Memoirs

Celebrating Amma – A Life of Grace and Purpose

Some people carry grace like a quiet strength, touching the lives around them through simple, daily acts of love. In my husband’s mother – Amma – I discovered a woman whose beauty runs far deeper than what meets the eye, whose generous heart has shaped not just her family but everyone fortunate enough to witness her way of living.

When I first entered this family as a young bride, I was struck by more than just Amma’s natural beauty. There was something in the way she moved through her world – purposeful, caring, always thinking of others before herself. Over the years, what began as admiration has grown into deep respect and genuine affection.

In her, I found a mentor whose actions spoke louder than any words of advice.

The Art of Grace

There’s something almost magical about walking into Amma’s home. No matter when you arrive – whether it’s been planned for weeks or you’ve shown up unexpectedly – everything is immaculate. Not the cold perfection of a showroom, but the warm, lived-in cleanliness that speaks of care and respect.

In those early years of marriage, I was amazed by this aspect of her life. Despite her workload, despite being tired after long days, she ensured her work was done and, most importantly, that her space reflected the care she felt for her family. Her home wasn’t just clean – it was organized with a thoughtfulness that made everything feel intentional.

Over the years, I’ve come to understand her philosophy about our surroundings. The place around us is the one thing we can have control over, and when we keep it with neatness and care, that’s how we respect our space and ourselves.

I watched her live this philosophy every single day. She kept her things organized not out of obsession, but out of love. What I’ve always admired about Amma is her ability to not procrastinate or push things to a later date – she gets things done because she thinks it’s important. This applies not just to keeping her surroundings clean, but to everything in her life. She always dresses very neatly, presents herself with care, and tackles tasks without delay. This is another quality I can see clearly in my husband – he learned from her that important things shouldn’t be postponed.

Every time I visit India, even now when she and Appa are in their later years, I’m still amazed by how neat and tidy their house remains. Despite their age, their home still reflects that same grace and attention to detail.

What amazes me about Amma is her memory – it’s sharper than mine, and I’m much younger than her. She remembers details about conversations, events, and people that happened years ago. She even remembers exactly where things are placed in the house. She recalls exactly what was said, who was there, what was served. Her incredible memory helps her keep track of everyone she loves.

This became one of my greatest inspirations. Through witnessing her actions – never through words of instruction – I learned how keeping our space clean helps our minds feel clearer, more peaceful. I try to follow this lesson she taught me, though I often fall short of her standard of grace.

A Heart That Overflows

If there’s one thing that defines Amma’s approach to life, it’s abundance – not material abundance, but an abundance of heart. This shows most clearly in her kitchen, where no meal is ever planned for just the right number of people.

“It’s better to have more than for someone to have less,” I’ve come to understand this is her philosophy, and I’ve watched her live by this principle for over two decades. When guests come – whether it’s two people or ten – she always cooks extra. Always. I used to think this was just careful planning, but I came to understand it’s something deeper. It’s her way of showing love through provision, of ensuring that no one who enters her home ever feels there isn’t enough.

What moves me most is how she approaches her own needs. Every single day, Amma eats last. After making sure everyone in the family has had everything they need, after serving seconds and checking that everyone is satisfied, only then does she sit down to her own meal. I’ve tried countless times to negotiate with her about this, to convince her to eat with the rest of us, but I’ve lost every single one of these gentle battles.

This generosity extends beyond food. She gives of herself in countless small ways – remembering exactly how her family members like their coffee, ensuring their favorite dishes are prepared, thinking ahead to what might make their visits more comfortable. Her heart overflows with care for those closest to her.

Kitchen Companions

Some of my happiest memories with Amma happen in the kitchen. There’s something special about working alongside her – the easy rhythm we fall into, the way we can cook together without getting in each other’s way. She became not just my teacher but my companion in creating meals for the family.

In those early years of marriage, her kitchen became my classroom. Not through formal lessons, but through watching, trying, and gradually understanding the subtle art of South Indian cooking. Her cooking has so much taste, so much depth of flavor, and I learned by standing beside her, observing how she balanced spices, how she knew exactly when each dish was ready.

What meant so much to me was how she would encourage me when I cooked something she enjoyed. Coming from someone so experienced in the kitchen, her appreciation gave me confidence to keep trying new dishes and flavors.

But our connection goes beyond cooking techniques. We’re both women who love to enjoy life, who find pleasure in good food and good company. What I discovered about Amma is how beautifully spontaneous she is. Many times, in the middle of an ordinary day, I’d turn to her with a sudden idea.

“Would you be interested in going out to eat?” I’d ask, and she would always say yes with such enthusiasm. Off we’d go – two women who shared a love for trying different foods, for the simple pleasure of eating something delicious without having to cook it ourselves.

Amma enjoys chaat – those wonderful North Indian snacks – and South Indian foods with equal enthusiasm. Be it food outings or watching movies together – another common interest we share – these became some of our best bonding moments.

What made our relationship so easy from the beginning was discovering that Amma, despite being from an older generation, wasn’t rigid or overly orthodox in her ways. She was ritualistic, yes, but in a practical way that worked for our family rather than being bound by tradition for tradition’s sake. This was such a blessing for me as a young bride – being someone who also isn’t too rigid or overly ritualistic, I found in her a kindred spirit who valued substance over strict adherence to form.

The Family Keeper

Amma carries the stories of her entire family in her heart. She’s deeply attached not just to her own children, but to the family she married into and her extended family – her brothers and their families. When she speaks of them, which she does often, it’s always with warmth and affection. I’ve never heard her say anything negative about any family member. Instead, she focuses on their positives, their kindness, the ways they’ve touched her life.

Through her stories, I’ve come to know these relatives as real people with beautiful qualities. She remembers all the small things someone has done for her – a thoughtful gesture from decades ago, a moment of kindness during a difficult time. Her gratitude runs deep, and she carries these memories like treasures.

Her love for her grandchildren is something truly special to witness. When my children were young and she and Appa would visit us here, the house would transform with her presence. She didn’t just babysit – she played with them, engaged with them, created a bond that my children still cherish.

I can still picture her playing card games with them, and she brought the same competitive spirit to these games that she had with the adults. She would playfully hide the jokers, keep a perfect poker face, and tease her young opponents with that mischievous glint in her eye. What I loved watching was how she never gave up her competitive edge just because they were children – she played with the same interest and determination, making the games genuinely challenging and exciting for them. She was an expert at card games, and even with her grandchildren, she played to win while making sure everyone had fun.

When they were toddlers, she would spend hours making their favorite pureed foods, taking such care to prepare exactly what they loved. She would sit with them during cartoon time, patiently feeding them spoonful by spoonful, completely absorbed in making sure they were well-nourished and happy and equally enjoying with them their favorite shows. Even now, years later, her first concern when the grandchildren visit is whether they’re hungry. She’ll immediately start thinking of what to cook for them, what would make them feel most loved and cared for.

Her cooking was aromatic, filling the house with wonderful scents. She made sure her grandchildren experienced the tastes and comfort of traditional South Indian foods she grew up with.

Lessons Without Words

The most powerful teachings often come not through lectures or advice, but through quiet examples. Amma taught me about life simply by living hers with such grace and intention.

From her, I learned that cleanliness and organization aren’t about perfection – they’re about creating a peaceful space where love can flourish. I learned that hospitality isn’t about having the fanciest things, but about making people feel genuinely welcomed and cared for.

