The Light she left behind - World News Network

By Suvir Saran
New Delhi [India], August 28 (ANI): Ud jayega hans akela, jug darshan ka mela…; The bird will take flight alone; this fair of the world will fade away.
Four days have passed since the call from Delhi, but time seems to have folded in on itself. The air is quieter, heavier, charged with her absence and yet humming with her presence. Usha Bhua — radiant, rooted, and resplendent — lives in every corner of memory, every echo of her voice, every fragrance of food she loved to cook, every note of music that lingered in the air long after the song had ended.
Her life was a melody. She spoke with the music of rivers — words soft yet strong, flowing and unhurried, carrying wisdom without weight, kindness without condescension. Her voice had that rare cadence — lyrical, poetic, melodic — that turned ordinary conversations into a kind of prayer, into poetry we didn’t know we were memorizing until now, when we replay them endlessly in our minds.
Jaise paat gire taruvar se, milna bahut duhela…
Like a leaf falling from its tree, every meeting carries within it the quiet certainty of parting.
She was beauty personified, but not the hollow, fleeting kind. She wore her saris like second skin — draped not for attention but for the poetry of being fully, unapologetically herself. She glided through rooms, her quiet grace commanding without demanding, her warmth drawing people in as if the world itself bent towards her orbit.
When her Pupaji passed, she chose independence. Not loneliness, not isolation — independence. A fierce, quiet, elegant choice. She lived on her own terms, with a strength that spoke louder than any grand declaration could. She nurtured others when they faltered, fed them when their hunger was unspoken, loved them when they had forgotten how to love themselves. She didn’t need to be cared for; she became the caregiver, the steady flame in the draft of everyone else’s storms.
Moko kahan dhundhere bande, mein toh tere paas mein…
Why search for me everywhere, O seeker? I am already with you, in you, beside you.
This was her faith — not in rituals or rigidities, but in presence, in surrender. The day Satya Sai Baba entered her world, her heart became His temple. From that moment on, she lived with the stillness of someone who knew she was held by something infinite.
And yet, her faith never narrowed her world. She saw the divine in the laughter of her grandchildren, in the quiet of a morning raga, in the chatter of nieces and nephews around her table, in the clinking of glasses during family dinners, in the thousand small miracles that make up a life well lived.
Her Sai Parivar was her solace, her strength — but her love stretched beyond boundaries. It enfolded her family, her friends, her neighbors, anyone who crossed her path. She belonged everywhere because she made everyone feel they belonged.
Sadho, ye murdon ka gaon…
Saints, this is a village of the gone.
Kabir’s words, timeless and piercing, hold the truth she understood so well. That we are all passing through this vast carnival of existence, gathering moments like wildflowers, knowing all the while that one day, we too will take flight. She didn’t fear that knowledge. She didn’t run from it. She carried it like a talisman, a reminder to live each day in fullness, in gratitude, in surrender.
She lived daringly — not in noise or rebellion, but in the quiet audacity of choosing joy, choosing generosity, choosing to remain open-hearted even when life bruised her.
Her home was a hymn.
Music wove through her days — bhajans at dawn, ghazals in the afternoon, the golden nostalgia of old Hindi songs in the evening. Music wasn’t background for her; it was breath, prayer, rhythm. It was how she made sense of the world, how she celebrated it, how she worshipped the divine threaded through all of it.
And then there was her table. Always abundant. Always alive. Inch by inch, covered with color and fragrance and flavor — food made with instinct and intention, a symphony of spices and care. Parathas that felt like mornings with dew still on the grass, curries layered like stories told over decades, sweets that tasted of tenderness. To sit at her table was to know what love without conditions tastes like.
Ud jayega hans akela…
The bird will take flight alone.
And yet, even in her flight, she leaves behind a universe of presence. Rahul and Nandita will carry her quiet strength, her steady faith, her sharp, knowing humor. Her grandsons will carry her joy — the way her eyes lit up when they entered a room, the way her love was a language without need of translation. Her nieces and nephews, scattered across continents, will carry the memory of phone calls that collapsed oceans, of her voice that made every distance disappear.
Naam anam anant rehta hai, duja tatva na hoi…
The name, the essence, is infinite; there is no second truth.
In her absence, there is ache. But also gratitude — a gratitude so deep it hums. Gratitude for the way she showed us that beauty is not in adornment but in authenticity. That faith is not in seeking but in surrender. That strength is not in noise but in the stillness of knowing who you are and what you stand for.
Her life was proof that we do not need to live loudly to live fully.
Khoji hoye turat mil jaoon, ik pal ki talas mein…
Seek with a pure heart, and you will find me in an instant.
She is everywhere now. In the first light of dawn, in the hum of a harmonium, in the aroma of ghee on a warm roti, in the quiet generosity of an unexpected kindness. She has become the air around us — unseen, but in every breath.
This is where her story becomes ours. Because her life is a mirror, reflecting something universal: the quiet, extraordinary power of our elders. The ones who raised us, held us, loved us in ways too infinite to measure. The ones still here, waiting for us to sit with them, to listen, to learn. And the ones who, like her, have taken flight — leaving behind a constellation of lessons for us to trace in our own skies.
If there is one truth in Kabir’s haunting words, it is this: that what is given in love does not fade. What is shared with open hands endures.
Das Kabir har ke gun gawe, wah har ko paran pawe…
Kabir says, sing of the One, and you will find the One.
We gather now not just to grieve, but to celebrate. To celebrate her fearlessness, her independence, her devotion, her quiet humor, her luminous generosity. To celebrate the daring ordinariness of a life lived fully — in music, in prayer, in food, in family, in faith.
And as we celebrate her, we are called to turn inward, to turn outward, to see the elders in our own lives — those still here, those we’ve lost, those we are becoming — and to honor them. To sit at their tables, to ask their stories, to learn their songs, to soak in their silences.
Kabir’s poetry is as universal as grief, as timeless as love. His words rise like a hymn across centuries, across continents, across languages, reminding us that the divine is not distant, that love is not bound by time, that life is fleeting but luminous when lived in surrender.
And so, for Usha Bhua, for all our Bhuas and Daadis and Naanis and Masis and Mothers and Fathers and friends and loves who have taken flight — and for those who are still here, waiting for us to look up and really see them — we fold our hands and whisper our gratitude.
Ud jayega hans akela, jug darshan ka mela…
Yes, the bird has flown.
But her song — her music, her love, her light — remains. In kitchens where food is cooked with love. In homes where music hums through the walls. In every quiet act of kindness. In every moment of surrender.
Because the truth is simple, and it is this: love, when lived as she lived it, never leaves. (ANI/Suvir Saran)
Disclaimer: Suvir Saran is a Masterchef, Author, Hospitality Consultant And Educator. The views expressed in this article are his own.

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