I visited Professor Anya Sharma today hospice room smells like antiseptic and dying flowers it’s a specific kind of sensory deprivation when someone’s fading you expect them to be SMALLER somehow but her presence it’s still immense even while she’s barely breathing I remember her lectures on cognitive dissonance the way she’d pace the room her mind always three steps ahead of everyone else now she just lies there eyes unfocused sometimes she mumbles something in Hindi sometimes in English always about research always about a paper never anything personal my parents still ask when I’ll find a proper job a husband why I’m not home for festivals I tell them about my PhD about my thesis about my aspirations they just nod politely like it’s some foreign concept some indulgent hobby they don’t understand the intellectual rigor the sheer joy of a challenging debate with Anya it was different she got it she’d push me on my assumptions dismantle my arguments make me rebuild them stronger it was exhilarating now it’s just gone I feel a profound disequilibrium a void where that critical engagement used to be it's like a part of my brain has been amputated and I don’t know how to compensate I watch her chest rise and fall and I feel this immense guilt this overwhelming sense of loss for myself not just for her and that’s the part I can’t reconcile it’s selfish to mourn the loss of a mentor’s intellect when they are literally dying but it’s more than just losing a guide it’s losing a mirror a sounding board someone who understood the architecture of my thoughts better than anyone else now I’m just adrift and I don’t know what to do with this grief this intellectual orphanage I feel like I'm committing some kind of metaphysical impropriety even thinking it but it's the truth.