I can see her influence clearly in my husband – the way he keeps things organized, his natural cleanliness, his attention to neatness. These aren’t traits he consciously learned; they’re simply part of who he is because of the mother who raised him.

Amma has other passions that bring her joy – she loves playing Sudoku and puzzle games, exercising her sharp mind with challenges that keep her engaged. I can see where my husband and children inherited their love for puzzles and mental games.

A Heart Full of Gratitude

As I write this memoir as a birthday gift for Amma, I reflect on the woman she is and the many ways she has touched our family’s life.

What I’ve come to appreciate is how we’ve both grown in our understanding of each other over the years. Family relationships aren’t always simple, but there’s something valuable in learning to honor the good we see in each other.

Amma, as you celebrate another year of life, I want you to know how much your devotion to your children and grandchildren means to all of us. You’ve also been there during my difficult moments, listening with patience and understanding. That quiet support meant more to me than you might know.

I see how lovingly you care for Appa, always making sure he’s comfortable and has everything he needs. I find that very inspiring.

Your son carries your best qualities – your sense of organization, your attention to detail, your love of family. Your grandchildren light up when they remember those card games and the special foods you made just for them.

You’ve shown me what it means to maintain a graceful home, to care deeply for family, and to find joy in simple pleasures like a good meal shared or a challenging game of cards.

On this special day, I celebrate the gift of having witnessed your love for your family over all these years. May this new year bring you continued health, happiness, and many more moments of joy with those you hold most dear.

A Poem for you, Amma

Sweet moments with grandchildren, laughter we share,
Your love for adventure takes you everywhere.
Amma, you’ve touched our lives in countless ways,
A life lived with purpose, a heart full of light.

As you celebrate another year of this beautiful life,
We honor the woman, the mother, the wife.
May this birthday bring joy, health, and cheer,
To someone we cherish and hold very dear.

With all my love and admiration,

Sujatha

My Visit to Adoni – A Child’s Memory of Kindness

I must have been quite young, about 6-7 years, when I visited my father’s uncle in Adoni, a small city in Andhra Pradesh. That was the early 1980s, and their neighborhood had rows of small, tiled houses where everyone knew each other. It was a simpler time – not much of city development, just a close-knit community where neighbors seemed to care for each other. Their house was simple – a small house with a tiled roof with just three small rooms: a living room, a small kitchen, and a bedroom. What fascinated me most was the little room on the tiled roof that you could climb up to reach. It felt like a secret hideaway in that modest home.

They didn’t have a bathroom inside the house. Instead, we used the communal street bathroom. As a child accustomed to indoor bathrooms, this was genuinely difficult for me, but I managed. My parents had taught us to adjust gracefully when staying with others, to not make the hosts uncomfortable. They had shown my siblings and me that love and kindness mattered beyond anything.

Adoni Thatha (that’s how I called him) was a happy man who always lovingly addressed me as “Bangaru” (gold). He had this innocence about him and the way he laughed. He had a positivity that even as a young girl, I could feel – perhaps because I had experienced the absence of such warmth before. I felt happier around him and safe.

Looking back, I realize he was the first grandfather figure I felt connected to. Both my grandfathers had passed away before I was born. Even though we did not interact much, the time with him felt like being with my own grandfather.

What I remember most vividly is the Adoni upma that Avva (his wife, grandmother in my language) would make for me. I remember Thatha would rave about this food as it is a traditional food of the city and told me I would love it. He had asked his wife to make this for me. It is my favorite to this day. This south Indian upma was made with puffed rice that was soaked in water and drained. It was made mostly the usual way of making upma but at the end garnished with crushed roasted gram dal and roasted peanuts.

The Parrot with the Broken Wing

One of the most beautiful memories from that visit was a green parrot that Adoni Thatha cared for. This bird had fallen and broken its leg, and I watched how tenderly he took care of it. He kept the parrot in a cage to help it heal. He would take the bird out, wrap its leg with a bandage, and talk to it lovingly. He allowed me to play with the bird, and he would become like a child himself, playing and feeding it.

What touched me even more was learning later – months or maybe years after my visit – that once the parrot’s leg had completely healed, he set it free. This was one of the earliest memories I have of kindness to an animal that stayed with me. Even though he loved the bird dearly, he chose to let it fly away when it was ready. His love for the bird meant wanting it to be free.

Community Friendship

Adoni Avva was equally wonderful. I remember accompanying her as she worked with other women in the community, making cotton threads for lighting lamps in the temple. I don’t remember exactly what I did during those gatherings, but I remember I would observe how it is done and she let me weave a few cotton threads and taught me how to.

I would tag along when she went to visit her friends. As a child, I remember enjoying just observing the surroundings and soaking in the newness of the experiences.

What Children Remember

Looking back now, I realize something profound: children remember kindness above all else. Despite the uncomfortable bathroom situation, despite being in an unfamiliar place with relative strangers, what stayed with me was love.

I wasn’t there with my parents and siblings – it was just me in that small house with these caring people who made sure I felt welcomed, fed, and included. They could have seen my visit as an inconvenience, but instead they treated me, a little girl, like a treasured guest.

They took me around the community, introduced me to their world, and shared their simple but meaningful life with an open heart. In their small house, they made sure I had everything I needed to feel at home.

These memories have stayed with me, not because of any grand gesture or expensive gifts, but because of the genuine warmth I felt in that little house in Adoni. It taught me that hospitality isn’t about having the perfect home or the finest things – it’s about making someone feel truly seen, loved, and valued, and genuinely welcomed with your whole heart.

Letters Spaced Just Right: My Mother and Her Siblings

I am dedicating this to my mother.

Every time she shares these childhood memories – even though I’ve heard them countless times – I find myself filled with the same joy and wonder that lights up her face. I have gathered here some of the stories she has shared with me over the years. I never grow tired of listening to these tales. Instead, I am marveled at the innocence and plain adoration she has for her siblings. Watching her describe these incidents with such delight, even now at seventy-two, fills me with gratitude for her, for her upbringing, and for the joy she carries through life.

In a recent video call, my mother narrated her times with her siblings. Even though I listened to many of these stories before, I was delighted and engaged in her stories, smiling at her enthusiastic narrations of her childhood times with her cute expressions.

My mother with her younger brother Subi Mama

My mom Lakshmi’s face lights up when she talks about her family. At seventy-two, she still giggles like a child when she mentions Subi Mama, her younger brother and partner in mischief. When she speaks of Vicha Mama (Vishwanathan), her elder brother who was thirteen years older, she transforms into a respectful student, still in awe of his wisdom. And then there’s Balamma, whom we lovingly call Pedhamma (which means “elder mother” in Telugu), who was 15 years older than my mother and whose quiet strength has inspired us all.

When Mom talks about her brothers, her whole face changes. Stories about Subi Mama bring out her playful side – she smiles and laughs with that same childhood mischief in her eyes. But when she speaks of Vicha Mama, she becomes almost reverent – still grateful for her brother’s loving guidance.

The Salt Surprise

When my mother was a little girl, she had a sweet tooth that often got her into trouble. Whenever she thought no one was looking, her small hands would sneak into the sugar box. She’d keep watch at the door while quickly scooping sugar into her mouth, enjoying her secret treat.

What she didn’t know was that Vicha Mama, her elder brother who was studying to be a doctor, had noticed her sugar stealing. One day, he quietly switched the sugar and salt containers.

That afternoon, when my mother dipped her fingers into what she thought was sugar, her face twisted in shock as salt filled her mouth.

