On grieving: How to hold space for someone’s grief, when holding on to yours too
- Akkta Panwar
- May 28
- 8 min read
It was a casual Wednesday morning, until a blue ceramic bowl broke. It happened when I was frantically trying to clean a neglected corner of my kitchen—one of those spaces hidden beneath a pull-out trolley where dust and memories gather. The bowl wasn’t special in any conventional sense. It wasn’t part of a set or an heirloom. Just a lone blue bowl, no pair, no obvious provenance. But I knew it had belonged to my parents—one of many oddments from their early life together in the 1980s. By default of geography, I’ve inherited most of their kitchen knick-knacks. My mother scoffs at some of them—especially an old melamine dinner set with Shah Jahan and Mumtaz locking eyes in a warm embrace on each piece of the set. Imagine seeing them a total of thirty-two times in your kitchen on a daily basis. A romantic impulse of my father’s, she sighs. Her pragmatic Leo self does not have the callings for such whims, while his moody Cancerian nature would melt at very such things. They sure made a unique pair, my parents that is. My sister and I have solemnly decided the fate of the other set of star-crossed lovers, they will find their forever home in the mountains, in her dream home, finally at rest and able to gaze at each other in peace, untouched by time or scrutiny or the backs of rickety delivery trucks, moving them from one kitchen to the other.
Slideshow: Cooking and eating is a thing of joy
But back to the bowl—when it shattered into pieces, something inside me cracked too. I wasn’t particularly attached to it, but I was deeply undone by its breaking. With a broom in one hand, and anticipation in the other, I found myself sitting on the kitchen floor, crying—loud, messy sobs that took me by surprise. It wasn't about the bowl. It was about what the bowl quietly held: my grief. That quiet, familiar ache. The one that sneaks up on an otherwise ordinary, beautiful Wednesday. The grief that you live with, but is decent enough to stay hidden unless provoked or summoned. That doesn’t depart, just softens its edges. That refuses to break up with you. Even 25 years after its first appearance in your life. What did I do next? Well, I did exactly what I am asked not to do in these cases, I engaged with every thought and emotion that came up. I wondered why that bowl triggered or rather unleashed all of these feelings. Maybe it was because I associated the bowl to my father, who would have randomly picked it up on one of his travels. Or found it at a remarkably slashed price and would have gotten into a conversation with the vendor about his love for paan, or pani puri. The bowl was just another device for me to time travel to a moment I may not have even existed. And maybe that’s why it was important, it connected me to my father in ways I can never fathom.
This year is his 25th death anniversary. And ever since the clock struck midnight on January 1st, my family’s collective grief has been looming in the ether, more reachable, more pronounced and even more omnipresent, every single day.
What is it about twenty-five years? Is it more significant than two or ten or eighteen? I think it’s this: I couldn’t ever imagine life without him for this long. In the fog of early loss, I didn’t have the courage to see so far ahead. But life has a way of finding a way. And somewhere along the way, I began to live again—dream again. I assumed that by 2025, the grief would be tidy, manageable. I’d be stronger. Healed. But healing is not a finish line. It’s a loop. The pain from that day—how the news knocked the wind out of our lungs—is still fresh. There’s no neat arc to this story—no “moving on”.
Sometimes I still feel I am a 13-year-old body again, like on the kitchen floor that morning. Grief is actually the best time traveller, and it takes you on flights you perhaps shouldn’t be on. It keeps pulling you back, even when all you want to do is barge into the future. And just when I had thought I had tucked it away gently, someone else’s grief came knocking at my door.
A friend messaged later that morning, “Are you free at noon?” That’s adult-speak for: I need you. “I lost a friend last night.” My body tensed. My own grief reawakened. But I knew that moment wasn’t about me. It was hers. And she needed someone to hold space. But how do you hold space for someone when your own emotions take up so much space? How do you pass a life jacket to someone, when you yourself are drowning. Luckily for me, after a few missteps, I have learned to be there. It has been an act of resistance, and of undoing what I knew about my own grief perhaps, and definitely about second chances, or even third.
Two decades ago, I made the mistake of not showing up for a grieving friend. His cousin had died by suicide, and when he called to inform me about it, I disappeared into my own spiral. I didn’t attend the funeral. I wasn’t there to sit in silence with him. It took me years to admit even to myself that I’d let my grief become a reason to not choose kindness. And this was after my friend had shared so vulnerably about his cousin’s mental health. About the impending sense of losing him, someday. And of wanting me by his side if it were to ever happen. Yet, I disappointed not just him, but myself. And when I finally realized what I had done, it was too late. His grief was now locked away, just like mine, he didn’t need me by his side to deal with it.
