From the peace and quiet that has become my sanctuary through meditation, I could observe with clarity. The stillness allows me to watch my emotions unfold without being consumed by them; just like watching waves from the shore rather than being tossed in them. Recent hurt had left its mark, and yes – I did get pulled into the waves of emotion at first. I felt the disappointment, saw myself slipping into familiar perspectives of feeling dismissed and misunderstood. But something was different this time. Thanks to my meditation practice, I noticed when I was getting sucked into these patterns.
I stood at a crossroads. One path led down the familiar spiral of frustration and sadness – a pattern I knew too well from previous hurts. The other path, less traveled but more promising, offered present-moment peace. The choice became clear: I could either be sucked into pain or choose happiness.
Despite feeling dismissed, misunderstood, and disrespected, I found courage in surrender. Not surrender as defeat, but as acceptance – giving myself permission to let go of what I couldn’t control. This wasn’t about dismissing valuable lessons or ignoring genuine emotions. Instead, it was about choosing to be present rather than dwelling in past hurts.
I realized something powerful about past hurts – they only exist in our memory now. The actual moment of hurt has already passed. What I’m feeling in this present moment isn’t the hurt itself, but my mind’s echo of it. The experience that caused such pain isn’t happening right now; it’s my thoughts about it that keep it alive.
From my place of clarity, I could see that dwelling in past hurts is like watching the same painful movie over and over in my mind. While the original experience was real, my present moment is free from it – unless I choose to replay it. Each moment offers a new beginning, a chance to choose peace over replaying pain.
Sometimes this choice feels hard. These patterns have a pull, trying to drag me into darkness very stealthily. I have found a simple anchor to help myself out: to breathe and ask myself, “Is everything good right now, in this very moment? “ Right here, right now, in this breath, things are actually okay.
My meditation practice helped me understand: the present moment is always free from past hurts. It’s our thoughts about the past that create constant suffering. When I truly grasp this, I can choose to rest in the peace of now rather than reliving what’s already finished.
What I’ve learned is profound yet simple:
I can control my responses, not others’ perceptions
Peace doesn’t require others’ validation
Being gentle with myself isn’t weakness – its wisdom
My happiness needn’t depend on circumstances I can’t change
Most importantly, choosing my mental peace isn’t selfish – its necessary. I don’t have to sacrifice my well-being to maintain harmony or satisfy everyone else’ expectations.
My mental well-being matters. I don’t have to bend myself into uncomfortable shapes to accommodate situations beyond my control. Like a river finding its natural course, I can flow with what feels organic and true to my nature.
I have learned to listen to the voice in my heart that guides me toward what feels best for me. There’s a difference between being accommodating and bending backwards at the cost of my peace. I choose to go with the flow of what feels natural and organic, even if that means some relationships or situations might need to shift.
In this moment of clarity, I feel free. There’s no judgement to give or receive. Life flows through me like a river, and I’ve chosen to stop swimming against its current. I understand that protecting my peace isn’t just a right – it’s a responsibility I have to myself.
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.
Krishna on the left, Valli on the right
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.
Liah had just turned fourteen, and nothing in her world felt right. Her drawings were the only things that made sense anymore; everything else seemed wrong. School was tough, her parents just didn’t understand, and lately, even the sunshine bothered her.
She fell into a vicious cycle: the more she complained, the more unhappy she became, the more she withdrew from others. Making friends became increasingly difficult.
It was almost summer break, and she was looking forward to visiting her grandmother. Her grandmother lived a few hours away in a quaint town. Her grandmother had a gentleness about her that Liah always found comforting.
Liah’s grandmother lived alone in a small house. Her house was simple and minimalistic. Being an avid gardener, she enjoyed growing herb plants in her kitchen. Her backyard was a beautifully tended garden – where she grew everything from roses to potatoes. She also had pet fish in a small outdoor pond. Since Liah was little, their special bond had grown through these quiet moments in the garden, watching and feeding the fish and nurturing the plants.
The first weekend of summer break arrived, and Liah eagerly packed her bags, looking forward to seeing her grandmother. Her parents drove her through the winding country roads and as they pulled up to the familiar white house with its beautiful garden, Liah could see her grandma waiting for her. Liah ran and gave her grandma a big hug. Her parents came home and stayed that night and left early next morning.
