What a week for our chosen family. Our dear friend Gautom Thakuria died on Monday at the way-too-young-age of 59. I debated posting this because this account is so much death lately. But as I have written, the tradeoff for having loads of love in your life is the inevitability of loss.

After he died, a mutual friend and I were on the phone. My father, mother and brother apparently had been among the last to see him; he died 20 minutes after their visit to the hospital. "They were so close," this friend said. "Your father helped Gautom when he came to the US, right?"

I responded, "At this point, I do not know who helped who more. It is one big circle."

Some memories:

Gautom respected my father immensely. He showed this loudly and proudly. It is what I will remember most about him. In turn, my parents regarded him as a bit of a son or a close nephew (even though he called them "Dada" and "Baidew", which means elder brother and elder sister; how we decide who gets called what, I still do not understand). For some time, Gautom lived with my cousin and the pair were a backdrop of my high-school years, the Indian cousins making their way. When he got married and brought his wife, Moon, to our house, my parents made a huge deal of it as though we were welcoming a new relative. They had a commuter marriage across multiple state lines for a while, and I remember my parents telling them that all of this was just short-term pain.

Gautom respected his doctor wife and her work and her work ethic immensely. Every conversation with him, especially these last few years, included mention of how hard and constantly Moon worked. It was not with annoyance but great pride. Moon was also a constant presence when my mother had complications after aortic valve replacement surgery, during my father's strokes, and amid my mother-in-law's multiple hospitalizations and eventual hospice. In the absence of a doctor in our family, she played this role.

Gautom loved my parents' parties, the big planned ones and also the impromptu types where they just happened to stop by and stayed on for dinner or long gossip sessions. Over the last few years, he would mention these gatherings with fondness and nostalgia. "There were so many people, so much food, so much music," Gautom recently told my husband, invoking an image of equal parts grandeur and ghorwa, an Assamese word for homely, familiar, intimate. We all knew what he meant.

During one night, the singer Bhupen Hazarika was staying with us and my parents invited a few families over. They gathered on the deck and talked into the night. I was not listening intently but some talk of politics happened (Bhupen Uncle had run for elections a few times in his life so I presume it was related to that, or the ongoing insurgent movement in our homeland). Gautom-da, as I called him, posted something on the Assamese list-serv about the conversation, which ended up being controversial and spread across the world with the speed of the internet, which upset Bhupen Uncle and, eventually, Gautom-da. It was a bit of a hungama at the time -- it was before cell phones and our landline was going nonstop, and my dad refused to get call waiting so you can picture the drama -- but then blew over quickly. Eventually, we all looked back on that night and laughed, as I do today. Gautom-da loved to talk and share the news, as I do today.

Another hungama during a visit last year: their dog Zara ran out onto the lawn and wouldn't come back in. We looked crazy, six adults (me, my dad and mom and husband, Gautom and another friend) trying to catch this escape artist. Finally, we lured her back with treats and a leash. Again, we look back and laugh. He sent me this note after.

I look back at our text and email thread and realize there was a shift over the last decade from Gautom being my parents' friend to becoming mine, too. He's just a few years older than my husband, after all, and eventually it all catches up.

Among Gautom's final texts to me were about how his daughter had gotten into med school and he asked me to pray for her success. She and my own daughter have grown up giving each other manicures, performing Bihu and Bollywood together, plotting sleepovers. During times like this, I take solace in this, that relationships endure beyond a generation.

Finally, Gautom defied the odds. I do not know anyone with lung cancer who survived as long as he did, and with as positive an outlook, continuing his own work and social calendar. On Dec. 30, 2023, a day before my father turned 84, we invited a few people over to celebrate. Gautom-da arrived, rolling in with his oxygen tank, smiling widely after having driven himself and his family; his daughter was visiting from med school and my own daughters were excited to see her. He sat next to my father and together, these living miracles commanded the room. My father's speech was halting, Gautom-da's was breathless. None of us took that moment for granted. The joy and simplicity of it will stay with me always.

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