By Suvir Saran

New Delhi [India], December 27 (ANI): The first strains of Lag Ja Gale always bring tears to my eyes, as though the melody carries within it the fragile weight of life itself. Rohit loved this song. It was his anthem, a hymn to the fleeting beauty of moments we may never see again. Lag ja gale ki phir ye haseen raat ho na ho... shaayad phir is janam mein mulaaqaat ho na ho. "Embrace me, for who knows if this night will come again; perhaps, in this lifetime, we may never meet again."

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Rohit Bal--Gudda to me, my dearest friend, my brilliant bestie, my partner in laughter and light--lived every moment as though he had heard those words whispering their truth. His life, like his designs, was a riot of color and creativity, a tapestry spun from threads of mischief, genius, and boundless love. And now, too soon, unbearably soon, Gudda is gone.

I knew, somehow, that our time together was limited, that the universe had placed a quiet countdown on the days we could share. For the past two years, when I returned to Delhi, I had only two priorities: my mother and Gudda. My world narrowed to those two anchors, one karmic and constant, the other electric and effervescent. My days revolved around their company. I worked, yes, but only in the spaces between their laughter, their wisdom, their love.

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Gudda and my mother represented two poles of my universe, each guiding me in their own way. My mother, Sunita Saran, who turns 80 this year, is a living embodiment of grace and forgiveness. Her life has been one of karmic beauty, a quiet celebration of giving, nurturing, and accepting without judgment. She taught me the value of living with intention, of embracing the world not as it is supposed to be but as it is.

And Gudda--oh, Gudda!--was her dazzling opposite. He didn't just live; he radiated. He celebrated every moment with a passion so bright it could light up a room, a city, a world. He embraced life in the same way he embraced his friends: with flamboyant flair, generous laughter, and a spirit so vivid it felt immortal. But life, as Lag Ja Gale reminds us, is never promised. It is here, shimmering and precious, and then it is gone.

It is this impermanence, this unbearable fragility, that makes every moment so achingly beautiful. In the last two years, as I sat with my mother over cups of chai or laughed with Gudda over his wild stories, I felt it. My mother would sip her tea while I helped myself to the cookies and namkeens--the little trail mixes she paired with her tea but didn't eat herself. She would watch, smiling, as I enjoyed them more than she ever could. These moments were simple, but they were everything. Time was not a commodity to be spent or saved; it was a gift, fleeting and priceless.

Gudda's designs--his Rohit Bal Design label--remain, as vibrant and alive as ever, a testament to his genius. But the man behind them, my Gudda, is now a memory. And what I wouldn't give to hear his laugh one more time, to see him drape someone in his brilliance, to share just one more night beneath the Delhi stars.

Lag ja gale ki phir ye haseen raat ho na ho...

How do we live, knowing that every embrace might be our last? How do we carry the weight of love when it is so intertwined with loss?

The answer, I think, is in the song itself: we embrace. We hold each other close. We love fiercely, completely, without hesitation. We live in the moment, not because it is perfect, but because it is ours.

When I think of my mother, I see this truth in her every action. She doesn't waste time with grudges or regrets. Her life is a quiet rhythm of forgiveness, of giving without expecting, of loving without condition. Her karmic grace has taught me that to live beautifully is to accept life's imperfections--to embrace its messiness, its chaos, its heartbreak.

And when I think of Gudda, I see the same truth expressed differently. He celebrated life as though it were an eternal festival, each moment an opportunity to add more color, more joy, more wonder. He didn't wait for perfection; he created it, stitched it, wove it into the fabric of every room he entered, every person he touched.

The last time I saw him, I didn't know it would be the last. But I held him a little longer, as if some part of me did.

Ji bhar ke dekh lijiye humko qareeb se... shaayad phir is janam mein mulaaqaat ho na ho. "Look at me to your heart's content, up close and near; perhaps, in this lifetime, we may never meet again."

This New Year, I don't want resolutions. I don't want promises to lose weight or earn more or achieve some arbitrary measure of success. Those things are dust, ephemeral distractions from what truly matters. What I want, what I urge you to want, is presence.

Presence in the embrace of someone you love. Presence in the laughter of a friend, the wisdom of a parent, the fleeting joy of a sunset. Presence in the way you taste a meal, listen to a song, or hold someone's hand.

Life is not about perfection; it is about connection. It is about seeing the people you love--not through the lens of what they should be, but for who they are. It is about celebrating their quirks, their brilliance, their flaws. It is about loving them so fully that when they are gone, they are still with you, in every memory, every heartbeat, every whisper of a favorite song.

This is how I will carry Gudda with me. This is how I honor my mother, whose every breath is a lesson in living well. By being present. By embracing what is. By loving what remains.

So as the year turns, I ask you: who will you embrace? Who will you hold close, knowing that this night, this moment, may never come again? Don't wait. Don't hesitate. Lag ja gale.

Hold them. Love them. Celebrate them. For life, as fleeting and fragile as it is, is also unbearably beautiful. And it is ours, for as long as it lasts. (ANI/Suvir Saran)

Disclaimer: Suvir Saran is a Masterchef, Author, Hospitality Consultant And Educator. The views expressed in this article are his own.

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