“You think you had sugar,” Vicha Mama said, suddenly appearing in the doorway with a stern face hiding a hint of a smile. “But now it’s salt. I know what you’ve been doing, all that stealing.”

He made her finish what was in her mouth. “You need to swallow it all,” he said firmly.

Tears filled my mother’s eyes as she swallowed, but the lesson stuck with her forever. It wasn’t meant to be cruel – it was Vicha Mama’s way of teaching her to be honest, even when nobody seemed to be watching.

She is 72 years old now and still sneaks sugar and candies when we’re not looking. I’ll catch her with a sweet in her mouth, and she’ll give me that same guilty smile from her childhood stories.

Sweet Mango Days

Summer meant mangoes – sweet and juicy. Vicha Mama would hand-pick the ripest ones and bring them home for his younger siblings. My mother and Subi Mama would sit together eating mangoes, juice dripping down their chins, giggling as they enjoyed their treat.

“This is the best thing in the world even with the fiber that gets stuck in your teeth, it made it even more fun,” my mother would say, with those naughty eyes. I never understood how she could be so excited about something that left strings between your teeth, but her enthusiasm was infectious.

But one day, my mother got suspicious. She thought her elder brother was keeping the biggest, juiciest mangoes for himself. When no one was looking, she stole a large, perfect-looking mango from his room.

Her excitement quickly turned to disappointment when her first bite revealed it was sour and unripe. Before she could hide the evidence, Vicha Mama found her.

“Why don’t you wait for me to give you the best mango?” he asked, looking disappointed but not angry. “The best mangoes have wrinkles on the skin – that means they’re sweet. The big, smooth ones are usually sour.”

He made her eat the entire mango, teaching her another lesson: patience is virtue.

Learning Order from Chaos

Vicha Mama believed in teaching his siblings how to take care of themselves. On Saturday afternoons, he would empty their cupboards, throwing all the clothes on the floor in what looked like a mess. But he had a plan.

“Watch carefully,” he would say, showing them exactly how to fold each piece of clothing. “By the time I come back, everything needs to be back in the cupboard, neatly organized.”

Even the freshly ironed clothes weren’t spared from this weekly lesson. My mother and Subi Mama would work together, their small hands learning to transform disorder into harmony. These Saturday organizing sessions became a kind of ritual – first the chaos, then the teamwork, and finally the satisfaction of a job well done.

Penmanship and Character

“Your handwriting must be neat and very clear. It must reflect your mind,” Vicha Mama once told my mother, and she took this to heart.

He taught his little sister to leave exactly one little finger’s width between each word. He would watch as she practiced, gently guiding her hand across the page. “Make each letter clear,” he would say.

Today, at seventy-two, my mother’s handwriting is still beautiful – whether she’s writing in English, Telugu, or Tamil. Each letter is carefully formed, each word has its proper space. Her writing isn’t just words on paper – it’s a kind of art that shows how clearly she thinks.

Watching her write even a simple note is like watching someone who has practiced the same careful movements for decades. Her pen moves smoothly, never rushing. I marvel at her patience in enjoying the writing process – something never meant to be done quickly – in our world of quick typing and text messages.

Learning Self-Reliance

When school started each year, my mother and Subi Mama would first ask their house helper to cover their books with brown paper and put on neat labels. When her elder brother found out about this, he decided it was time for another lesson.

“You’re old enough to do this yourselves,” he told them, my mother studying in ninth grade at that time.

Step by step, he showed them how to measure the paper, make clean folds, and secure the corners. “From now on, you’ll do this yourselves,” he said.

This skill stayed with my mother her whole life. Years later, I would watch in amazement as she covered our schoolbooks with the same careful attention, neatly binding them. Those bindings weren’t just neat – they stayed strong and firm throughout the school year, protecting our books through daily wear and countless openings.

Paper Bits in the Breeze

While Vicha Mama was the teacher, my mother found a best friend in her younger brother, Subi Mama. When their parents would go out to see a movie, the siblings would say:

“Oh, you go. We’ll be fine at home” with angelic faces masking the playful schemes already forming in their minds.

Once alone, they would tear paper into tiny pieces, gather them in their hands, and run outside to throw them into the air, watching the bits float like snow. They never got caught for these small adventures, their shared secret bringing them closer together.

In the 50s and 60s, when social media was not part of the world and with many homes not having a television, children found creative ways to spend their time and play. I would say back then there was more quality time spent with each other, and people had a lot more time appreciating the little things in life.

As they grew up, their connection stayed just as strong. Being separated by less than two years in age helped them see each other not just as siblings but as true confidants. They became each other’s trusted friends, protectors, and supporters through life’s journey – their deep bond nurtured by those childhood conspiracies.

Strength Through Silence

My mother with her eldest sister (my mother on left, Pedhamma on the right)

Apart from these childhood adventures was Balamma, my mother’s eldest sister. Married young, as was common then, Pedhamma only appears in my mother’s early memories as a visitor who came home with her young son during vacations. But her influence on our family was deep and lasting.

Pedhamma’s life was filled with heartbreak – a genetic disease in her husband’s family took not only her husband but two of her children as well. As a single mother, she faced these terrible losses and many other hardships with a quiet dignity that touched everyone who knew her.

What made Pedhamma so special wasn’t just that she survived these troubles, but that she never felt sorry for herself or became bitter. She never complained, never acted like a victim, never let her own pain stop her from loving others. She would cry for someone else’s problems before even mentioning her own, facing each new challenge with quiet strength and dignity instead of giving up.

When my mother or her siblings had problems in their own lives, they would think of their eldest sister. Their troubles would suddenly seem smaller compared to what she had been through and how gracefully she handled it all.

Today, Pedhamma’s memory lives on in our family. Her name stands for accepting life’s hardships with dignity – not by giving up, but by acknowledging reality in a way that lets you move forward without being defined by your troubles. She showed them that real strength isn’t about avoiding hard times, but about how you carry yourself through them. Her perseverance, patience and love showed all of us how to accept life’s challenges and act from the place of now.

Stories that Bind Us

My childhood summers were filled with fun and excitement of meeting my cousins and staying at my Mamas’ and Pedhamma’s.

At Vicha Mama’s, I’d bubble with excitement as he’d greet me at Warangal station with that precious flask of vanilla ice cream – a small gesture that made me feel so special.

My time at Pedhamma’s house created another kind of joy – simple, happy times spent playing with neighborhood children, exploring freely in a loving space under the watchful eyes of my mother’s eldest sister. Pedhamma spoke little but loved deeply – strict yet never judgmental. Her quiet way of showing affection created a peaceful haven I looked forward to every school break.

Then there were the magical stays at Subi Mama’s home in Bhimli. His house, surrounded by mango trees in the ashram grounds, became my childhood paradise. The sound of ocean waves in the nights felt soothing and shifted us to a place of calmness. There was nothing like the thrill of climbing those mango trees with my cousins or playing hide-and-seek within that big compound.

Even now, when my mother and Subi Mama get together, the years fall away and they become those children again – the ones who once threw paper bits into the summer breeze. When she tells stories about their mischief, her eyes light up with that same playful sparkle, her laughter as fresh as it must have been back then. And when she talks about Vicha Mama, her voice fills with the same respect and love she’s felt her whole life for the brother who taught her so many important lessons – sometimes strict, always loving, forever shaping the person she became.

In my mother’s life at seventy-two, her relationships with her siblings remain the strongest foundation in her life. Their love for each other, the playfulness, and wisdom continue to influence not just her, but all of us who came after. The reverence we children feel for our Mamas and Pedhamma mirrors what my mother feels for her own siblings – a cycle of love and respect that continues through generations.

