Mango Bite Agonized sobs encased me. All around me everyone was dressed in simple white clothes. In India, white is the color of mourning. It symbolizes purity and peace at its finest, the very things that now seemed absent in my heart. I trudged towards the loudest room of the house and my eyes met shut eyelids. Laid down on a plain white bed, cotton stuffed in his nose, the lifeless body of my great grandfather reflected in my eyes. I was only 8 years old when my great grandfather who was lovingly called “Appa” moved in with me and my parents. Almost immediately I took a great disliking towards him. I had never seen anybody with wrinkles that conspicuous and couldn’t understand why his skin looked so different from everyone else’s. Etched lines which each held a story of their own, were met with my immaturity and misplaced coldness. Despite my behavior, I don’t remember him ever returning my harshness. He remained patient, embodying a quiet grace I failed to see at the time. Each evening, when he returned home from his walk, he’d slip me a Mango Bite candy without a word—a small token of his love. I didn’t realize it at that time, but Mango Bite was his way of reaching out and showing me the beauty of silent kindness even in the face of rejection and bitterness. It will always be a significant part of my story, a sweet reminder of the love, tenderness, and support he showed me, staying a quiet hand on my back without expecting anything in return. It’s ironic how guilt has a way of creeping in when it’s far too late. As I stood over his body, my heart ached with regret. I couldn’t bear to look any longer as questions and accusations filled my head. The realization that I could never apologize or make amends knocked the wind out of me. Regret took over every body part of my body, filling me with anguish. Why hadn’t I seen his love when he was alive? Why had I been so cold? Did he die thinking I didn’t love him? I’ve learnt over time that regret is the most painful emotion. A cruel reminder that not all mistakes can be undone, no matter how desperately I wished they could. I spent years wrestling with that stinging feeling of having abandoned someone who had been quietly offering me his kindness and love all along. There was no “undo” button for this. And yet, in that pit of grief, I found solace in an unexpected outlet: coding. Growing up with two parents heavily into computer science, I was always exposed to coding, but it wasn’t until Appa’s death, that I truly threw myself into it, seeking a distraction. The more I practiced coding, the more miniscule my problems seemed to become. I discovered a safe space where my mistakes weren’t final. I had control over every error, bug, and problem. In a world where my hands were shackled with chains of regret, coding offered me wings—a way to fix things, to make them right even when everything else was broken. As I grew older, coding developed into more than just a hobby, it became my connection to Appa. While I couldn’t undo my past with him and give myself another chance, it gave me the power to learn from my mistakes. It reminded me the sweetness of second chances—the very sweetness that Appa came home with every evening in the form of Mango Bite.