The sun was bright that Sunday morning, casting a golden hue over the garden. Little Mala stood by the gate, her chubby hands gripping the iron bars, her eyes eagerly scanning the road. She was barely five, her wheatish skin glowing under the warmth of the day, her hair tied up in two messy pigtails that swayed with her excitement. She was her parents’ only child, their pampered treasure, and today she was waiting for her favorite person in the whole world—Uncle John. Uncle John wasn’t like everyone else she knew. He wasn’t just her father’s friend; he was special. He always arrived with a bag full of chocolates and cookies, which he’d pull out like magic tricks just to make her smile. But it wasn’t just the sweets that made Mala adore him. There was something about the way he carried himself, how his words seemed to float on air, how he treated everyone with such care and respect. He had the air of a gentleman—polished, dignified, always dressed in crisp clothes that smelled faintly of expensive cologne. His kind smile and gentle gestures mesmerized her. Whenever he visited, she would sit beside him, clinging to every word as he spoke to her parents or shared stories about the world beyond their little home. He had the ability to make her feel like the most important person in the room. She knew he was important—he came from a wealthy family and held a reputation for being both brilliant and humble. But what Mala loved most was that she was his special little girl, and that meant everything to her.

She watched the road intently, knowing he would appear any moment now, his tall figure walking towards her with that familiar warmth in his eyes...

Years passed, as years do, and the little girl grew up, the Sundays of waiting at the gate slowly fading into distant memories. Mala stirred in her bed, the dim morning light filtering through the curtains. The familiar beep of her phone cut through her half-sleep, pulling her from the dream world she had been floating in. Her hand fumbled for the phone on the nightstand, her fingers tracing the edges of the screen before unlocking it. Her puffy eyes blinked against the brightness as the message loaded on her screen. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror across the room—crow’s feet had etched themselves into the corners of her eyes, her skin softer, marked with time. She was in her 40s now, a successful writer, a respected teacher. Life had treated her well, and she found fulfillment in small acts of kindness—her visits to orphanages, the charities she quietly supported. She was content, happy in the simplicity of giving back.

But the message she now held in her hand stopped her world. “Uncle John passed away. He succumbed to a severe lung infection.” Mala sat up in bed, her breath catching in her throat. The phone slipped from her hands. For a moment, everything was still. And then, as if a dam had burst, memories flooded her—so vivid, so sharp, they made her eyes sting with tears.

She was that little girl again, standing at the gate, waiting for Uncle John. His face appeared in front of her, not old or sick as she had last seen him, but vibrant, smiling, just as he had always been on those long-ago Sundays. The way he’d ruffle her hair, his deep voice asking her about her week, the way his laughter would fill the room, making her world feel safe and whole. The tears came fast now, rolling down her cheeks unchecked. It had been years since she had seen him, life moving forward as it does, with its demands and distractions.

And now.., just like that.., he was GONE...

"How strange life is.." she thought.

One moment, someone is there—solid and real—and the next, they’re a memory, no matter how cherished, fading softly into the folds of time.

She sat there, her heart heavy, yet filled with gratitude. Uncle John had been a beacon in her childhood, a model of what it meant to be kind, gracious, and generous. He had shaped her without even knowing it, and she carried pieces of him in all she did, from her writing to the way she treated those she taught and helped. Wiping her tears, Mala breathed deeply, the sorrow in her chest slowly giving way to a quiet peace. She understood, perhaps now more than ever, that life’s true meaning wasn’t in the success she had achieved, but in the love and connection she had experienced and shared. Uncle John had taught her that. She smiled through her tears, whispering a soft goodbye into the stillness of the room. And as the sunlight filtered in a little brighter, she promised herself to live with gratitude, to treasure the people around her while they are still here, and to spread the kindness and joy that Uncle John had once brought into her life.

Because, in the end, THAT is the Truest Definition of Success...

Farewell Uncle John!