The stories she shares now – about sugar turned to salt, about sour and sweet mangoes, about paper pieces floating in the wind – are more than just childhood memories. They form the foundation of who she is. There is a special joy in watching my mother become a child again, her face lighting up as she relives these precious moments from her past.

The Chennai Diaries – Lessons in Kindness and Leadership

In Chennai’s sweltering summer months, apartment complexes stand like their own little villages – multiple buildings rising at least 5 floors high, connected by common walkways and shared spaces. Krishna’s home sits in one such building, on the third floor, where life begins well before dawn.

By 5:30 am, the first wave of household help arrives. Women like Valli make their way through the security gate, heading to different apartments across the complex. Each building houses families on different floors, and these women have mastered the art of managing multiple households in carefully planned shifts.

A typical day for these household workers follows an unwritten but well-understood schedule. Valli, a tall and dusky woman with a warm smile, arrives early in the morning at Krishna’s home. Dressed in a simple polyester saree, her hair neatly braided, Valli handles essential morning tasks – preparing morning coffee, mopping the floors, washing clothes and tidying the kitchen. She then moves between three or four houses within the same complex, their timings synchronized with different families’ routines. Valli arrives again in the afternoon, when cooking is all done, and cleans the kitchen.

Despite working in multiple homes, these women form unique bonds with each household. In Krishna’s home, Valli found more than just employment – she found understanding, care, respect and a friend. While she dusted and mopped the floors, washed clothes, and tended to daily chores, Krishna ensured the relationship transcended the typical employer-employee dynamic.

What strikes you first when you enter Krishna’s home isn’t just her booming voice or infectious laugh – it’s how the traditional hierarchy of ‘madam and maid’ dissolves at her doorstep. Her loud, cheerful ‘Good morning!’ echoes through the apartment as Valli arrives, making it clear this isn’t just another workplace.

In Chennai, where household help often moves silently through homes like shadows, Krishna’s approach stands refreshingly different. Her kitchen was just not a place where her maids had work to do but a place where dignity is served alongside meals. ‘Have you eaten properly?’ she’d ask Valli, not as a casual question but with genuine concern, understanding that a day of working across multiple homes demands energy and strength.

The transformation is visible in Valli’s demeanor. Despite her exhausting schedule – arriving at 5:30 AM after an hour’s journey, having already cooked for her own family – her tired face lights up in Krishna’s home. Here, she isn’t just someone who cleans and does chores; she’s a person whose well-being matters.

Krishna’s teasing banter, her way of checking if Valli had her morning coffee, her insistence on proper meals – these small acts show immense love, kindness and respect often missing in such relationships. When Valli developed tennis elbow, Krishna’s response wasn’t of an employer inconvenienced, but of someone genuinely worried about a person she cared for. While others might have simply reduced her workload, Krishna took action. She personally accompanied Valli to her trusted doctor, ensuring proper treatment and follow-up care. This wasn’t just about maintaining a household helper’s health – it was about caring for someone who had become part of her extended family.

During my visits, watching this dynamic unfold became a daily source of joy and learning. Seeing Valli’s warm smile, the way she moved comfortably in the space, the gentle assertiveness with which she could voice her needs – it spoke volumes about the environment Krishna had created. Despite life’s challenges, this had become Valli’s happy place, where her dignity remained intact, and her work was valued beyond the tasks she performed.

This is what makes Krishna special – her ability to transform what could be a mere transactional relationship into one of mutual respect and genuine care. In a society where class divisions often create invisible barriers, she shows how simple acts of kindness and respect can build bridges instead of walls. Krishna’s approach to treating household help with dignity isn’t limited to Valli alone; each person who works in her home finds the same warmth and respect.

This same depth of care extends to her furry family. Krishna’s love for animals manifests in remarkable ways. Her apartment, surrounded by stray cats, became a sanctuary when her son brought home Kai, a rescued kitten. This grey and white striped Bengal-like cat, with striking green big eyes, arrived traumatized but found healing in Krishna’s patient love. Even now, though Kai fears strangers and loud sounds, she finds comfort sleeping in Krishna’s arms at night.

Then there’s Rocky, the rescued Labrador with severe allergies. Krishna didn’t hesitate to adopt this 8-year-old dog, despite his medical challenges. She transformed her home to accommodate him – special bedding with multiple-layered, soft cotton blankets for his sensitive skin, specific dietary arrangements, and careful management of his interactions with the resident cats.

Despite her own health challenges, Krishna’s capacity for care seems limitless. Her personality might fill a room – loud, loving, and electric – but it’s her quiet, consistent kindness that truly defines her. Whether it’s a frightened cat, an ailing housekeeper, or a struggling dog, Krishna’s response is always the same: unwavering support and practical help.

In an age where corporate leadership often struggles to balance humanity with hierarchy, Krishna’s approach offers a simple yet profound lesson. While companies invest in leadership workshops and employee engagement programs, my sister naturally demonstrates what authentic leadership looks like in practice. Her method isn’t drawn from management textbooks but from a basic understanding: that treating people who work for us with genuine respect and care creates an environment where loyalty and dedication flourish naturally.

Each time I leave my sister’s home, I carry with me not just memories of her legendary hospitality, but profound lessons in human centered leadership. Through her, I learned that the most effective management style isn’t about power dynamics or formal protocols – it’s about acknowledging the dignity in every person who crosses our threshold. In the end, leadership isn’t about titles or power. It’s about the quiet, daily choices – choosing kindness over indifference, respect over hierarchy, and love over obligation.

Naana’s Journey – A Life of Passionate Service and Courage

My body knew before my mind did. A well-known heaviness crept into my chest early this January, planting an unexplained discomfort in my thoughts, a sadness overwhelming me. It wasn’t until much later I realized – my father’s birthday was close. Even now, without memory, grief has its own calendar, its own way of marking time.

For months, I have sidestepped and evaded this difficult writing process. Our subconsciousness has its own way of masking emotions that are too hard to face, too raw to feel. Yet somehow, in the safety of my therapy room, words began to find their way out. Talking about my father’s loss and our dynamic in my therapy sessions was the closest I came towards addressing this grief.

Some memories of my father remain difficult to be put into words – feelings that sit deep. How does one begin to unravel the layers of a relationship shaped by time, growth and unspoken understanding? How do we make sense of the cruelty of a pandemic that stole the chance to say goodbye, leaving so many of us with words and presence denied? I know I may never fully express the depth of what I feel, but I try.

Now, as my mind starts to clear, I realize this heaviness isn’t just grief – it’s my body’s way of remembering, of honoring what was lost.

Naana – that’s what I call my father in my language – often kept his emotions guarded, like there were invisible walls around his heart. Growing up, I often wondered what he was thinking, what worries he carried in silence. Life hadn’t been easy for him. I believe behind the tough exterior he showed others, was a vulnerable man who craved for love, who deeply cared, and who worked tirelessly with perseverance.

Being the eldest son in a joint family, he bore traditional responsibilities, yet transformed what could have been a burden into an act of passionate service. My mother quietly stood by him supporting him through everything.

In his younger years, my parents carefully counted every penny to make ends meet. My father often took on extra shifts to cover unexpected expenses. Yet, as I grew older, I witnessed the result of his hard work – transforming his small clinic into a hospital with multiple patient rooms, an operating theatre, and a diagnostic unit. Even when money was tight, his focus was never on wealth but on how it could be used to provide for his family and serve others.

