Anshula Kapoor on the unseen scars of grief: Holding on when memories slip away

Anshula Kapoor opens up about the loss of her mother, dealing with grief, and sharing it with the world to keep her alive

This year, on 3 February at Spoken Fest—Asia’s largest spoken-word festival held in Mumbai—I did something incredibly brave. I took the stage to speak about my Maa, the profound grief of losing her, and a fear that had become a terrible reality: the fear of forgetting her voice. But sharing my story wasn't just cathartic or a tribute to my Maa; it sparked a connection I never imagined. Since that day, several people have reached out to me, sharing the journeys they’ve had with grief. My words resonated with them, and for some, even offered solace. My Maa lived to help and empower those around her. If, by sharing a piece of her with the world, I've helped others navigate their grief, I see that as the best way of honouring her and what she stood for. 

I’m often asked if I remember the first time I felt grief. And more often than not, people assume it is associated with death. But as I look back, the first time grief truly knocked me off my feet was the separation of my parents when I was about six years old. Understanding the situation took time; adjusting to the new normal took even longer. But when it finally hit me, it was a wave of grief for the "normal" father-daughter relationship I craved. Like the one I saw my friends and cousins have, or the picture-perfect families on TV screens. This was the kind of loss I hadn’t known how to prepare for, and at that time I don’t think I fully understood that it would have a lifelong impact.

Why I share my Maa with the world

There's an unsettling similarity between traditional grief—of losing someone through death—and grieving the absence of a loved one who's still physically around. It creates a unique kind of grief; it is a semi-permanent loss, yet an undeniable grief. 

On the other hand, with death, and the grief that comes with it, there is  finality and permanence. Those who have passed can’t fill in the blanks if your memory evades you. You might start forgetting the little things like the sound of their laughter or the warmth of their hugs. I think my fear of forgetting memories I made with Maa stems from the fragmented memories of my childhood with my dad. I hate that so much of my childhood that I spent with him exists only as stories told to me, and not my recollection of it. That's why I share Maa with the world, with friends who knew and loved her, and with those who never met her. Sharing becomes a way to solidify my memories, a way for me to process my grief. It's a way to keep her memory alive. 

My relationship with Maa wasn't simply that of a mother and daughter; it was a universe unto itself. She was my backbone, cheerleader, confidante, best friend—all rolled into one extraordinary woman. But suddenly, the voice that had always fuelled my confidence, the one that assured me I could achieve anything, was silenced. Losing her was like being cut off from oxygen. Grief and the daunting task of building a life without her physical presence became a paralysing storm of emotions. My own inner voice seemed muted, leaving me in a sea of self-doubt. Where do you go when that one person who believed in you most is gone? For me, it was a descent into a seemingly bottomless pit of uncertainty.

My mom's death, although unexpected in its timing, was a looming reality. She was battling cancer—we knew we had a finite number of months with her. For me, this meant that grief didn’t seep in after she passed away. It seeped in much earlier, a slow tide rising within me as my body was preparing for the inevitable. Even knowing that loss is approaching doesn't make it easier, especially when it's a parent. At 21, I felt thoroughly unprepared for such a permanent goodbye. I didn't know how to grieve a loss so permanent. 

Finding strength in a sibling

My anchor in this storm was my brother Arjun. We were the only ones who truly knew what we were feeling because we had both lost the same parent and we were both going through similar emotions. I will always be eternally grateful for the fact that he was there and continues to be there as my biggest ally. He shouldered his own grief while holding space for mine, preventing me from drowning when I didn’t know which way was up. Bhai has stood with me in ways that only a parent can for their child.

Mom passed away in March 2012. I was still studying and was yet to graduate, and Bhai's debut film Ishqzaade hadn’t even released yet. His future held uncertainties, but that never stopped him from shouldering my responsibility—both financially and emotionally—without complaint.

I remember it was the day of mom's cremation. On our way home, in the quiet solitude of the elevator, Bhai held my face in his hands and spoke words that have since become my lifeline. He said, “I cannot replace mom, and I wouldn't even try. But you need to know you're not alone. I'm here and I will always have your back. Just like she did”. Twelve years later, his promise still holds true. Through every tear, every tantrum, every triumph, Bhai has been my unwavering champion; he has stood with me with utmost belief and love.

