Krishnan's Personal Website

There are moments in life when everything suddenly feels fragile, when time seems to stand still and you can’t help but reflect on the delicate nature of existence. Recently, I found myself in one of those moments. It was a quiet realization, one that hit me harder than I expected.

I used to see him quite often. Our paths crossed at the office building where we both worked, albeit on different floors. He had a small office upstairs, and I was just one floor below. We’d nod at each other in passing, share a brief smile, exchange a few words now and then. It was the sort of relationship that starts with simple acknowledgment, something casual, unspoken, yet familiar. We didn’t even know each other’s names at first. Just two people, navigating their days in the same space.

Life, as it often does, found a way to weave our stories together more closely. I found out later, by some coincidence, that our sons were in the same class. That small detail brought us to talk more often. We shared little moments about our kids, a kind of casual bond between two parents walking the same journey in the background of busy lives. But it was all in passing, small interactions. I didn’t think too deeply about it at the time. Life just kept moving, as it always does.

And then, just like that, it changed.

I heard about his passing from my son’s class teacher. It was a casual mention, something I wasn’t prepared for, yet there it was. I didn’t recognize the name at first, but I couldn’t let it go. Something tugged at me, an odd curiosity. I needed to know. So I looked him up, and there he was. The man I had seen so many times, spoken to, shared small fragments of life with. He was gone.

I can’t explain the feeling that washed over me. It was a mix of disbelief and sadness, a sense of loss for someone I was only beginning to know. The man who had become a quiet presence in my life, always there in the background, was suddenly not there anymore. And I felt it deeply, in a way that I hadn’t expected.

There’s something about death that makes life feel fragile, like we’re all just walking on the edge, one moment away from everything changing. I found myself thinking about his family, about the wife and children he left behind. His son, who is in the same class as mine, probably too young to fully understand the weight of it all. And his daughter, who will grow up with only the memory of her father’s presence. It’s heartbreaking.

But amidst the sorrow, something else stirred in me—an overwhelming sense of gratitude. It’s strange how loss can bring that into focus, how the absence of someone can make you appreciate the simple fact of their presence. I found myself grateful for those moments, however brief, that we had exchanged words. Grateful that I had the chance to know him, even if it was just in passing. Grateful that our lives had crossed, even if only for a short time.

It’s easy to get lost in the busyness of life, in the routine of work, errands, and the everyday chaos that keeps us moving. But moments like this remind me that it’s those small connections, the quiet, unassuming ones, that matter. We take so much for granted. We assume we’ll have more time—more time to talk, more time to get to know each other, more time to share. But life doesn’t always give us that luxury. Sometimes, it takes it all away in an instant, and we’re left with the memories of what was.

His passing reminded me of how fleeting everything is, how we should hold on to the moments we have and the people around us. Life is fragile, yes, but it’s also beautiful in its fragility. Every smile, every conversation, every quiet nod in the hallway holds meaning. Every moment we share with another person is a gift, even if we don’t realize it at the time.

Since then, I’ve been thinking a lot about happiness. Not the grand, elusive kind that we chase endlessly, but the quiet, everyday kind. The happiness that comes from small gestures, from the warmth of a familiar face, from the little pieces of connection we create as we move through the world. That’s what he left behind for me—a reminder to appreciate those moments, to not take them for granted, to realize that even in our briefest encounters, there is meaning.

I miss him. I miss the idea of him being there, in the same building, just one floor away. I miss the conversations we might have had, the connection we might have deepened. But I’m also thankful. Thankful for the reminder that life, in all its unpredictability, is something to cherish. We can’t control how long we have, or how long others will stay in our lives. But we can control how we show up, how we appreciate the time we do have, and how we hold on to the little moments that make up the fabric of our days.

In the end, I suppose that’s what life is about. Not the big things, not the grand achievements, but the small, everyday moments of connection and gratitude. We’re all here for such a short time, and we never know when things will change. But in those moments, in those connections, we find something real. Something lasting.

And for that, I am grateful.