"WHAT DOES 'LOSS' MEAN TO YOU?" - A THOUGHT COMPILATION FROM SELECTED WRITERS

In the last week of  October, 2024, I posted a writing prompt on my Instagram page. The prompt simply read, "In 500 words or less, what does 'loss' mean to you?".  

Loss is a hard thing to write about. The loss, be it of a loved one or a state of mind, is something we would rather shy away from. Maybe it will not hurt so much if we don't dwell on it? Or does it hurt more when we don't sit in our grief? There is no right answer and I was moved by all the reflections that came in from writers across the world.

What follows is a compilation of these thoughtful and thought-provoking pieces. 

What Does Loss Mean To You? 

I search for your face in a crowd, hoping to see you one last time.

I reach out to hold your hand; 

A void greets me bleakly. 

I dream of those moments with you, 

How happy I'd be to relive them once again with you!

I miss letting you know how much you mean to me.

Your final moments seem blurry, like it did not happen at all. 

Loss is a small word for the immeasurable grief it carries in your absence. 

Dearest Grandpa, loss is all I feel; 

Until we meet again.

By Ragini Ravi

On Instagram as @Ragini.ravich

***

What does 'Loss' mean to you?

A very deep question since the answer lies deep within me.  It’s intangible, immeasurable, defies definition,  and cannot be classified.  None of my losses are complete since they continue to travel with me in my heart and soul.  

The loss of my dream necessitated a change in my hopes and aspirations for how I planned to live my life.  I accepted the need to redefine and redesign my plans and took the changes in my stride.  But 46 years of a very happy and fulfilling life has not been able to lessen my sense of loss. 

I loved my family—relatives and friends—with an open heart and have no regrets about the lives I lost around me. But the uncle who moved on in his 40th year, a bachelor, and the nephew I lost in his 22nd year—how I wish they had lived a full life.

Ammamman and Achan are the two people who made me who I am. I often yearn for their presence, guidance, love, and acceptance. 

I enjoyed life as it unfolded before me, adjusted to changes as I deemed necessary, counselled myself on the loss of love and affection as relationships changed over time, and tried to be happy with myself constantly.

So, what do I feel about loss? Nothing much really.  

Everything is as it should be, as it ought to be.  I pray that I will be granted the blessing to continue to accept with grace everything to come.

By Suma Ravindran

On Instagram as @sumaravindran13

***

RISING FROM THE EMBERS- BEYOND THE LOSS

For it was love, 

She lost that day,

Leaving a bitter aftertaste.

It was hypocrisy,

That looted her then,

Of her most valuable trust.

A deceitful lover, he had come, 

To conquer her heart and soul,

To, one day, reveal his slyness,

Crushing her pride and dignity,

The one she had put her faith in,

Proved unworthy of it all. 

Yet, tears she didn’t shed for that loss,

That which burned a pyre in her. 

From the embers of which she’d rise,

Like a glorious phoenix resurrects.

Until then, she’d  mourn her loss,

And tend to her wounded wings,

Her sorrow was not for the lover,

Whose guile took the best of her,

But, for the times and tides,

That passed by, in vain,

For a love that never was there,

Like a mirage in the wilderness. 

Yet, rise she’ll, from the embers,

That gleam with a furious rage,

From the pyre that burns,

Which was lit up there,

By the cowardice of a lover,

Who never deserved her care.

By Tess Boby

On Instagram as @tess.boby

***

The world don’t stop for a man’s passing. The earth don’t quake, the sun don’t fall. But still, there’s a hollow that opens, a quiet space in the shape of a father. A man who filled the rooms he walked in, who’d laugh with strangers like they were kin, who’d help a neighbour like he was blood. The kind of man folk remember in stories long after the dirt’s settled over his bones. He had a way about him, something that drew people close. Not to me. Not his only son.

To me, he was something else entirely. Always a father, never a friend. A man to hold up the house and look out over the land, but never the sort you’d sit with in the shade, pass a drink back and forth. He was a guide, a keeper of what was right and wrong. You’d look to him when the world tilted when things didn’t make sense. A force strong and unyielding as the mountains. Always there. Until he wasn’t.

And now there’s just the emptiness where he stood, a silence that don’t seem to fill. The space he leaves behind aches, but not for words unsaid or love withheld. It’s something different. A presence gone, the knowledge that you could call and he’d be there, solid as an oak, a thing you never questioned. Not until it was gone.

There’s a strange thing about his absence, like a house with a room you don’t go into, just knowing it’s there. Days roll on. The sun rises, the fields sit heavy under the sky, unchanged. He raised me with a firm hand, set me on my feet, and taught me right from wrong in ways I’d feel in my bones. It’s not as if I need him now. Not in the way folks think of needing. I can carry myself, and that’s as he meant it to be. I move through the days as he showed me, steady, sure, no real want for guidance or shelter.

By Nitin Arvind

On Instagram as @nitinarvind

***

Editor's Note: 

I want to thank all the writers who responded to the Flash Prompt. It takes a lot to write on a theme as heavy and challenging as this, and I truly appreciate your courage in taking it up and submitting your piece. 

For other writers who are looking for prompts, stay tuned to "Storytelling with Shweta" on Instagram, where I post writing tips, book recommendations and more for aspiring writers or those looking to make the space for writing in their lives. 

Shweta Ganesh Kumar,

Storyteller-in-chief, Inkspire.