Grief is in two parts.

Her eyes resembled storm clouds, ominous and weighed down with despair. The gravity of her suffering hung over her like a somber veil, casting a pall over her countenance. The tears that trickled down her cheeks were akin to raindrops on a windowpane, tracing a path of sadness on her face. But within the depths of her eyes, there glimmered a spark of light, like a beam of sunshine piercing through the clouds. It was a sign of her indomitable spirit and resolute determination to overcome the darkness that threatened to engulf her.

This was my closest and most cherished friend, Dua, who lost her father to cardiac arrest last September. Every summer vacation had been the most joyous time of our lives when I used to visit her family's abode with my parents. We would play in the streets, savor ice creams, relish dinners together, and then doze off while listening to our fathers discuss politics. However, this year was different. When my parents and I arrived at their house, the usual ebullient and lively atmosphere was missing, and we had to enter on our own. I met everyone and went to look for Dua. I found her seated on the antique Indian rope bed, where her father loved to sip tea and read the daily newspaper. I called out to her, "Dua!" and her head swiveled towards me, revealing one of the most beautiful smiles I had ever seen. No one had ever been this elated to see me or had hugged me as tightly as Dua always did. We embraced each other, and then even tighter. This helped us to release all our pent-up worries and frustrations from the months when we hadn't been together. Conversations and video calls couldn't compare to the experience of being physically present with someone.

Dua held my hand and led me to the rope bed, where we lay down. She lamented about how life had dealt her a cruel hand. I gazed at her, attempting to find the right words to comfort her. But what could I say? She had lost her father, whom she dearly loved. All I could utter after a moment's reflection was, "It's difficult!" To which she responded,

"It was. Initially, it was arduous, almost impossible to breathe. Until I realized that Baba had left behind so much for me - this family and house, his books, his journals, and much more, for me to cherish and be optimistic about. In one of his journals, Baba had inscribed, 'To live is to love, to love is to live.' The journals bear testimony to the profound bond we shared and the love he had for us and everyone. I am overwhelmed with gratitude for having him in my life. Gradually, I came to understand that my grief is merely an extension of the love I hold for him. It is all the love I want to bestow but cannot; all that unexpressed love that has nowhere to go. But now, I comprehend. To love him is to love me, to become a better person so that I can make him proud. I have found my way. Therefore, I would say that life is good, not hard! I have to stay strong and handle it on my own, without Baba by my side. We have grown up. Do you know? I love my Baba, so much!"

That was the only occasion when I had seen her so strong, and her words struck me deeply. "To love is to live, to live is to love." How exquisite! Life becomes effortless when we begin to perceive grief in a new light that it is not something to be ashamed of or to run away from. It is a natural expression of our love for what we lose, and it is something we could cherish and honor. With time, we find solace in our memories of our lost ones, and we know that they would always be with us, guiding us every step of the way.

Dua's journey through grief taught her that love and loss are two sides of the same coin. They are inseparable, and one cannot exist without the other. Her father may be gone, but his love will always be with her, strengthening her at every step of her life. Grief, she realized, was just another form of love; a love that had nowhere to go, but that would always be a part of her. It is a reminder that even in the darkest of times, love has the power to endure and heal.

From Dua's journey, I learned that everything happens for a reason. There's always a good side to all that happens in our lives. We can grieve over it but shouldn't allow it to consume us in a way that will leave us hopeless. Since that day, I have accepted everything as a new chance in my life. When I failed my entry test, I told myself that better at it rather than passing with an average score. The second time, I was one of the highest scorers on that test. If I had lost hope and accepted defeat, I wouldn't have made it to my dream college but I stayed resilient and positive about it and tried to get the best out of my situation.

Annie Roiphe says it right,

"Grief is in two parts. The first is loss. The second is the remaking of life."