My father shielded us from the financial hardships he quietly bore. Despite working long hours to support not just our family but also those who depended on him, his relationship with money was guided by compassion.

Naana spent most of his days at the hospital, rarely sleeping at home. From my teenage years, I remember seeing him come home in the early mornings, have a quick breakfast, and leave again for the day. He often slept in a small room at the hospital, feeling deeply responsible as the chief doctor to be close to his in-patients. For many, he wasn’t just their doctor – he was a trusted guide, a man who followed the quiet voice of kindness in his heart.

My father’s medical decisions were driven by integrity, never by profit. He was quick to diagnose and gave patients honest advice, ensuring they didn’t spend unnecessarily. He often sent patients home with whatever medicines he had on hand, knowing it would spare them the immediate burden of buying them. For him, relief couldn’t wait for a prescription to be filled – if he could ease someone’s pain in that moment, he did. My father never turned away patients who couldn’t afford treatment, and over time, he became part of their families – attending their celebrations, sharing their joys, and standing by them in difficult times. For many of his patients, they saw God’s work in his hands.

But beyond his work and financial responsibilities, it was his connection with people that defined him most. His generosity wasn’t impulsive; it was thoughtful and precise. My father had the presence of mind to think ten steps ahead, understanding exactly what kind of help someone needed in a crisis. Whether it was arranging financial aid, offering medical guidance, or leveraging his connections to solve problems, he provided help that was both meaningful and lasting. He managed everything meticulously, carrying a small notebook in his bag where he noted every detail – money transactions, promises made, and help to be given. His memory was remarkable, and he never let anyone down.

This attentiveness extended beyond his profession. In a society often divided by caste and social status, my father broke those barriers with ease. He would sit and share meals with people from all walks of life, savoring food lovingly prepared by them. During important moments in our lives, he encouraged us to seek blessings from those who worked for us – our watchman, our maid – teaching us that respect and love mattered more than status. Watching him live this truth shaped who I am today. I learned to value people not for their wealth or position but for their humanity. This empathy runs deep in all my siblings as well.

He firmly believed that education was the greatest gift one could give. His belief was simple: education could lift entire generations. He quietly sponsored the education of many children – from the children of his employees to others in need – supporting them from school through college. He even helped with marriage expenses and other milestones.

That same attentiveness to people extended to the smallest joys in life, especially food. For Naana, food wasn’t just nourishment – it was another way to connect, comfort, and care. He understood that healing wasn’t just about medicine – it was about comfort. For patients who stayed longer at his hospital and missed home-cooked meals, he would sometimes bring them food from home, knowing how much comfort familiar flavors could bring. It wasn’t just about feeding the body; it was about nourishing their spirit. If a patient offered him homemade food, he graciously accepted it, asking about the recipe and trying to recreate it at home.

Naana loved good food, and he could be exacting when it came to taste. I often joked that he would have made an excellent taste tester. He had an incredible ability to detect even the slightest flaw in a dish, and when something didn’t meet his standards, his disappointment was hard to miss. But he didn’t just critique – he took charge. He loved experimenting in the kitchen, often making a mess that we were left to clean up. Cooking was more than a hobby; it was his escape, a way to heal from the stresses of his demanding job.

I remember childhood evenings when he gathered us on the terrace under the moonlight. Sitting on the floor with all of us around him, he would passionately mix the food with his hands and feed us large, flavorful portions. We had to finish eating quickly before he circled back to us with another handful. It was impossible to refuse him, and he made sure we ate well. This ritual, often sparked by my mother’s complaints about our picky eating, was his way of teaching us how to savor food – how to mix the right flavors to create the perfect taste. He delighted in feeding us, insisting that good food was its own kind of medicine. “Eat with passion,” he would say, believing that enjoying food with joy and gratitude was more important than any strict diet. Moderation, not restriction, was his way.

Just as he found comfort in the flavors of a well-cooked meal, he found equal joy in music. His love for singing was another expression of how he embraced life.

Though he never had the chance to formally learn music, Naana’s passion for it was undeniable. He could listen to Carnatic music and watch old movies and classic film songs for hours. I remember him calling me to sit with him as he watched old black-and-white Tamil or Telugu films, singing along and quizzing me about the raagas. I often tried to escape to help my mother in the kitchen, but he never stopped trying to share his joy for music.

He began to train in Carnatic music in the last years of his life, often singing the songs he had learned during our calls. I would practice my music lessons as he listened intently, offering feedback with a mix of enthusiasm and encouragement. Those were some of the most meaningful moments with him.

Though his physical presence was commanding – tall, stout, with his ever-present leather pouch – it was in his softer, more playful moments that I felt closest to him. Just as he expressed joy through music, he shared lightheartedness in the simplest, silliest ways. He would make playful cat sounds just to tease me, a habit that seemed trivial at the time but now feels deeply endearing. I catch myself doing the same with my own children – acting silly, laughing freely.

He loved having me close, insisting I sit on his lap to watch movies, even when I was well into my teens. Now, as a mother to teenage boys, I recognize this same quality in myself – the way I instinctively draw my children close, inviting them to sit on my lap, even when they think they’re too old for it. It’s a connection I cherish, one that has subconsciously stayed with me.

Naana’s way of expressing affection wasn’t always through words – it was in the unspoken gestures and quiet understanding we shared. I had a way with him – a particular smile and with just that smile, he’d slip me a little extra pocket money, understanding exactly what I wanted without me having to ask.

Perhaps it was this deep connection to people – expressed in small but meaningful gestures that shaped how he lived his life – that made his final battle with COVID so heartbreakingly ironic. A man who had dedicated his life to being present for others, who found joy in shared meals and conversations, spent his last days in isolation.

The world changed in 2020. By March, we were all working remotely, isolated behind masks, afraid even to pass familiar faces on the street. The pandemic spread rapidly in India, and strict lockdowns were imposed. While most people stayed home, my father chose otherwise. He continued serving on the front lines, treating COVID patients without hesitation. We urged him to stay home, but he firmly refused. His conviction was unshakable – if he were to fall ill while caring for his patients, so be it. His duty came first.

In late May 2021, after caring for family members who had contracted COVID, he fell ill himself. At first, it was just a fever and fatigue, but soon his condition worsened. He messaged me once, admitting he was afraid he might not see me again. That message still haunts me.

Despite our pleas, he stayed in the hospital where he worked, quarantining alone. My sister managed to send him home-cooked meals every day, knowing how much comfort food brought him. Cooking had always been his solace, his way of connecting with others. But within a week, his condition deteriorated. A severe lung infection forced him to be moved to a larger hospital and into the ICU. He was alone.

I often think about how Naana would bring home-cooked meals for patients who had to stay in the hospital for long periods. He knew how much they missed their own families and took it upon himself to ease their longing. To him, food wasn’t just nourishment – it was comfort, connection, and a small reminder of home.

During his own isolation in the hospital, when his condition worsened, he asked for the familiar foods he loved. I wonder if, in those moments, he was reaching for the comfort he had so often given to others. As a doctor, he must have understood the gravity of his condition. When the time came, he bravely obliged to being placed on the ventilator, knowing full well what it meant. It breaks my heart to think of how alone he must have felt, facing those final moments without the comfort of family or the warmth of a human touch. I wish I had been there – to hold his hand, to offer him even a fraction of the solace he had given to so many others.

