dedication

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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