Reflection: Love, Loss, And Presence

By Suvir Saran

The first strains of Lag Ja Gale always bring tears to my eyes, as though the melody carries the fragile weight of life itself. It was Rohit’s favorite song—a hymn to the fleeting beauty of moments we may never see again. Lag ja gale ki phir ye haseen raat ho na ho… shaayad phir is janam mein mulaaqaat ho na ho. “Embrace me, for who knows if this night will come again; perhaps, in this lifetime, we may never meet again.”

To me, Rohit Bal—Gudda—was more than a dear friend; he was my brilliant bestie, my partner in laughter and light. His life, much like his designs, was a riot of color, creativity, and love. But now, too soon, unbearably soon, Gudda is gone.

For the past two years, I knew our time together was finite. Each trip back to Delhi revolved around two priorities: my mother and Gudda. My days centered on these two anchors—one karmic and constant, the other electric and effervescent. My mother, Sunita Saran, turns 80 this year, embodying grace, forgiveness, and a quiet rhythm of giving and accepting life as it is. Gudda, her dazzling opposite, embraced life with a passion so bright it seemed immortal.

Gudda celebrated every moment with a vividness that felt eternal. But as Lag Ja Gale reminds us, life is impermanent—here one moment, shimmering and precious, and gone the next. It is this impermanence that makes every embrace so achingly beautiful.

These past two years were filled with simple yet profound moments. Sitting with my mother over chai, sharing her namkeens, and listening to Gudda’s wild stories under the Delhi stars felt like everything. Time wasn’t a commodity to be saved; it was a fleeting, priceless gift.

Gudda’s designs—his Rohit Bal Design label—remain as vibrant as ever, a testament to his genius. But the man behind them, my Gudda, is now a memory. What I wouldn’t give to hear his laugh once more, to see him drape someone in his brilliance, to share just one more night.

Lag ja gale ki phir ye haseen raat ho na ho… How do we live, knowing that every embrace might be our last? The answer is in the song itself: we embrace. We love fiercely, completely, without hesitation. We live in the moment—not because it is perfect, but because it is ours.

My mother has shown me the beauty of living without grudges or regrets, embracing life’s imperfections with karmic grace. Gudda, in contrast, celebrated life as an eternal festival, creating perfection wherever he went.

The last time I saw him, I didn’t know it would be the last. But I held him a little longer, as though some part of me did. Ji bhar ke dekh lijiye humko qareeb se… shaayad phir is janam mein mulaaqaat ho na ho. “Look at me to your heart’s content, up close and near; perhaps, in this lifetime, we may never meet again.”

As the New Year approaches, I don’t want resolutions or promises of arbitrary success. Those things are ephemeral distractions. What I want, and what I urge you to want, is presence.

Be present in the laughter of a friend, the wisdom of a parent, the fleeting joy of a sunset. Celebrate the people you love—not as they should be, but for who they are. Love them so fully that even when they are gone, they remain with you in every memory, heartbeat, and whisper of a favorite song.

This is how I will carry Gudda with me. This is how I honor my mother. By being present. By embracing what is. By loving what remains.

So, as the year turns, I ask you: who will you embrace? Who will you hold close, knowing that this night, this moment, may never come again? Don’t wait. Don’t hesitate. Lag ja gale.

Hold them. Love them. Celebrate them. For life, as fleeting and fragile as it is, is unbearably beautiful. And it is ours, for as long as it lasts.

(ANI. Suvir Saran is a chef, author, hospitality consultant, and educator who lives in America.)

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