An elegy for a year that broke us, and a whisper of hope for the ones we lost.

Many people ask what I’m doing for New Year’s Eve.
The truth is — nothing.

There’s nothing to celebrate this time.
If the Gregorian Calendar Committee ever meets again, they should consider deleting 2020 altogether — a clerical correction for a cosmic error.

But perhaps that would be too easy.
Because if there was ever a year that forced us to pause, reflect, and pray — it was this one.

The year that wasn’t

By every worldly measure, 2020 was a year of loss.
Jobs, plans, routines, rituals — all dissolved into an endless stretch of uncertainty.
And yet, the greatest loss wasn’t economic. It was human.

Friends disappeared into the black hole of silence.
Familiar voices went missing from phone books.
Messages went unanswered — not because of ego, but because breath itself had become scarce.

There are names I will never hear again.
Faces I’ll remember only through a pixelated video call.
To them, I offer a silent prayer.
Not just for their peace — but for ours.

Because grief, when shared, becomes grace.

A year out of time

I have long stopped celebrating New Year’s Eve.
The modern calendar, as I’ve written before, feels misplaced — its joy misplaced, its timing misaligned.

While the Gregorians toast champagne in midwinter, I wait for Chaitra Shukla Pratipada — the true day of creation, when spring returns and life renews itself.
On April 13, 2021, we will step into Vikrami Samvat 2078 — a new year by the measure of the cosmos, not committees.

And maybe that’s what we all need — not another turn of the clock, but a turning of consciousness.

The grief we carry

For those who lost loved ones — I share your silence.
For those who lost livelihoods — I share your struggle.
For those who lost themselves — I share your rediscovery.

This year taught us that isolation is not absence.
It’s a form of prayer.

It reminded us that staying home could be an act of love.
That working from home wasn’t a punishment, but a privilege of survival.

And for those who call me paranoid for still believing the virus lingers — I say this:
Caution is not fear. It is respect.
Respect for life, for breath, for the unseen thread that connects us all.

A year to burn away

I want to kick this year goodbye.
Hate feels like a small word for something so colossal in pain.
But even in that, there’s a strange tenderness.

Because maybe, 2020 was not meant to be lived through — it was meant to be learnt from.
A spiritual audit.
A mirror held up to humanity.

We chased growth and found stillness.
We built walls and found connection.
We lost time and found meaning.

And so, as midnight approaches, I won’t raise a glass.
I’ll fold my hands.

For those who couldn’t make it.
For those still fighting.
For those who love, still.

The prayer

Goodbye, 2020.
You broke us.
But in your silence, we found our voice again.

And when the world finally exhales,
may we remember what it felt like to pause —
to breathe,
to pray,
to be.