That evening, over cups of chamomile tea and homemade cookies, Liah found herself opening up to her grandmother. They sat in the cozy kitchen, where the fading sun cast warm shadows through the window.
Her grandma listened quietly, her gentle eyes encouraging Liah to continue.
“Everything makes me so angry lately”, she confessed, staring at her tea.
“Mom asks how my day was, and I just… snap at her. Dad tries to help me with homework, and I tell him he doesn’t understand anything.”
Her grandma listened quietly.
“The worst part is”, Liah’s voice shaking slightly, “I know they are trying to help. I can see it on their faces when I yell or slam the door. But at that moment, I can’t stop myself. It’s like… something takes over, and later I feel terrible about it.”
“And then”, she continued, picking a cookie without eating it, “Mom leaves little notes in my lunchbox or Dad offers to take me out to a movie, and I feel worse because I was so mean to them. But the next time something happens, I get angry all over again.”
She looked at her grandma, with tearful eyes.
“What’s wrong with me, grandma? I am unable to make friends too.”
Her grandmother reached across the table and held Liah’s hand.
“Nothing is wrong with you, my dear. You’re fourteen, and these feelings… they are like waves sometimes. I remember those days. Everything was so intense, so overwhelming.”
“You felt this way too?”, asked Liah surprised.
“Oh yes”, her grandmother smiled softly. “And that’s why I want to share something with you… something that helped me when I was your age.”
Her grandmother got up and walked to an old wooden cabinet, pulling out a beautifully painted ceramic bowl.
“This is my gratitude bowl.”, she said, running her fingers along the rim.
“When I was your age, I went through difficult times too. My grandmother gave this to me and asked me to write at least 5 things I was grateful for – no matter how small – and put them in this bowl, and I did. My notes would be about the warmth of sunshine, seeing a dancing butterfly, the smell of freshly baked cookies or a kind word from a friend. It helped me, dear.”
Liah picked up the bowl, turning it in her hands.
“Would you like to try?”, asked her grandmother, placing some fresh paper and pen beside Liah.
“Start with just one thing today. What made you smile today?”
Slowly, Liah began to write:
Opening up to grandma
The taste of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies
The cute fuzzy cat I saw in the garden
Summer break
Being here at Grandma’s
As she dropped each note in the bowl, something began to shift inside her – somehow Liah felt lighter, happier. She was surprised she had a lot of things to be happy about despite feeling sad.
“I already feel better, grandma.”, Liah said with a smile and squeezed her grandma’s hand.
“I will practice this.”
Over the next few weeks, Liah found herself noticing small blessings – the scent of garden roses, a successful drawing, gardening with grandma, watching the orange fish in the pond. With each note she added, she realized something: her days weren’t as empty as she had thought. Good things had always been there – she just hadn’t been looking for them.
When it was time to leave, her grandmother insisted she take the bowl home.
“It’s yours now.”, she said with a warm smile.
Liah hugged her grandmother and promised she will continue the practice.
Liah had placed the gratitude bowl on her desk in her room. She continued to write gratitude notes every day. She began to appreciate little things around her and found there were many things she was grateful for, to feel happy for.
One evening, as her mother placed a cup of hot chocolate beside her, Liah hesitated for a moment, then picked up the gratitude bowl.
“Grandma gave this to me”, she said, smiling at her mother.
“It is helping me a lot, Mom.”
Her mother listened, intrigued, as Liah explained how the simple act of writing down little joys had changed her perspective.
To her surprise, her mother wanted to try it too. That night at dinner, her mother suggested they all share one good thing from their day. At first, it felt just words spoken out loud but soon, it became their favorite part of the evening. A quiet warmth spread their home, unspoken tensions softened, and they began to feel closer in ways they hadn’t before.
Over time, Liah noticed a shift not just in how she felt, but in how others responded to her. She smiled more, and in turn, others smiled back. Conversations felt easier, friendships blossomed naturally, and she felt no longer trapped in the cycle of frustration. The gratitude practice that started as a simple habit had quietly reshaped her world.
