Recalling feelings from fifty years ago is no easy task, yet some memories remain as vivid as if they occurred today. I distinctly remember being in the hospital (Goa Medical College, old building) on October 7th, 1973, when my father passed away. Today marks half a century since that fateful day, but one thing that eludes me is how I ended up there to be with my father. Despite my best efforts, I cannot recall a single instance leading up to that moment. This only reinforces the notion that I was not myself at the time.

One memory that remains fresh is the sound of a knock on the door, which I desperately hoped would never come. With my father's condition precarious, a late-night knock seemed like an ominous confirmation of his passing. My father had instructed me to sleep at Uncle Ciriac's house since he felt better; our brother Joe and Joe Aguiar stayed with him. Although I left reluctantly, I dreaded that knock.

When it came, I knew the outcome. Bravely accepting it, the child within me cried. The realization of ten of us being orphaned - with me being young at fourteen and six siblings behind me - was hard to believe.

The echo of my cry resonates even now. I remember where I sat and the comforting hug of a young lady from Diwar, whose presence at such an early hour remains a mystery. She was the wife of a butcher named Mohamad and tried to console me with her tears falling onto my hand while uttering, "Allah knows what's right."

Today, fifty years may have passed, but it feels like yesterday. In the same breath, I am astounded by our resilience, clearly displayed in what we have become today.

This date has added yet another dimension to my life as I am celebrating my granddaughter Maya's birthday. Indeed, I am a proud Xapai. This is called destiny.