AS a child, I believed the world was nothing but rainbows and butterflies. In my little bubble, happiness was the default, and pain was just a concept I had yet to grasp.

Not aware that life weaves moments of joy and suffering into one seamless reality.

At the age of five, the walls of my innocence cracked in a way I could never undo nor ignore. That sunny day, I was at the hospital with my grandparents for their weekly checkups. I held my grandmother’s weathered hand as we stepped inside.

The almost nostalgic scent of disinfectant hit my nose, sharp and sterile. The not-so-cool air-conditioning hummed around us while I blissfully trot along the hallway, unaware of the weight the walls carried.

They brimmed with memories, so full they felt ready to overflow, traces of laughter, relief, heartbreak and hope pressed into every corner, unseen but lingering.

Curious and wide-eyed, I followed my grandparents through the hospital corridors, quietly observing those around me. The waiting area wasn’t just a room – it held frailty, fear, and hope. A man clutched his chest, breath shallow and a mother rocked her pale child, whispering reassurances through a voice strained by desperation I couldn’t yet comprehend.

The writer’s late grandfather, Palanivelu (pic), whom she misses dearly, has inspired her to truly live, love deeper and treasure every fleeting moment. — Photos: MEENATSHI PALANIVELU

Not all faces showed sorrow – some smiled quietly, eyes bright with hope. The air was thick with unspoken emotions, as if the walls had absorbed years of stories. Doctors passed briskly, faces unreadable, carrying burdens I still struggle to comprehend.

We waited for hours on worn chairs outside the clinic. My legs swung restlessly while my grandparents sat in calm familiarity. I glanced at my grandfather, Palanivelu Arumugam Chettiar – who once carried me on his back – now quiet, with a weary smile.

He caught my curious gaze and gave me that same bright grin. Then the nurse called his name. As he stood, I saw it: the wince, the stiffness, his body quietly betraying him. For the first time, I felt it – an unspoken truth settling in my chest. The world held not just laughter, but also pain – silent, real and wrapped around us all.

And the worst part? No one could stop it – not doctors, medicine, nor the cold, sterile walls that had witnessed more suffering than I ever would.

Through watching her grandparents age and grow frail, the writer (pictured) came to understand that life holds both joy and sorrow in equal measure.

Twelve years passed, but the memory lingered. I watched my grandparents grow frail – my grandpa’s strength slipping away, though his bright, innocent smile never faded. On May 25, 2024, three months before I turned 18, he passed away. The calloused hands, the warm hugs, the voice calling my name, the smile that made me feel safe – gone.

That day, standing beside his still body, I recalled the hospital waiting room – the quiet anguish, the unspoken hope that someone could make it all untrue.

But it was too late. The doctors couldn’t save him. I couldn’t save him. Now, I hope to become a doctor – not just to heal, but to honour his memory. To see the same fleeting smile he had when the right medicine brought him relief, to walk the halls he knew so well – halls that became more like home than anywhere else.

Maybe by easing others’ pain, I can hold onto the warmth and calm his presence gave me.

If I can offer even a glimpse of that comfort, it will all be worth it. Time won’t wait, nor can we rewind to our dearest memories – so I’ve chosen to truly live, love deeper, and treasure every fleeting moment.