Ten More Minutes
If I could have ten more minutes with my sister Raji, I wouldn’t spend it trying to make sense of the loss. I wouldn’t ask the big questions or demand answers from the universe. I would simply be with her. Quietly, gently—like we used to sit on long car rides or under the jacaranda tree at Mum’s place, where everything felt still for a moment.
You never realise the infinite value of a moment until it becomes memory.
Raji wasn’t just my sister. She was my compass when life spun me around, the balm for wounds I never knew I’d speak of out loud. She saw the world differently—through a lens of empathy so deep it could heal others just by being near her. And she did heal people. Not just as a psychiatrist, but as a sister, a daughter, a mother, and a friend. Her presence made people feel safe. Important. Whole.
She did that for me.
When I came home from prison, broken in body and spirit, Raji didn’t flinch. She didn’t treat me as a cautionary tale. She reminded me I was still her brother. She cooked with me, laughed with me, and made space for my shame without feeding it. She didn't just help me heal—she helped me believe that healing was possible in the first place.
Our bond wasn’t perfect, but it was real. It was built over decades of shared glances across dinner tables, whispered jokes during church services, and long phone calls where neither of us had to pretend. She didn’t need me to be anyone but myself, even when I didn’t like who that was. That kind of love—the unconditional kind—is rare. It’s sacred.
There are so many things I miss. The way she’d tilt her head when she was deep in thought. The way her laugh broke out like a melody you wanted to hold onto. The sound of her flute filling the air on quiet Sunday afternoons. The warmth in her voice when she’d say, “Come over—bring the girls.” She loved my daughters as if they were her own, and I often think about what else she would have taught them—about resilience, music, love, and grace.
If I had ten more minutes, I’d tell her that I still carry her with me. That when I hold Uma and Lilah in my arms, I hear her voice telling me to be present, to be kind, to be better. I’d tell her I’ve tried to build something worthy of her memory. Not just in business, but in the way I show up for others. In the way I speak the truth, even when it trembles on my lips.
Ten minutes is such a short time. But when I close my eyes, I remember the ten-minute moments that mattered—the early morning cups of tea, the late-night drives to clear our heads, the quiet comfort of knowing she was always just a call away.
She taught me that love isn’t loud. It’s steady. It’s in the unnoticed things—the reminders to take care of yourself, the soft touches on your shoulder, the way she knew when I was lying even to myself.
I wish I could have ten more minutes to tell her all this. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe love, when it’s true, doesn’t need a grand declaration. It just needs to be lived—through every choice, every act of care, every person we choose to uplift because she once uplifted us.
So here I am, still loving her in everything I do. Still feeling her in the pauses between my sentences and the silence between my breaths.
Ten more minutes wouldn’t be enough.
But it would be everything.
