we must lift each other, we must show up at the very end, because nothing else really matters more than that.
Aruna understood that. She understood that love was not just a word but a practice -- something to be exercised, like her running shoes on San Francisco's rolling hills. Love meant showing up. Love meant planning for others even when you could have chosen ease for yourself. Love meant making mooli methi parathas in advance, filling the freezer because you thought I might visit, because you thought maybe, just maybe, summer would bring me home to you. Love meant not just cooking but consulting, not just hosting but listening, not just attending but dancing -- always dancing -- at every wedding, every party, every gathering where the music called her name.
Even in her late seventies, she was as young as a teenager. Her childlike spirit could not be dimmed, not even by pain or fatigue. She would come with Vikram and me to parties full of young people and thumping music, and she would smile, shimmy, sway. Never shy. Never afraid. Always radiant. That was her glory.
She traveled the world -- Morocco, India, Vietnam. I can imagine the people in Da Nang, Vietnam, watching this woman in her late seventies touring their streets with the zest of someone half her age, snapping photographs, laughing at herself on a camel, chatting with strangers, hungry for every sight, every sound, every sensation. She left memories behind everywhere she went -- little footprints of joy across continents. She taught people -- even strangers -- through her indefatigable hunger for living, loving, and not missing a moment. Always ready for a selfie, always ready to click a photo to mark a moment, always ready to be a friend to our friends, to smile at a stranger. She was always the youngest in the room -- not by years, but by heart.
She gave even the gym at my mother's home in South Extension, Delhi, a workout -- every machine gleamed because she'd used them daily. My mother, my brother Samir and I have never touched them, my sister Seema only occasionally. But Aruna gave them life. Just like she gave life to every place she entered.
She noticed things others missed. Every piece of jewelry I wore, every fabric that became an outfit -- she would comment on it. If not in the moment, then later -- with a call saying, That color on you, Baba. That drape on you. That was stunning. She noticed because she cared.
She taught me things in her quiet way. That quality mattered more than quantity -- in cookware, in clothing, in company. She introduced me to Le Creuset and showed me why it was better to own a few beautiful things than many poor ones. She lived that lesson -- and taught it in her quiet, insistent way.
She gave her love generously -- to her children, Anjali and Vikram, whom she admired and adored in equal measure; to her grandchildren, who were her pride and her joy; to her nieces and nephews, who each have a story of how she made them feel special, remembered, seen.
We remember her now in flashes -- in the gleam of her saris, the swish of her dresses, the shine of her smile. In the smell of mooli parathas hot off the griddle, in the feel of crisp Pacific Heights air on an early morning walk. In the shimmer of orchids blooming faithfully year after year on a balcony because she whispered to them as though they could hear. We remember her in the soft notes of a song, in the laughter of a party, in the hush of a moment when we miss her so much it feels like the air itself has been sliced open.
And yet -- she's still here.
Because life does not end when the body rests -- whether she is cremated or buried, her spirit remains unbound. The connection we share with those we love is not bound by geography or time or flesh. It moves into another plane, another plateau, another form -- subtler, stronger, more profound. She no longer belongs only to San Francisco or Saratoga or New Delhi. She belongs to all of us, everywhere, all at once. Omnipresent in our blood, in our bones, in our breath.
That's the thing about love. About loss. They teach you that presence is not a place. It's a feeling. And when we feel her -- when we feel that little urge to dance, that sudden craving for salted caramel, that unexpected admiration for a fine piece of cookware, that rush of joy when the orchids bloom again -- she is right there. With us.
Aruna's life -- her music, her movement, her magic -- is not something we bury. It is something we carry. Something we become. Something we pass on.
And so we grieve -- yes. We grieve because we loved her that much. But we also glow. Because she made us bigger, not smaller. Because she reminded us what it means to live with grace, to move through the world with style and substance, to wear life like a sari -- wrapped just right, draped in beauty, held up by poise.
We all have an aunt like her -- or wish we did. The one who makes us feel younger when she walks into the room. The one who reminds us of who we are when we've forgotten. The one who shows us, even in her absence, that love never leaves.
Tonight I think of her, walking those San Francisco hills, the Bay glinting in the distance, the air cool and salty, the music of her footsteps echoing up into the stars. She turns, smiles that knowing smile, and keeps going -- her discipline intact, her spirit unbroken, her presence eternal.
Rest, Boo Maasi. Dance. Sing. Walk the skies as you once walked the streets. Run forever through the stars.
You are everywhere now. You are everything now. You are us now.
And we will never stop feeling you. (ANI/ Suvir Saran)
Disclaimer: Suvir Saran is a Masterchef, Author, Hospitality Consultant And Educator. The views expressed in this article are his own.