childhood

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 – 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.