I’m having a hard time with the good advice to let go of the illusion of control. A hard time believing that I am not responsible for bad things that may happen to those who I love, those who are dependant on me and are under my watch. But I am listening to my friends and to my mother and I am letting their words reach me. I trust that others know better than me when I am blinded by grief. And shock.
My critical voice taunts me that I seem to write about my cats only when they die. Rahat’s sudden death in 2021. The parvovirus outbreak in January 2022 that took out a whole community of cats and Badal, Aasman and Faiza from our home along with them. The miraculous survival and bond of Sahil and Bahadur. The slow, determined recovery of Twin and Gulab from Parvo. Bahadur’s sudden passing after a literal catfight in the middle of the night last year.
And now Gulab. Passed on 22 February, 2026.
But I also live with my cats. And dogs. With my family and K, D and A, we feed them all twice a day. We collectively feed Twin-twin 10 times a day. I buy their food, organize it, store it; I work 3 jobs so that one of them supports the animals’ needs. We manage hygiene, litter, cooking. Trips to the vet. Daily walks and treats. We love them, video them, photograph them, make albums, brag about them, look on with pride.
Their presence fills my life with meaning, motive, work, love. They are the bridge that connects me to the greater universe, to nature, to the earth and trees and sky. They rescue me from the entanglements of the wayward modern world and its confusion, cruelty and chaos.
As part of a class exercise in the semester-long writing course I teach at University, I asked the students and myself to be out in the lawns and be with the self, silently for 15 minutes. No phone, no notebook. Just be. Do nothing.
This was the top sentence that arose from the clutter of my own thoughts after about 12 minutes: Forgive yourself, Natasha.
Forgive yourself for letting your cat die. This is the real wound you must allow yourself to heal from. Gulab is at peace. He lived a great life. He was nearly 5-years-old. He even had one good week when he was home after 5 days of hospitalisation. He chose where he rested, what he ate, where and how he wanted to be. “Meri marzi” was Gulab’s way and he exercised it. He and I slept next to each other. He ate boiled chicken liver, mashed soft with my fingers.
Remember that beauty of a scene - Gulab slurping fresh chicken broth that I made and me texting Swastika and Anupama with joy and pride. “The boy is eating.”
Gulab was my cat. I am Gulab’s cat. He was aloof. Strong. The stereotype of cats. He waited for too long before letting us know that he was sick. I missed early signs. That morning when I went to the terrace and Gulab was sitting on the landing looking like he was ill, it was as if I had been summoned by him to climb the stairs. I rarely go to the terrace. I just went up for no reason. Animals, particularly cats, find me when they need me. I am their robot.
We took Gulab to the best vets we know. Blood transfusion, IV, subcut, medicines, supplements, USG, biopsy, PCR tests, repeated CBC, LFT, KFT. Another transfusion. They did everything they could. We did everything we could.
In the end Gulab became a baby again and returned to our arms. On the final day at the vet’s, I became a true mother - the one who can ask for her child to die, because that’s where lasting solace is. For Gulab and his family of us.
Love, peace, joy, connection. Let that be the abiding memory of every animal you have loved. Gratitude, gratitude for everything and everyone who accepted my love, who loved me back. Who touched me, opened my heart, made a place in it. Who held me when I didn’t have the strength or wisdom to do so myself.
Forgive yourself, Natasha. Let grief wash over you in the waves it comes in. Gulab is safe and resting in your heart.
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