A life still left to live - World News Network

By Suvir Saran
New Delhi [India], February 4 (ANI): Is it worth it? The question circles me like a vulture, waiting. It arrives in the moments when pain swells into something unbearable, when my body becomes a prison, when I feel like a man bound in invisible chains. Pain is not just a sensation. It is a captor. A thief. It robs me of movement, of ease, of sleep, of breath. It has been with me for as long as I can remember, wrapped around my bones, threading itself through my joints like an unwanted lover that refuses to let go.
But is it worth it?
I have asked myself this countless times. I have answered it differently each time. I do not always trust my answers.
Pain has made me dream of escape. Of slipping away unnoticed, of surrendering to the quiet pull of water, of falling into the arms of the sky. I have imagined it in Goa, watching the monsoon-fed river swell with hunger. I have imagined the car being swallowed by the tide, the waters folding around me like a cradle, absorbing me into something vast and infinite. And yet, even as the thought flits through my mind, another thought follows–the driver. A man with a family. A man with his own life, his own struggles, his own dreams still waiting to be lived. How dare I? How dare I let my pain take him too?
In Bombay, on the Bandra-Worli Sea Link, as the city gleams in the distance, the thought rises again–what if? Another driver. Another journey that does not belong to me. Another life that is still unfolding, still full of possibility. And later, on my balcony on the 45th floor, staring down at a city I love so much it sometimes aches, another question: What if the floor beneath me cracked, gave way?
But then–who would I leave behind?
Sunita. My mother. My anchor. The woman who has never abandoned me, never wavered, never let me believe that I was anything less than extraordinary–even when I felt like I was breaking into pieces. Samir, Seema, Ajit, Karun. My brother, my sister, my brother-in-law, my nephew–the family that has held me through storms, the ones who have seen my worst and still stayed. My friends. My mentees. The strangers who have smiled at me when I needed it most. My dog, Clouseau, waiting for me in Delhi, believing in my return without doubt or hesitation.
And then there are the dreams. The ones I have lived, yes, but also the ones I have yet to touch.
I still want to walk.
For Manish Malhotra. In Bombay, in Dubai, in every city where his star shines. A galaxy of brilliance that grows brighter, multiplying with wonder, with magic, with mastery. I want to step into that light one day, to walk in the world he has built, to feel the weight of fabric and legacy draped around me. I still want to walk for Sabyasachi, not just on his runway, but into his stores–New York, Bombay, Calcutta. I want to cook for him, to bring my craft to his craft, to turn his spaces into a feast where fabric and food dance together. One day, maybe, we will bring food to the runway, create a show where taste and texture and textiles collide in poetry. Maybe.
And I still want to cook.
At Neuma, my restaurant in Mumbai, housed in a heritage building in the most beautiful part of town. A place where food mirrors my soul, where flavors tell stories, where the world meets itself on a plate. At Jolene, in Anjuna, a love song not just to the music of the woman who first sang it, but to the dreamers behind it–Amrita Arora Ladak, Shakeel Ladak, Ankit Tayal, Gaurav Batra, and me. A place not just to sit by the beach, but to be. To hang, to chill, to gather, to belong. And I still want to feed people there, countless meals, stories folded into each bite.
I still want to cook in Pune, at Qora, at Murphy’s, at Oi Brew House. I love Pune. The way the food there carries my thoughts, my love, my travels. The way this small town in India holds the world in a big way. I want to live with them, dream with them, feed them, and be fed by them–not just with food, but with the richness of shared stories, with the knowing that we belong to something bigger than ourselves.
And I still want to sing.
That part of me has been lost for so long. My childhood flashes in front of me–me, on a stage, filling vast spaces with my voice, unafraid, unbroken. Then illness came. Sound became pain. Noise became an enemy. The world became something I had to shield myself from, rather than something I could embrace. But I want to fight for it. I want to learn to sing again. I want to stand on a stage and perform without fear.
For that, I will live.
And for Rohit Bal. Gudda. My best friend. The man who found me beautiful in black. The man who always wanted me to walk for him–but in his last words to me, said, I don’t want you walking for me because I know something. He was afraid that if I did, I might feel complete. That I might let go. That I might think there was nothing left to chase. But I walked for him two days ago. I walked in black. I walked not to say goodbye, but to hold on.
And to those who have lost someone–to suicide, to despair, to that dark place where suffering drowns out reason–I say this: it was never your fault. You were never to blame. There was nothing you could have done.
I know this because I have stood at that edge. And in those moments, the world narrows. Pain becomes everything. It clouds the mind, it steals the light, it turns love into something distant and unreachable. Those who leave do not leave because of you. They leave because their pain became bigger than them. Because in that moment, they could not see a way forward. But you–you–were their joy, their anchor, their celebration. You carried them this far. You gave them so many moments to cherish.
So do not carry their burden as your own. Do not let their darkness become yours. Let go of the guilt. Let go of the blame. Forgive. Forgive yourself. Forgive them. Because the only way forward is through love. The only way to honor their memory is to live–not just for them, but for yourself. To be the balm in someone else’s life. To be the light for someone standing at the same precipice, wondering if there is still a reason to hold on.
And to you, who suffers, who contemplates, who wonders if there is an end to the torment–I do not have an answer. Only this: you are not alone. You are seen. You are heard. You are loved.
And though the pain is great, the love is greater.
Hold on. There are still more meals to cook. More ramps to walk. More dreams to live. More songs to sing. (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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