At the start of the pandemic, I hunkered down like everyone else. But as time went on and the death toll rose, I watched with anguish as my 10-year-old daughter struggled to understand her connection to the world. The benefit of empty roads and clean air was countered by the frustration of lost habits and a longing for human connection. Empathizing with my daughter was harder when I, myself, was confused and unable to bring a deep sense of understanding to her concerns. I was so lost in the black hole of Zoom meetings and other pandemic-related frustrations that it was easy to forget the necessity of showing unqualified love, concern, and attention—the sort of care I remember receiving from my grandmother.

It’s hard to have a deep understanding of loss and its connection to your heritage until the oldest person in your family passes away. In that sense, my grandmother’s death last September, at the age of 92, was a turning point for me. I had already lost my father; right before lockdown, I was able to return to Chennai to lay his body to rest under the same small lemon tree in the graveyard where his father and uncle had been buried. His death made me realize my own mortality, but it was more of a rational response than an emotional one. My grandmother’s death felt different. Like so many other families with elderly relatives, we worried throughout the pandemic that the virus would find her; yet she had always taken life by the reins. My grandmother had said she wanted to pass in her own house. She did, and it also felt like part of her plan that she passed calmly, on a sultry Sunday morning so similar to the many others when I would visit her.

When you realize that the last elderly person in the family is no longer there—that you’re the “elderly” generation—it creates a sense of true apprehension. In the past, whenever I was worried about some important decision or life moment, I could delegate some of the responsibility I felt to someone older than me. I leaned on my grandmother when I separated and divorced; I frantically called one of my uncles or my father when I had good news to share. I listened when my great-uncle told me how my great-great-grandfather had walked from Afghanistan to India, and how my great-uncle and his siblings had come by foot, from Rangoon to Chennai, after the British left. Those memories come rushing back when you sit alone and realize you are now the adult in the room.

Now it’s my turn to call and check on family, to be patient and listen to the younger generation. It’s my turn to show my younger cousins and my nieces and nephews the endless love and attention I always enjoyed. Being unprepared for that shift is an understatement, so I ask myself: What would my grandmother have done? At some point, she was thrust into the same position I’m in now. I remember seeing my grandmother’s smile, or hearing that smile in her voice whenever we spoke on the phone. In a materialistic world, that smile represents an immense love that requires nothing in return. The smile that just says I am always happy for you.

And, now, as I watch my daughter babble on about YouTube videos and the latest pop songs, I just smile the same smile. The circle of life does not confront you when you get your first grey hair or when your eyesight weakens. It confronts you when the generations before you hand over the mantle of elder as they smile on from above.

Mansoor Basha works in applied intelligence at Accenture and is an adjunct faculty member teaching digital marketing at NYU and Rutgers. He has shared stories of growing up in Dubai and Kuwait on RISK! and The Moth Radio Hour.

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