I returned from Bareilly last night. It was a short duration trip, covering a long distance. Hastily arranged, all to say goodbye to one who had already departed (on 29 August) on a one-way ticket, never to return. It occurred to me on my way back that it was probably my last trip to that city.

Not this time the frantic and frequent calls from her checking what flight/train we (her daughter Chandrika, Meghna and I) were coming by, how much distance we had covered, how we were dealing with hunger pangs, how many days we planned to stay (a conversation we will have had many times already), loud protests on knowing, and asking if Meghna could stay longer with her. Not this time the wait at the railway station for us to arrive. Not this time her excited rapid-fire instructions to her driver, the maid, the gardener, her old loyal employees, the neighbours, the nearby stores, her circle of friends, the city of Bareilly, the Forces, … the Universe.

This time I travelled with a friend of many decades, and not with Chandrika (she left us over five years ago; never heard from since) or Meghna, now in faraway London.

She lay quiet when I arrived. Inert. At 93, one may have wished for a century, but 93 was as solid an innings as any, built with blood, sweat and guts, also love, care and generosity.

She was often spoken of as a feisty woman, a warrior, whose courage to battle the odds that life threw her was inspiring, whose zest for life was irrepressible, and whose capacity to build and sustain connections and relationships through innocent (and often gnawing) curiosity and acts of benevolence was enduring. Age slowed her down but never diminished her.

As one would expect, she had a story from her life for every occasion, many in which she was central and, in many others, she became one through her sheer act of narrating. As her, I had written some years ago

Sweet remembrances—secure only in my recollection
Told and retold, they too grow,
As stories unfold with parts untold.

There were stories aplenty: Early childhood stories, Partition stories, Navy stories (after she married and joined her husband), family stories, friends’ stories, travel stories, tennis stories, meeting-famous-people stories, mushaira stories, children-growing-up stories, Cheeku (as Chandrika was fondly called) stories, ‘coming-out-of-the-shadow’ stories, care-giving stories, school-teacher stories, betrayal stories, providential stories, miracle stories, struggles-in-business (the gas agency she started late in life after her husband fell ill) stories, employee stories, winning ‘Best Agency’-awards stories.… She had great memory, and added creatively where memory fell short.

She was emotional and strong, exacting and forgiving, not one to trust easily but lay great store in loyalty. She was calculating not in a way that Shylock was but more as one who believed that a hard-earned rupee must be accounted for and not be insulted with callous indifference. She had seen difficult days and understood well how money mattered; she also understood that it was not meant for hoarding but for sharing, making lives better, investing in her people through heathcare and education to help them build better lives than their meagre incomes would permit, and helping women acquire skills in order to find gainful employment.

There are memories that rise in no particular order or for no reason:

The trip from Cochin to Kanyakumari that we did in the early 1990s. She at the edge of the sea at Kanyakumari, enjoying the gusty breeze as her feet stayed soaked in the waters, happy and content, the moment committed to memory and recounted numerous times in later years.

Here’s another: The cloth bags she brought all the way to Chennai, shaped after its contents, and the initial hours she spent as she unloaded goodies—eats, spirits, dress material, curios, cookware—an act that rivalled a magician pulling out things that a container didn’t seem capable of holding; she sat in the middle of it all as she hurled instructions, named beneficiaries and cajoled people in the house to accept without protest what she had brought.

She visited us in Chennai during the winter months every year, escaping the biting cold of Bareilly, and preferring to suffer the wet and humid months of Chennai. In more recent years, that is, prior to 2014 and after a nasty road accident restricted her mobility, she would go downstairs and sit in the walkway of our apartment complex, and watch children play, old women walk a bit, and the younger men and women briskly do dozens of rounds around the compound, their daily ritual to stay fit. She knew them all. She kept toffees handy to give the children and had many questions and stories for the walkers. When there were visitors, drink in hand, she would offer Urdu poems/ghazals written in her notebook, last pages first, giving evidence of talent and her love for poetry.

She loved people. She loved to love. She loved to be loved.

For one who had unflinchingly faced many an adversity, the loss of her daughter on MH370 in 2014 was a blow she never quite recovered from. For one who was young at heart in spite of her advancing years, fussed over her body and health and ferociously fought back the tentacles of ailments, she wilted. As days passed and hopes faded, her will to live snapped.

Her pains grew, her health became a concern and it seemed a grudging acceptance had come upon her that her life’s work is done. She didn’t fight suffering but endured it. Her love for her family remained as strong as ever but perhaps the call to be one with her daughter was too tempting to resist.

So, it was—a full life, full of life.

This post originally appeared on Facebook.