This helplessness – knowing I couldn’t be there, couldn’t hold his hand, couldn’t say goodbye – was a pain that words can’t capture. Being thousands of miles away in the U.S., unable to travel home because of lockdowns, felt deeply unnatural. The heartbreak of those moments lingers, a wound that time can soften but never truly heal.

Yet, even in his final moments, my father was true to himself – a man who lived with compassion, loved deeply, and stood by his principles. His absence left a silence in our lives, but his values, his generosity, and his unwavering acts of service for people continue to guide me.

Knowing that my father spent his final days in the isolation of an ICU, far from the comfort of home and family, is a pain I still carry. A man who found joy in sharing meals, conversations, and connections was left without those very things that defined him.

I hold on to the hope that, in those quiet moments, he found comfort in reflecting on his life – a life rich with purpose and love. I hope he made peace with what he couldn’t control, finding closure with God, forgiving and seeking forgiveness, and knowing that our love reached him, even from afar.

Though his physical presence is gone, Naana’s spirit lives on – in every quiet act of kindness, in every shared meal. This is how I carry him forward – not just in memory, but in the way I choose to live my life.

The irony of life is that it continues even after we lose our loved ones. We remember our special moments, in the mutual love and respect that binds us, and in the lessons, they left behind. Losing Naana brought me a profound spiritual understanding: to take life as it comes, to celebrate people while they are still here, and to not be overly entangled in their flaws. It taught me to live fully, as though there’s no tomorrow, and to honor my own truth. Through this, I honor him.

The Storyteller in My Life – Celebrating Appa

Some people have a natural gift for turning ordinary moments into memorable stories. In Appa, my husband’s father, I discovered a masterful storyteller, a passionate sports enthusiast, and a grandfather whose eyes light up at the sight of his grandchildren.

Our relationship defied traditional labels. In Appa, I found something rare and unexpected – a friendship that transcended conventional family bonds. When I first met Appa, his laughter filled the room, breaking the formalities. Over time, his quiet strength and open-heartedness turned our relationship into something deeper – built on respect and affection.

Appa stands as the pillar of warmth and wisdom in our family. His jovial demeanor and thoughtful ways have been a quiet anchor for our whole family.

As in any relationship, ours has weathered its storms. There have been disagreements and difficult moments – as natural in any family dynamic. Yet what stands out is not the challenges but how we’ve moved through them. The deep respect and love we share has only grown stronger through these tests, showing that true family bonds aren’t about perfect harmony but about choosing to understand and cherish each other despite our differences.

What strikes me most about Appa is how effortlessly he turns ordinary moments into meaningful connections. Whether sharing his written stories, organizing family gatherings, or simply being present, he weaves our family closer with each interaction. His ease in engaging anyone – regardless of age or background – reflects a deep, genuine interest in people that I deeply admire. Here is a man who wears his happiness openly, making every conversation feel like a celebration.

It’s fascinating how some people naturally turn strangers into friends. Wherever he went, Appa’s buoyant personality shone through – his cheerful eye contact and genuine smile greeting others came straight from his heart.

But Appa’s gift for connection wasn’t limited to conversations – it extended into the stories he told. His ability to draw people in, to make them feel part of something bigger, truly shone when he began to weave tales, especially for his grandchildren.

Appa has always been a man of many worlds – a storyteller, a strategist, and a quiet force of energy. Even in his 80s, his mind remains sharp, always searching for the next story to tell or game to play.

Creativity isn’t something Appa switches on and off – it’s simply a part of who he is. Whether through his vivid writing or animated conversations, his stories light up the room, turning simple moments into lively, memorable experiences. Whether it’s a tale from his childhood or a recent family anecdote, Appa has a way of painting pictures with his humor. His stories come alive with carefully chosen details, perfectly timed pauses, and that characteristic twinkle in his eye that signals a humorous turn ahead. Even stories I’ve heard before feel fresh with his skillful delivery – adding a new detail here, a different perspective there, making each retelling an adventure of its own.

Nothing captures Appa’s playful creativity better than his tale of Kaa, the clever crow – a story he told countless times to entertain his grandchildren during dinner. Yet, with every telling, he added new twists, turning it into a fresh adventure each time.

Once upon a time, high in the branches of a grand banyan tree, lived a clever crow named Kaa. His feathers shimmered like polished charcoal in the sunlight, and his sharp, black beak gleamed as he surveyed the world below. Kaa lived happily with his beloved wife, Mei, whose glossy feathers caught his eye the very first time he saw her. They built a cozy nest together and soon welcomed six lively chicks – four who looked just like Kaa and two who mirrored Mei’s graceful form.

The banyan tree echoed with the sound of their laughter and songs. Kaa loved to entertain his chicks with playful dances, while Mei patiently taught them how to flap their tiny wings and spot tasty bugs hiding in the bark.

One scorching afternoon, Kaa set off on his daily hunt, searching for the juicy worms his babies loved, and the crunchy beetles Mei favored. But no matter how hard he tried, the ground was dry and bare. Weary and parched, Kaa perched on a wooden fence, his wings drooping.

“Oh, how I wish for just a drop of water,” he sighed

Just then, something caught his eye – a clay jug sitting on a wooden table on a house’s deck. His heart leapt with gratitude! Kaa flapped over eagerly, only to peer inside and find the water far out of reach. His slender beak couldn’t dip low enough to reach even a sip.

But Kaa wasn’t one to give up easily.

Scanning the yard, he noticed small pebbles scattered across the ground. A clever idea sparked in his mind. Picking up a pebble in his beak, he dropped it into the jug. Plop! Then another. Plop! Slowly, he watched in amazement as the water began to rise.

Plop… plop… plop!

Finally, the water reached the brim. Kaa took long sips, feeling the strength return to his wings. As if by magic, right there in the garden, he spotted plump worms wriggling and shiny beetles crawling under leaves. With his beak full of treats, he soared back home, his heart light and joyful.

Back in the nest, the chicks chirped excitedly, and Mei smiled warmly. Kaa proudly shared his feast, and the family spent the rest of the day singing and dancing among the banyan leaves.

My children’s eyes would widen at each twist, their small hands holding their spoons mimicking the crow’s flight and every now and then be reminded by Appa to take the next bite as he proceeded through the story.

Appa’s voice would dip low as he described Kaa’s thirst and rise with excitement as Kaa discovered the jug and discovering the worms, and break into a triumphant tone for the journey home. My children would lean forward, completely absorbed in his theatrical narration. With his voice modulations, dramatic pauses and facial expressions – he presented a masterclass in keeping his audience engaged.

Just as he crafted stories with flair, Appa approached games and sports with the same creativity and passion. Whether through words or play, he found joy in engaging minds.

Games were never just games with Appa. Whether it was a tense chess match or a lighthearted round of cards, he played with a strategist’s mind and a child’s enthusiasm. In his younger years, he was quick on his feet with badminton, cricket and other sports, and today, he’s just as quick-witted in online chess. His love for play wasn’t just recreation – it was a way of thinking, one that his children and grandchildren carry forward.

Card games with Appa have always been more than just games – they’re chapters in our family story, blending strategy, laughter, and life lessons. Hours would slip by as cards shuffled and stories unfolded, often stretching from post-lunch into dinner during my early marriage years.

Through countless deals and shuffles, our relationship evolved from formal in-law status to something more genuine and comfortable. His systematic approach to the game – methodically arranging cards, planning moves ahead – reflected his larger approach to life and family.

