My children do not have a grandfather any more. I am glad they had 3 years and 6 months respectively with a man who loved them very much.

As one obituary about my father said, 'He died of a minor kidney ailment which turned fatal'. None of us knew he would never get out of the anesthesia. None of us thought of saying goodbye. None of us thought of thanking him for all he did, and all he did not. None of us ever thought that the plans we had made for after the operation were never to be.

And he left holes all over.

A hole the size of a car - no longer parked in the spot he used for over 40 years. A hole on the dressing table where I, as well as my own little girl, had sat on his lap and watched him shave, brushed our hair, and played with the hair brushes and combs collected by the bald man. There came a time when he no longer needed the combs, but didn't have the heart to throw them away. I guess he kept them as fond remembrances of the days he had hair.

A hole on the bedroom floor, which always had a patch covered with his powder for as long as I can remember. Every morning, somehow always just after the floor was swept, he would dust himself with a liberal sprinkling of powder which would then collect on the floor, always on the same spot.

A hole the size of a leather swivel computer chair - from which he would watch the proceedings of the last three additions to his family; his three very young grandchildren. A hole the size of a desk - where all his papers were still neatly stacked when we came back from the hospital with his body. A hole in my guest room cupboard, no longer holding the bag of clothes that came with him every time, whether for the day or just for lunch.

And a man-sized hole blasted next to my mother, not ever to be photographed with him hugging her.

Never mind if one month later, his desk now contains papers my brother uses to keep track of the investments made carefully in dad's lifetime. Never mind if the dressing table contains my mother's things where his powder, brushes and shaving kit used to be.

Never mind if I sometimes get my fathers smell on my baby son, occasionally dusted with his grandfather's powder. Never mind if the shirts I used to buy for him are now in my own cupboard. Never mind that the 'grandparents cupboard' has only my mum's clothes, considerately packed in the same bag each time she comes over these days.

Never mind if it is my children who now enjoy themselves swiveling around on the computer chair. And all pictures of my mother are now with her grandchildren.

Some holes are never quite filled, in quite the same way.

Monisha Sen