Guarded Grief
Will my walls shield me from loss—or just lock the pain inside where no one sees?
I’ve never really experienced loss. I often wonder how I would cope when faced with the inevitability of loss, losing someone that I hold dear to my heart. How composed will I be on that day? Will I be able to hold it together? Will I try to suppress my deep felt emotions at the time? Will my head feel heavy and my eyes drained? Will I find it hard to form words as my heart pounds hard against my chest?
Or will I be unscathed in those moments of grief, for I know loss is in fact an inevitable reality that one has to go through numerous times in one’s life? Does the permanency of death make it any less impactful than when someone breaks your heart – one grief experienced collectively, the other often endured in loneliness?
Don’t get me wrong. I am not trying to pre-condition my mind, for when it happens I know it will be sudden and unexpected. But I can’t help but wonder if I will be indifferent to it.
Here’s my dilemma. I’m a deep-thinking kind of person, not the oversharing kind. I have always struggled when it comes to being vulnerable or letting others into my deepest felt emotions. So will I just naturally put a shield up and move through the motions of what comes next, watching others experience loss in real time while I stay guarded against any hurt, only to later think deeply in silence and suffer in private?
Why This Now
Yesterday, December 20th, was a day of mourning. A South Indian movie legend passed away at age 69. Sudden. Unexpected. His name is Srinivasan—an actor, director, and most prominently known for the stories he brought to life through Malayalam cinema, the stories that defined my childhood.
We all have comfort movies we rewatch when we need uplifting, when we need reminding of our past, of the path that led us here. My path is defined by many of his movies, the characters he created, and the dialogues he crafted. My closest relationships are sprinkled with his one-liners, binding us irrespective of social status, upbringing, or varying beliefs.
As I watched the people of Kerala—my home state—mourn, as social media replayed those movie moments, my eyes filled with tears. It affected me deeply, more than I expected. This hadn’t happened before when other beloved heroes passed. For me, it was a first.
The live telecast of Srinivasan’s final rites lasted until midnight my time (CST), from public homage to cremation. As thousands poured in to pay respects—fans, movie stars, politicians, prominent figures—I couldn’t take my eyes off the grief consuming his family. They were distraught, tearful, breathless, breaking down before me.
Is that what I will go through? I couldn’t help but wonder if I was meant to watch this, to feel this—a signal of the inevitability awaiting me. I didn’t want to go there.
After the family’s final words and embraces, the eldest son lit the funeral pyre, then the crowd dispersed as Srinivasan’s flame raged on.
Srinivasan (1956-2025), the Malayalam cinema legend behind stories that defined my childhood.
Sreenivasan: The legendary actor-filmmaker who rejected the beaten path and reshaped Malayalam cinema — The Indian Express on Dec 21st, 2025
A single burning candle, symbolising Srinivasan’s flame—gone from this world, but still lighting by Jarl Schmidt on Unsplash
After Thoughts
This is the morning after. More Srinivasan clips dominate my feeds—best moments, iconic dialogues. But what caught me were reflections from close friends and colleagues: behind-the-scenes stories, the untold side.
The strange thing about loss? We only reflect and celebrate someone fully after they’re gone. It happens to all of us. In life, we control the narrative, showing only what we choose. In death, we’re seen for who we truly were.
Who am I? That’s what I am here to explore. But first, my closest friends call me Sree.
Grief is tough. Having lost beloved grandparents and a relationship with a best friend within the last couple of years, the difference in my grief in each circumstance is notable. Losing people who lived to be nearly 100, where loss was expected and lives were well lived, was easier. It still sucks, and I still get choked up whenever I see a reminder of them, but it's more of a joy for having had them in my life. The loss of someone who is still on this earth, but no longer part of your life, for reasons I'm still not really clear on is hard and I haven't quite figured it out yet. There are still random outbursts of tears even two years later. It's a weird monster, grief.