Writing Down Gratitude: Why It Works
When we write down things we’re thankful for each day, it helps us in several ways:
First, it makes us pause and notice. Instead of rushing through our day focusing on what’s wrong, we take a moment to spot what’s right – maybe it’s a good meal, a kind word, or just a peaceful moment.
Second, it changes how our brain works. Just like Liah discovered, looking for good things becomes a habit. Even on difficult days, we get better at finding small positives – not to ignore problems, but to remember that good and bad can exist together.
It’s especially helpful when we’re feeling down or stressed. Reading through old gratitude notes reminds us that we’ve had good moments before and will have them again. These written reminders become powerful when our mood tries to tell us everything is wrong.
The Science Behind Gratitude Practice
When we regularly write down what we’re grateful for, our brain actually changes in several important ways:
Brain Chemistry: – Increases dopamine and serotonin – the “feel-good” chemicals – Reduces cortisol – the stress hormone – Activates the hypothalamus, which regulates sleep, appetite, and mood
Neural Pathways: – Creates new neural patterns, helping us spot positive aspects more easily – Strengthens these pathways through repetition, making positivity more automatic – Reduces our natural “negativity bias” (our brain’s tendency to focus on threats and problems)
Mental Health Benefits: – Improves sleep quality by calming racing thoughts – Reduces anxiety by shifting focus from worries to present moments – Helps manage depression by providing evidence of good experiences – Enhances emotional regulation – making it easier to handle stress
Research shows that consistent gratitude practice for just 21 days can: – Improve overall mood – Increase optimism – Enhance decision-making abilities – Boost problem-solving skills – Strengthen resilience during challenges
Just like physical exercise strengthens muscles, regular gratitude practice strengthens our brain’s ability to notice and appreciate positive aspects of life. This doesn’t eliminate problems, but it helps build mental resources to handle difficulties better.
In Liah’s case, her gratitude practice didn’t change her circumstances, but it changed how she experienced them. She became more aware of the love in her life, the small joys she had overlooked, and in doing so, found a sense of peace that had felt out of reach before.
For years, clouds of self-doubt and old trauma shaped how I saw myself. Like many of us, I had built walls around my possibilities before even trying, gave up too soon, or got distracted in my life challenges.
As time went by, I began to understand something crucial. I understood focusing inward on our limitations becomes the very box that confines us. We create these boundaries by constantly defining ourselves by what we think we can’t do.
It wasn’t until I explored meditation that I realized these boundaries were not fixed; they could dissolve with a shift in perspective in simply being. As I learned to sit with whatever each moment brought, something unexpected happened. The walls I had built began to dissolve. By not fighting against what was, space naturally opened. In this space, I discovered parts of myself that had always been there, just waiting to be noticed. My writing, a calling, started to take shape and words started to flow with ease.
This personal discovery led me to a broader realization. Every human carries unique gifts – some obvious, others hidden behind our self-imposed limitations. Whether we’re young or in our later years, we often live within the confines of our own definitions. The question isn’t “What are we capable of?” but rather “What stories are we telling ourselves that keep us small?”
Reading Marie Kondo’s words about clearing space echoed my experience. Just as she helps people clear physical clutter to discover what truly matters, I found that clearing mental clutter revealed gifts I never knew I had and gave me clarity in what I needed to do.
In clearing my mental clutter, I rediscovered a part of myself that had faded away – my passion for writing. What started as a dormant interest has blossomed into both a calling and a craft. Through this journey, I’ve learned that clearing space is not just about letting go; it’s about making room for who we are meant to become.
And so I ask you: What box have you placed yourself in and how does it hold you back? What passion or dreams quietly talk to you? What stories about “I can’t” or “I’m not good enough” are keeping you from taking the next step?
Once upon a time, in a distant realm, there was an enchanting forest. The forest, home to evergreen trees, birds of many kinds, animals, and insects, sang with beauty, happiness and mystery in its full splendor.
Tall and ancient sequoias, which had lived for thousands of years and stretched endlessly to the sky, were the eldest guardians of this forest. All the beings in the forest believed their emerald crowns could touch the heavens and sing praises of the Creator. These giants bore the wisdom of ages, having witnessed the first of many creations in the forest. Their massive trunks symbolized strength, their firm roots on Earth showed their humility. These humble giants knew every flower that bloomed, every bird that sang and understood all languages of the animals, insects and birds. All beings in the forest called them “the elders” and revered them with love and admiration.