Our card game sessions are like well-orchestrated performances. Appa deals with practiced precision, his fingers expertly shuffling the deck while he hums softly with a mischievous smile. Between hands, stories flow as naturally as the cards – tales of his youth, wisdom wrapped in wit, and observations that make everyone laugh.

What’s remarkable is how this playful spirit didn’t stop with him. Watching my children plot their next move in a board game or invent whimsical stories, I realize how deeply they’ve inherited Appa’s love for thinking differently and embracing challenges.

What has always left me in awe of Appa is his boundless energy and spontaneous spirit. He embraced life fully, treating every moment as a gift to be savored. Whether offering a heartfelt compliment to young or old or sharing his unfiltered thoughts, Appa has an extraordinary ability to make people feel truly seen. With him, what you saw was exactly who he was—authentic and unapologetically himself.

Even when faced with health challenges, Appa’s mind never rested. He found joy in staying engaged – whether through a game of online chess or penning down his thoughts. His unwavering integrity and commitment to his principles has guided him through life. He wasn’t afraid to speak his mind, and his words always carried weight because they came from a place of honesty and courage.

That same fearless authenticity is what drew me closer to him. It wasn’t just his stories or games that left an impression; it was how he lived – boldly, sincerely, and without pretense. It’s a trait I see reflected in his children: the courage to be themselves and the joy of embracing life fully.

Appa’s life is a vibrant example of living with purpose, staying true to oneself, and finding joy in every chapter. His energy, integrity, and spontaneity continue to inspire me and remind me that life, with all its twists and turns, is best lived with honesty and a full heart.

The Chennai Diaries – The Quiet Strength of Meenatchi Avva

My mother’s aunt, Meenatchi Avva, was the quintessential grandmother figure who inspired me in my childhood formative years. She came to live with us in her 80s, bringing with her a quiet strength and wisdom. Petite and unassuming at first glance, her rounded frame belied how effortlessly light on her feet she actually was. With her stark white hair, porcelain complexion, and a slow, deliberate gait owing to her deeply bowlegged legs, she embodied both grace and resilience. She combed her hair neatly and tied it back into an effortless bun. Her skin bore wrinkles of time, but her smile and mischievous sparkling eyes hinted at a youthful exuberance.

Married at 13 – a common practice then – Avva often reflected her love for learning and how her husband supported her independence. This rare dynamic for their time deepened her belief in personal choice, a value she carried into every aspect of her life. His unwavering support allowed her to pursue passions like Carnatic singing and attending drama shows, deepening her belief in personal freedom. This mutual respect in her marriage shaped her conviction that women should live by their own choices. When she shared about her married life, I could see how passionately she loved her late husband.

What truly set Avva apart was her graceful blend of dignity and humor. She exuded warmth and positivity that was utterly contagious. Her presence brought an aura of calm and purpose. I have never seen her complain or use harsh words or speak ill of others behind their backs. She commanded respect without asserting authority and infused lightheartedness into everyday life through witty songs and faint sarcasm. She often sang songs with playful twists, masking hidden meanings behind a knowing smile. I still remember when she subtly teased a family friend – recently remarried and living with two wives – through a cleverly altered song, leaving my mother and me stifling our laughter once we caught on.

Her quite confidence, strength and humor made it natural for me to gravitate towards her.

For me, as a young teenager, her influence was transformative. I often confided in her, sharing my frustrations about family culture, misogynistic attitudes and what I felt were unfair practices. While I debated with her about feminism and women’s rights, she taught me the wisdom of choosing the right time to express strong emotions. Though I challenged her views on timing my expressions of frustrations, I now see the wisdom in her advice to speak when emotions are calm, and the moment is right.

Yet, our conversations weren’t always serious – we giggled over college stories, and she playfully would ask what kind of man she should find for me. I’d confidently say, ‘Not a doctor, and someone who lives far away.’ She would chuckle, ‘Far? How far?’ and I’d shrug, ‘Just far from home.’ It was my youthful yearning for independence, spoken aloud to someone who understood.

Avva and I slept together in the afternoons in the prayer room on the floor. At times, she would allow me to put my hands and legs on her while sleeping and would gently pat me to sleep. I did not remember having a close relation with either of my parents’ mothers but felt very fortunate for her to fill that role for me.

Avva fit seamlessly into our family, and it was evident she adored living with us. To my mother, she was a guiding hand and a source of empathy. To my father, whose demanding job often kept him away, she became a symbol of the mother he had lost. Their morning coffee conversations were filled with lighthearted exchanges, and Avva even playfully defended my mother in their debates, bringing a balance to our home.

While Avva’s presence brought comfort to our entire family, it was in her personal rituals that her true essence shone brightest. These daily practices weren’t just routines; they were the quiet manifestation of how she moved through life – with purpose, grace, and an unwavering sense of self.

Each morning, she began her day in quiet devotion yet never expected anyone else to follow her routines. Her daily rituals mirrored the balance she maintained between tradition and independence.

Every morning before sunrise, Avva quietly began her day with a bath and personally washed her clothes, refusing help despite the household maid. Using a long wooden stick, she hung them on the ceiling rack in the prayer room. The room, cool with red granite floors and lined with deity images, became her sanctuary. Lighting the oil lamp, she carefully placed fresh garden flowers before the gods. Only after completing her prayers and sharing prasadam would she rejoin the household, grounded and ready to engage with us all.

Though deeply traditional, Avva never imposed her beliefs on anyone. This quiet respect for individual choices mirrored my own discomfort with being pressured to conform. Her presence affirmed that one could stand firm in personal beliefs without expecting others to follow suit. It was a silent lesson in living authentically. Avva’s quiet strength and deep respect for individuality enkindled in me the courage to make my own choices. She taught me that independence isn’t about rejecting tradition but about living truthfully and allowing others the freedom to do the same. Her life was a beautiful balance of devotion and freedom – one I strive to embody every day.

The Chennai Diaries – Bicycle Adventures on Mangesh Street

The warm summer breeze caressed my face as I perched sideways on the front bar of my elder cousin Hari’s bicycle, giggling heartily with each turn of the wheel. Hari, in his late teens, pedaled confidently through the bustling streets of T.Nagar, his wavy hair swaying in the wind. With his chiseled face glowing in the bright sun, his sweet smile and mischievous eyes held a charm that seemed to make every passerby smile back.

Hari’s world was an extraordinary one, and during my summer breaks at my aunt’s house, I had the privilege to be a part of it. Those summers at my aunts were the happiest days of my childhood, free from judgement and filled with endless adventures. The neighborhood buzzed with life, and every evening, kids aged 5 to 25 spilled out of their homes, ready to play.

Hari was the heart of these escapades. He teased me endlessly, pampered me when I least expected it, and even made me play chess with his friends, who deliberately let me win. Though I didn’t understand it then, their lighthearted gestures were meant to cheer me up and make me feel included.

One of my favorite memories was riding on Hari’s bicycle as he expertly navigated the chaos of Mangesh Street. Auto rickshaws swerved through narrow spaces, pedestrians crossed the streets boldly and vehicles moving in their own instinctive patterns. My cousin navigated these streets like a seasoned professional, knowing exactly when to pause, speed up, or make those sharp turns. Every now and then, he mischievously threatened to throw me off the bicycle into a dirty pit.

As we rode, I enjoyed observing the people and their moods and made wonderful stories in my mind, one of my childhood hobbies. Each street was its own living story – the fruit vendor cutting guavas and mangoes into thin long strips became the warrior hero, the vegetable seller neatly arranging tomatoes into perfect pyramids became the spy, the shoe repairman on the corner of the road claiming his own space became the wise elder, and the children playing with marbles became the supporting cast. Even the animals played their part perfectly. The dignified cow near the temple stood like an ancient guardian, while the street dogs provided perfect comic relief to the daily street drama.

