When people die, it’s not easy to part with their possessions. The act of letting go becomes a form of acceptance that the person is truly gone—and that is far easier said than done, especially in the early days when emotions are raw and the heart feels unruly.
There’s a certain order to what you clear out. Clothes are the hardest because they still carry the scent of the person. Much of the paperwork is necessary for bureaucratic reasons and can’t simply be discarded. Favourite pens, books, watches, and even coin boxes linger for an oddly long time. The chair and desk often find new purpose until they no longer suit your home. But the digital traces left behind are the most unexpected to confront.
Perhaps “unexpected” isn’t quite right, given how much of life is lived online today. Sifting through my dad’s accounts felt like walking into the Las Vegas scene in Blade Runner 2049—a landscape of crumbling monuments to a life once vibrant. There’s the LinkedIn building of his academic and professional milestones, the Facebook monolith of his social ties, a box filled with his Amazon orders, and, looming in the distance, the twin towers of his phone number and Gmail account.
Each of these remnants is as much a record of his existence as the albums of faded photos spanning India, the Gulf, Europe, the UK, and the US. Many faces in those pictures are no longer alive—perhaps dad is catching up with them somewhere at a cosmic gathering—and some who remain still tag him in old memories. Disconcertingly, I receive WhatsApp messages on his death anniversary. Though I can’t fathom why they continue, I indulge the gesture. Dad, a strong-willed and principled man with a sharp, cactus-like exterior, was loyal and dependable—qualities that forged deep bonds and cast a long shadow.
In 2022, exiting the few WhatsApp groups he was part of (or was swiftly removed from, a reality that initially stung but made sense in hindsight) felt strangely unemotional—who needs notifications on a phone that will never be answered again? Packing up his clothes was a pragmatic decision—we needed the closet space—but donating them, which he would have wanted, remains unresolved. These choices are rarely simple when emotions are involved. Watching his car being driven away after the sale left me feeling curiously hollow. And giving away his desk recently brought a quiet sense of satisfaction, as it went to someone with a meaningful connection to him who will cherish it.
I hesitated over his other social media accounts until very recently.
Deleting his Amazon account was easy. Closing Facebook was harder, especially when one of his connections asked me to keep it open so his photos, messages, and memory could live on. Skype remains untouched, thanks to Microsoft’s absurd policy of requiring the entire account to be closed instead of just one service. But LinkedIn gave me pause. Quiet and unobtrusive, it stands as a silent record of 55 years of studies and work. I couldn’t summon the detachment to close it and have deferred the decision for now.
What truly captures the essence of a life that’s no longer here? The people left behind? The unspoken principles and lessons passed on to countless others? The keepsakes that held meaning for him but are meaningless to us? Or perhaps it’s that frozen online status, forever unchanging.
Last seen at…
Comments