A Journey of Kindness: Finding Light and Connection Amidst Illness

Suvir Saran shares a moving reflection on finding hope and resilience during illness, highlighting how the kindness of friends, family, and colleagues acts as a guiding light that sustains us even during our most difficult personal journeys.

Reflecting on the Flame of Kindness

From Singapore’s Diwali celebration to the people who carried me through illness and travel, a reflection on the flame of kindness that stays alive within us. Some journeys are made for the career. Some are made for the comfort of an old place, an old friend, an old self. And then there are journeys that leave you wondering, once you are on your way home, whether you travelled at all- or whether something inside you did.

I am fifty-four. Very few things in this world now further my career, and it is no longer what I chase. I do things so that my mentees can go forward. To see them shine is what makes me shimmer in the depths of my being. Hari, my left arm; Lakshya, my right; Falah- perhaps both arms, or either. I am ambidextrous. These three men mean the world to me. They carry me forward in ways few things can. At the Diwali celebration for DBS at Singapore’s Shangri-La, I watched them shine. I watched the strength with which they navigate the world, the decency and humanity they bring to work, and the resolute generosity and empathy with which they help others and bring them along. That kind of care is rare. To see them offer it so freely made me proud- not simply of their work, but of the men they are becoming.

Finding Strength Through Community

I arrived sick that morning. I left sick, too. How I managed to walk the room that evening, I cannot quite explain. Perhaps I was being puppeteered by an energy beyond my own: the energy of Raveena, Devna, Shweta, Ankur, the DBS team and the Shangri-La team. Their positivity and joy carried me through the night. Sometimes the body is tired, but the people around us lend it their strength.

The day after the celebration, my brother Gautam, his wife Shabana and their son Siddhant opened their home to me. I was unwell, and they gave me what family can give at its best: a place to stop pretending to be fine. There was rest, affection, conversation, the comfort of being known. When life begins to break down around us, family can be the room whose door remains open.

And then there were Sanjai Mahawar and Sanyogita Mahawar, the sister and brother-in-law of my dear friend Mohit. They came to pick me up from Gautam and Shabana’s, drove me to the airport and spent nearly two hours with me there. They gave me that time so happily, so generously, with a smile- as though making sure I was not alone were the most natural thing in the world. Mohit’s friendship is the thread that connects us, but Sanjai and Sanyogita made that thread tangible: in the drive, the waiting, the conversation, the simple gift of staying. We speak often of chosen family. That day, I felt what those words mean. Friendship does not always arrive with grand declarations. Sometimes it arrives at the door, drives you to the airport and stays until it is time to go.

The Poetic Nature of Care

And there is Nirbhay. And Parabjot. Men who are family, caregivers, besties and loved ones, all at once. Even as I sit on the plane, minutes from take-off, they have called to ask if I am comfortable. It is such a small question, and such a profound act of love. Are you comfortable? Have you eaten? Are you all right? The words are ordinary; the feeling inside them is not. I am coming home to work waiting for me. I have to shoot for Galeries Lafayette and coordinate the work, make sure I am rested and that the team is prepared. These commitments have not vanished because I am ill. Nirbhay and Parabjot have taken them on their shoulders, giving me the space to travel, to recover, to breathe. I cannot forget that. Care is often practical before it becomes poetic. It makes the calls, checks the details, carries the load.

And then there is Satya, our house manager, an incredible cook, and a young man whose kindness, generosity, decency and humanity are staggeringly special. He has to buoy me through everything. I know that when I return, Satya will welcome me with beautiful food, a big smile and the most heartfelt welcome. There are people who make a house function. And then there are people who make it feel like home. Satya does both.

This, too, is Diwali: the light of empathy, kindness and caring travelling from one person to another. It is not only the diya on the windowsill. It is the person who calls before take-off; the brother who opens his home; the mentees who shoulder the work; the friends who make sure you are comfortable; the cook who knows that a meal can bring someone back to himself.

The Deeper Promise of Diwali

Singapore gave me its fruit- strawberries, black raspberries, blackberries, blueberries, pineapple. Oof, what sweet, beautiful fruit. I ate it with the gratitude of someone being reminded that sweetness remains possible. I was met by celebration and by rest, by colleagues and family, by old friends and chosen kin. I came sick. I am leaving sick. Yet I am leaving loved, cared for, blessed, and hoping for more.

Diwali is often described as the victory of light over darkness. I have come to think that its deeper promise is that the flame remains, even when we cannot see it. It may be hidden by fog, dimmed by exhaustion, obscured by grief or fear. At times we may believe it has gone out. But sometimes what we need is not a new flame. We need another person to shelter the one already within us.

I think of broken glass: its shards fragile, piercing, dangerous to hold. And still, each shard can catch the light. Perhaps brokenness is not only an ending. Perhaps each piece holds the possibility of becoming a diya, of turning its sharpness toward a glow that guides us into better, fuller, more connected times. We do not have to deny what has hurt us. We can ask what light might still find its way through.

The poets have long known that the sacred is close to the human heart. Kabir finds it nearer than we expect; Surdas makes the divine tender and playful; Mirabai turns longing into devotion. Tulsidas, Rahim, Ras Khan and Tukaram remind us, each in his own way, that love asks for patience, humility and care. The poets of Hindi and Urdu give longing its many names: intezaar, aas, umeed, aastha. Hope is not always a trumpet. Sometimes it is fruit cut and placed before you. Sometimes it is someone staying beside you while you wait.

This Diwali, I think of Hari, Lakshya and Falah, and the light they carry into their work. I think of Gautam, Shabana and Siddhant making room for me; of Nirbhay and Parabjot looking after me even as I prepare to fly home; of Satya waiting with food and welcome; of Sanjai and Sanyogita staying beside me; of Mohit, whose friendship connects us all. I think of my family, my friends, my colleagues, and every person who has made care visible. I am grateful to DBS, to Teamwork Arts and to the Shangri-La team for bringing us together. I am grateful to every person whose work became welcome, and every person whose love became a hand beneath my elbow.

Perhaps that is the call of Diwali: look for the flame, even when the night makes you doubt it. Let others help you find it. Then keep it alive- not only for yourself, but for everyone walking beside you through the fog. We are all carrying a little light. Some days we hold it high. Some days another person cups a hand around it. And on the days when we feel reduced to shards, let us remember: even a shard can sparkle. Even a broken thing can become a lamp.

(Except for the headline, this story has not been edited by Asianetnews Editorial staff and is published from a syndicated feed.)