Among these giant sequoias, Eirene was the forest’s eldest guardian. At over 4000 years old, Eirene stood tallest and wisest. On full moon nights, the whole forest gathered at her feet, where Eirene would sing songs of creation, of love, and of divine purpose.
On one such night, Eirene sang – her voice soft as rustling leaves, while all the beings listened with reverence and open hearts.
Bumble bees buzzing on golden daisies Butterflies hovering on delightful pansies Fireflies glittering in evening’s glow Dragonflies hovering in starlit snow Thank you, God, for your beautiful artistry
Zebra galloping swift and strong Deer leaping with graceful joy Monkeys swinging between trees in glee Majestic lions roaming wild and free Thank you, God, for your strength divine
Woodpeckers drumming on sturdy tree bark Owls hooting tales through moonlit dark Hummingbirds dancing with whirring wings Sparrows greeting morning as they sing Thank you, God, for this heavenly chime
Red and white roses in bloom, their passion unfold White jasmine’s intoxication, a treasure to behold Gardenia’s creamy petals whisper deep forest essence Lavender purple, calming peace in twilight presence Thank you, God, for each fragrant prayer
Nature’s symphony – wind, water, song Whispers of hidden stream that gently hum along Distant roar of waterfalls, reminding of a thunderous rain Cool breezes dancing to ease summer’s strain Thank you, God, for Earth’s eternal hymn
Listening to Eirene’s deep and soothing voice, Reya felt peace settle in his heart. Gratefully, he touched his chest with his wings, a tear dropping from his eyes. Majestic and watchful, he perched on Eirene’s ancient branches, his yellow beak shining like shimmering gold. His sharp yet gentle eyes gazed at his family nest, where his young chicks slept peacefully.
Reya had immense gratitude for the forest. In the shelter of Eirene’s roots lay the beginning of Reya’s story – an egg tossed by a mighty storm, found and protected by the entire forest. Eirene felt motherly towards this egg and whispered to her forest friends, who kept the precious egg warm and safe. When the chick hatched, Eirene named him Reya, and the forest became his first teacher.
The forest creatures became Reya’s family, each teaching him in their own way. The sparrows shared their joy of flight, the lion taught him courage in silence, and Eirene, with her ancient wisdom, became more than a teacher – she became the mother his heart needed.
As seasons passed and Reya watched his own chicks grow, a quiet sadness became to stir his heart. Each night, as the forest settled into darkness, questions about his past surfaced. Even surrounded by so much love, there was a gentle ache he couldn’t quite name – especially when he watched his little ones nestled close to their mother.
One day, Reya sat quietly on his branch, deep in thought.
Eirene noticed the sadness in Reya’s eyes and asked:
“What is in your mind, Reya?”
With his eyes lowered, Reya said:
“My heart overflows with gratitude for all I have received. You have been more than a guardian, Eirene – you and the forest have been the family I needed. You taught me not just how to live, but how to understand the Creator’s Love.”
Reya paused.
Eirene said gently,
“That is the Will of God. He wants you to be happy and ensures you get the help you need. We were just His instruments, doing what we were meant to do. Every forest creature who helped raise you was His way of holding you close. He speaks to us through the love we share. I am grateful to Him that you are grateful, my dear Reya. But tell me, what is troubling you?”
Reya looked away.
“I am grateful for everything, but lately my heart feels heavy. When I see my chicks with their mother, I can’t help but wonder about my own parents. There’s a darkness inside me I can’t shake, even though I know I should feel only gratitude. Please forgive me.”
“And, if it is in His Will that I must be happy, why does my heart still ache?” Reya asked softly.
Eirene looked at Reya with kindness as a gentle breeze stirred the air. She spoke softly,
“My dear Reya, what you’re feeling isn’t wrong. Missing your parents while being grateful for your present life – both can exist together. ”
She paused before continuing,
“The Creator gave us free will because love cannot be forced. Each challenge – each life facility – is an opportunity to choose love again. Your sadness isn’t a failure, Reya. It’s part of your journey home to Him.