In my mind’s theatre, the street’s cast changed daily – today’s protagonist could be tomorrow’s antagonist, each passerby stepping into new roles in my ever-changing story.

While the streets offered their daily theater, our next destination promised a different kind of adventure. We made our first stop at the library.

This library held a special place in my heart. Each visit felt like finding yet another secret passage into an endless adventure. As we entered this quaint dark shop, the narrow wooden stairs and small floors weren’t just physical spaces – they were gateways to different worlds. Each floor held its own genre kingdom – adventures on one level, fairy tales on another, and so on. I found the musty-sweet aroma of the old books mixed with the scent of the wooden shelves both comforting and mysterious. One must literally crawl their way to the books. It felt like a luxury to be here, as a ticket to one of the adventures specially designed for an imagination-thirsty kid.

The store owner, an old man with a long beard, weary eyes, and a kind smiling face, always greeted me as “papa.” He tirelessly helped me find books I would love to read. The helper boy, not much older than me, moved like a quick squirrel among the narrow shelves, knowing exactly where each book lived.

My cousin parked his bicycle here and, after getting some books, we walked to the ice cream shop down the street, right at the intersection of two main roads. They also served fresh juices here. That shop still stands today serving their fresh juices and ice creams.

The ice cream shop was a single room that houses a long wooden bench. A big fan was running non-stop on one side of the wall. They had limited flavors of ice cream and always had my favorites – vanilla and butterscotch. Hari got himself a sugarcane juice, while I got my favorite butterscotch ice cream on a cone. With no place to sit, we stood outside the shop enjoying our treats. It was a race against time and heat, a game I played with the sun. I focused on the serious business of saving each golden drop before it met the floor, my tongue quick to catch any escape attempts. I felt victorious when I had my ice cream in a completely clean manner. My cousin found this hilarious and would often tease me about my efforts with his friends, but I simply didn’t bother.

Back at my aunt’s house, I settled into the sofa surrounded by the books I borrowed from the library. I was ready to read new stories, shaping my imagination further. Soon, the evening would call us out to join our friends – some older, some younger, all part of our colony’s extended family.

Looking back, those summers weren’t just a series of carefree adventures; they were a blessing in finding joy in the ordinary. Hari’s easy charm and mischievous confidence were infectious. He taught me how to embrace the chaos of the world with a smile and how to find joy in the simplest moments. Even now, when I think of Mangesh Street, I remember Hari’s innocent laughter echoing through time, reminding me of a childhood filled with freedom, imagination and love.

Peaks and Papaya: A Tale of Misplaced Confidence

They say marriage is about balance. Our 25^th anniversary in Hawaii took that lesson quite literally – from the serene heights of mountain trails to the fiery depths of Thai spice levels.

It wasn’t until halfway up the trail that I made two profound discoveries: I forgot water, and my bladder had excellent timing. Of all the vacation planning list I made, basic survival needs somehow didn’t make the cut. When I declared my discoveries to my dear husband, he humorously suggested I use nature’s own bathroom facility, but it simply met with my city-girl horror – apparently my dignity is far more important than my bladder’s desperate pleas. Of all the anniversary traditions couples collect over the years, I never imagined “discussing bathroom options on a Hawaiian trail” would make it into our top ten memorable moments.

I approached the second hike with questionable confidence, but somehow my determination won over my legs.

This rainforest hike was utterly beautiful. The trail promised us a waterfall at its end. My husband imagined a majestic waterfall worthy of a tourism brochure and I was more than happy enjoying the massive trees. After a while, my inner monologue shifted from “Look at these beautiful trees” to “Why didn’t I train for this?” My stoic eyes were looking down on the rocks and stones we had to walk on. I could feel a tremble in my legs, but I kept going with determined confidence.

As we reached the end of our trail, the imagination of a majestic waterfall fell flat for my husband as he saw something like a nature’s drinking fountain, but I didn’t care. I was just happy I made the end of it and now I just need to go down the hill and I can finally eat something!

My husband turned to me and asked, “What next?”
“What, what next? It’s time to eat! I am having a headache. I am starving. I am physically exhausted.”

Whoever invented the word “hangry” deserves a Nobel Prize. After years of thinking I had a unique talent for turning hunger into an emotional crisis, discovering this word was like finding my tribe. All those childhood moments of food-related meltdowns suddenly had scientific validation. I wasn’t being difficult – I was being hangry before hangry was cool.

I declared we go to a Thai restaurant. My husband, who typically maintains diplomatic neutrality in the face of Thai food suggestions, found himself in an anniversary-induced compromise.

Google Maps played its favorite game of “You have arrived!’ at every wrong location.
After a few failed attempts of going in circles, we made the executive decision to park our car and then simply walk towards the restaurant. Walking worked!

Having conquered two mountain trails, I felt invincible – a dangerous state of mind when you’re both starving and facing a Thai menu. You know how they say anticipation makes everything better? Well, my long-awaited Thai lunch was about to become memorable in ways my spice-loving ego wasn’t quite ready for.

There are moments when our heart speaks, our brain objects, and our stomach gets voting rights. This was one of those moments. There I was, physically exhausted from hiking, sweating in the Hawaiian sun, and what does my brilliant mind conclude? Yes, this is the perfect time for maximum spice on my basil vegetarian fried rice and papaya salad and piping hot water.

The waiter came and when my turn of the order came, I quickly answered “Papaya salad and vegetarian basil fried rice with maximum spice. Hot water please.”

“You mean, Spicy?” the waiter asked, with what I now recognize was a mix of concern and amusement. Like a warrior declaring battle plans, I confidently replied, “Yes, spicy!'”

The waiter’s glance at my husband wasn’t just a look – it was a silent telegram of “Is she sure about this?” My husband, veteran witness to my spice-related overconfidence, simply shrugged with a smile and was earnest to see how it is going to unfold.

First bite: excitement.
Second bite: realization.
Third bite: regret.

The basil fried rice I’d ordered with maximum spice became irrelevant – my taste buds had already gone on strike after the papaya salad assault.

In a plot twist that surprised absolutely no one except past-me, the hot water I’d so proudly ordered became less ‘soothing comfort’ and more ‘adding fuel to the fire’ – “literally”.

My husband, watching this culinary drama unfold, silently offered his ice from his water – a peace offering in my moment of crisis. I kept putting the ice on my hot water in the hope of making it cold to the point it was just barely warm.

Where was the waiter? The one time I needed someone hovering over my table asking, “How is everything?” and the restaurant had suddenly become a masterclass in efficient privacy. The irony of desperately wanting ice water after proudly ordering hot wasn’t lost on me, but dignity takes a backseat when your tongue feels like it’s auditioning for a fire-walking show.

In a final lesson in humility worthy of our anniversary adventure, there I sat – physically exhausted from hiking, defeated by a salad, and still somehow hungry. The scenic morning views had given way to an afternoon of what I can only describe as ‘spicy meditation.’ We ended our day with another 40-minute walk in the peak sun, because apparently, the universe wasn’t quite done with its lessons in humility. And that’s how our romantic anniversary hike turned into a tale of two temperatures – the cool mountain trails and the fire-breathing papaya salad that followed. At least we got our cardio in, even if most of it was from my tongue doing the hot sauce dance.