Weeks after mom's passing, the enormity of her absence hadn't fully settled. I remember the day that I decided to sort through her wardrobe. Midway through it, the weight of reality crushed me. Maa’s scent was everywhere. Every salwar kameez had a memory attached to it. A childhood birthday, movie night with the family, the last time I had rajma-chawal with her… It was too much, too soon. The dam holding back my grief broke, and I had no choice but to allow myself to truly feel her absence. I couldn’t stop shaking and crying. I remember going to bhaiya and I cried so hard, his entire T-shirt was soaked through. But he just held me through it all. "Why do you think you had to do this alone? You're not alone," he told me. It was then, perhaps for the first time, that his words truly sunk in. That was the day I realised that I do not have to navigate my grief alone. I don’t have to remember Maa alone.

Seeking help

While grappling with grief, strength rarely comes overnight or in isolation. Therapy has been a powerful tool in my journey. However, therapy cannot be forced onto someone—they have to decide for themselves that they want the help and only then will it be beneficial. I say this from experience. My first encounter with therapy wasn’t by choice. When I went back to New York to finish my degree and graduate, my college, with good intentions, mandated sessions with a trained therapist on campus. Looking back, I appreciate their foresight. However, my grief was raw, and being forced into therapy backfired. I wasn't ready to confront my emotions, so I lied my way through most sessions.

When I returned to Mumbai, my lack of coping skills left me utterly unprepared. To physically be living in mom’s house without her for the first time in four years brought with it an avalanche of emotions I didn’t know how to deal with. Later that year, when I consciously sought therapy, it was a game-changer. And once I found a therapist who was a good fit for me, I never looked back.

Therapy helped me understand the value of a support system. After losing mom, I had closed off emotionally. It was a misguided attempt to shield myself from feeling loss or pain again. I was terrified of getting close to someone again, only to face a similar loss. It took me years to overcome that fear and start letting people in again. While I cherish my small circle now, there was a time when that circle was practically non-existent. At times, it still is an uphill battle to remain connected with people.

This self-imposed isolation was a double-edged sword. By shutting people out, I unintentionally pushed away their support. Losing mom forced me to confront the truth that a single person can't fulfill all our needs. 

Losing my nani after mom shattered the illusion that grief gets easier with practice. Grief offers no discounts for past experiences. It certainly did not for me. I may have had a few more coping mechanisms up my sleeve, but the journey was completely different and equally debilitating. Do I feel like I have some kind of handbook to follow every time I have to grieve someone? I don't think so. Is there some kind of roadmap I can share? No, because I can't even road map it for myself. Each loss is a singular experience and intensely personal. Perhaps I've emerged a little stronger, able to breathe through the heartache. With so many years of practice with the ebb and flow of my grief, I can now almost see the wave of sorrow approaching, allowing me to brace for its impact.

Picking up the pieces

Of course, there are times when I really just want my Maa. I want to hug her one more time, have one more conversation with her. I think every child who has lost a parent goes through these feelings. Earlier, these moments would unravel me for days, but I don't get that unsettled as easily anymore. Sometimes words or places still trigger a wave of grief. Something as mundane as seeing my friends watch a play with their parent or celebrate a milestone with them can trigger pain and even jealousy, because I want that too! The sheer unfairness of it all can feel crushing. But then you catch yourself, give yourself grace, maybe even allow a small pity party if you must, and then you pick up the pieces and move forward, one step at a time. Because that's what she would want— for me to carry her memory, not be burdened by it.

In the early days after mom passed, I desperately searched for a "right" way to grieve her. I now know better—there is no right or wrong way to grieve. I believe that talking about those we've lost is a powerful act of healing. My mom was such a formative presence in my life; silencing her memory is simply not an option. I cannot imagine not talking about my mom or sharing her with my people. I’m often asked how long it took me to get through the famous "stages of grief", and I am most often flummoxed. In my opinion, these stages shouldn't be taken literally. Grief is a personal experience—you may go through a wave of anger one day, a pang of denial the next. I went through years of feeling guilty for experiencing any kind joy without mom. It's not a linear climb back to happiness or normalcy, and that’s okay. Nor is there a deadline to stop grieving. Twelve years later, I still feel my mother's absence. 

Grief is a personal storm, and everyone weathers it differently. But sometimes, you want to look at someone who has walked a similar path, someone who emerged from the storm and found laughter again. With my brother, my family and friends, and my therapist, I found that light. It wasn't easy, it took a village, but we made it to the other side.

All images courtesy of the author

Also Read: Celebrities are now more forthcoming about their mental health—does it have a real-world impact?

Also Read: Are we abusing therapy-speak in our relationships to avoid accountability?

Also Read: Why the McDonaldisation of therapy is terrible for your mental health