I often think about this incident, and wonder if it made me feel like my grief was any lesser than his. Or perhaps, I was just a kid, unhealed and unsure how to be there for someone when my own heart was aching. For years after, I did not attend a funeral or prayer meet. Most people would give me a free pass on such occasions; But I think it was out of pity. Until I decided to change the narrative, and attend the prayer meet for a friend’s father whose death was untimely and sudden. I remember folding my hands and praying for him, and greeting her entire family who were distraught and barely themselves at that point. It was my way of showing up, and of growing up, and for a few moments getting out of my own head.
If you, like me have ever been unsure about what to do when someone needs you in their mourning or grieving phase, I hope this helps you, like it helped me.
Put a pin on it (your grief)
This doesn’t mean you are not acknowledging your own grief, but it just means that for some time, you are not going to let it dictate your emotions, thoughts and needs. As an adult, it’s possible to hold yourself accountable and be there for others.
Meet them wherever they are
Most of the times, we ourselves don’t know what we need when we are grieving, perhaps it is to turn back time. Since that’s not possible, do the next best thing. Try to be there in whichever way the person wants you to be there. Most often, the best thing is to ask them, “What can I do for you?”. Some need silence, others need tight hugs and some of us just need to know we’re not alone. Remember that this can change, so ask as many times as it is polite to. Give them what they ask for, not what you think they need.
Do not fix. Fixate. Or advise.
People stricken by grief are fragile, do not try to push your own agendas or healing therapies or “what worked for me” quotes. Honestly, don’t be an asshole and give them any advice unless it is about eating something, or resting for a bit. There will come a time when they can listen, but initially they just want to be seen or heard or be held. Nobody can “fix” them, they are not a broken bowl. Offer presence, not platitudes.
Take nothing personally.
This is so important but most of us forget it. We tend to take everything too personally. Someone who has been struck with a tragedy is not really wanting to attack you, but sometimes we can say things in the moment, especially about God and religion and faith. It’s the process of grieving, you question everything. Please pack your feelings in a gunny sack and keep them there for a bit.
Tend to yourself, quietly.
If you don’t know how to be there for yourself, you can’t be there for anyone else. Whenever you need to, and whatever you need to do to fill your own cup, do it! There is only as much as you can hold within you. Seek a friend, a journal, a walk. Know thyself to know others.
Apart from that Wednesday, I grieve differently now. I can joke about it. Casually dropping dark humour about death and dying into conversations. Friends freeze or squirm; I feel lighter. Perhaps because I get to control my narrative, something that fate didn’t allow otherwise. Or maybe it’s a new defense mechanism to deal with the Godforsaken grief. That stays even after you have mourned well, which in my case I didn’t. I didn’t cry at for three years after. And so, what I did not mourn back then, I have to grieve now. The difference between mourning and grieving, I think, is this: one is allowed to be visible; the other is always dealt with in seclusion. Mourning ends after a few weeks. Grief never does. As a Hindu, we are given 13 days to be precise, that’s when the world knows you’re mourning, so they tread lightly around you. But how do you make someone know you’re grieving? You don’t. You can’t assume. You shouldn’t rather. And mostly, you should leave people alone to deal with their grief. Time helps; A good cry does too. And if nothing else, it gives me a really good glow. Else there’s always a drug of choice easily available. I know that is dark, but is to be taken lightly.
Slideshow: Some things that always give me joy: Nature, Art, Carbs and looking back
Eventually, as I got back to life, I put the pieces of the bowl away. I couldn’t get myself to throw them. Not yet. It’s been weeks now. My mother is always pointing out to me that I am like my father in this respect, holding on to broken things and hoping to use them after putting them back together. Sometimes I forget those things for eternity, but now I think I’ll learn kintsugi—the Japanese art of repairing broken ceramics with gold. Not to restore the bowl to what it was, but to make something new, and stronger.
I wonder if we could kintsugi relationships too?
Maybe that’s the next thing I try—after the bowl. It won’t resist. It won’t run. Now if I could only find a human equivalent who would oblige and stay that still.
You write beauty, sheer beauty.
It made me time travel and that too so beautifully