Life gives us challenges – what I call life ‘facilities.’ Each difficulty is an invitation to grow closer to the Creator. Your sadness about your parents is one such ‘facility,’ a chance to deepen your understanding of true love.
My dear Reya, our Creator speaks to us from our hearts. Beneath every voice that guided you, behind every act of love from our forest family, there has always been one true Parent – our Creator. Listen to Him. When we surrender to His love, joy and peace follow.
As you meditate, you hear His voice more clearly, and you realize He is with you all the time and only we choose to move away from Him due to our own busyness and wants. The act of surrendering ourselves to Him and living each moment completely in the present brings us joy and peace. We act out His Will as we surrender to Him. It is a joy that needs to be experienced. Do not worry, Reya. I will pray to Him for your peace.”
Eireen smiled and closed her eyes for a moment in a heartfelt prayer. When she opened them, the sun was setting, painting the sky in blazing orange and soft pink. The birds chirped joyfully as they returned to their nests, bringing a sense of calm to the forest.
Eireen looked at Reya with gentle kindness and said,
“Reya, just touch your heart. Smile to your heart with the same happiness you feel when you see your chicks. Feel the gratitude. When you feel naturally at peace, close your eyes and meditate. Remember, our Creator has given us everything in this moment. Ask Him for faith, for trust. Pray to him wholeheartedly, Reya. He is always listening to you and helping you.”
Eirene closed her eyes and continued,
“Thoughts are like a web. The more we think, the more we become trapped, like a little fly. The only way out is to relax, smile and touch our Heart. Feel the Love. That Love will free you from your thoughts.”
Reya with tears in his eyes and a heart full of gratitude, said,
“Thank you Eirene. Thank you for listening to me. I feel much lighter. I will do as you say.”
With that, Reya closed his eyes and touched his heart with his wings and sat in deep silence.
Days passed, and Reya meditated each morning and evening. Slowly a gentle peace began to settle with him.
One morning, while flying far from his nest to gather food for his chicks, Reya felt something in his heart – a quiet but clear voice urging him to return home. Without hesitation, he turned back immediately.
As he approached the forest, he saw smoke rising above the trees. He flew towards the danger and discovered flames spreading through the forest. He found young birds trembling in their nests, unable to fly. Without a second thought, Reya began gathering them on his strong wings, carrying them to safety.
Flight after flight, he returned to the flames, rescuing as many as he could. The heat scorched his feathers, and his wings ached, but Reya kept going. He guided smaller creatures to shelter and refused to rest until every creature he could find was safe.
When the fire finally subsided, Reya sat quietly on Eirene’s branches. His body was tired, but his heart was light and content.
“How did you know to come back?”, asked a young sparrow that he had rescued.
Reya was silent for a moment before answering with deep gratitude,
“I heard a voice in my heart. It guided me to save our forest family. It was the voice of our Creator.”
Eirene, who had stood strong through the fire, spoke softly.
“You see, Reya, our Creator’s Love flows through our actions. Today, you were His instrument, just like when the forest creatures were His arms of protection for a lost egg.”
Reya looked at his wife and his sleeping chicks, safe in their nest. He understood now – his story wasn’t just about living but about living with purpose: to serve the Creator and extend love to others.
That night, Reya felt complete. His meditations have prepared him to trust the quiet voice of love within his heart. Reya was finally at peace, knowing his true Parents have been with him all along, residing in his heart.
As all the forest settled into a peaceful evening, Eirene sang in joy:
Praise to You, our Creator of Peace Praise to You, our Creator of Joy Praise to You, the most Powerful Praise to You, the Gentlest Praise to You, the True Source of Unconditional Love
Thank you for giving us all we need without us having to ask Thank you for being the voice in our hearts, guiding us to our True Home Thank you for forgiving us for our mistakes Thank you for healing us Thank you for loving us unconditionally
Praise to You, our Creator of Peace Praise to You, our Creator of Joy Praise to You, the most Powerful Praise to You, the Gentlest Praise to You, the True Source of Unconditional Love
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.
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.
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 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.
They say marriage is about balance. Our 25th 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.
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