March 28th - usually, a time of celebration - cake, greeting cards and masala dosa. I wasn't around for the last two years, and, this year, the birthday boy himself wasn't. I miss him. I miss his unconditional love - the selfless giving, without expecting anything in return. I miss his presence in the home, on his chair, reclining on the sofa, watching the TV with me, eating dinner in his own sloppy way, which would irritate me back then. His silly jokes - I must have inherited my love for PJs from him , his singing, his meal-time stories, his little habits and quirks . I miss his hands - gnarled - and his writing - small and neat, in all those letters he wrote to me while I was in hostel. I miss resting my head on his pot belly and cuddling up to him. I miss him saying "Good night, sleep well, sweet dreams , sweet Chetana" in the sing song ritual that we used to have. I wish I could take back some of the harsh words that I had said to him, and give him one tight hug and tell him I love him. Funny how you sometimes get what you wished for and realise you never wanted it. Funny how you sometimes lose something you have always taken for granted and then, realise how priceless it was. Some losses are just nonrecoverable .