india

When Life Gives You Tangerines

Chapter 1: The Journey Home

Somewhere above the Indian Ocean, Vaidehi reached for her journal, its pages filled with her dreams and reflections. At thirty-nine, she was finally going home – not just for a visit, but for good. With a smile, she began to write:

February 5, 2018

The morning light streams through the airplane window, and for the first time in nineteen years, I feel completely at peace. No more counting days until my next visit, no more hurried video calls trying to bridge the distance.

All these years, the short visits and the video calls showed me so little of their lives. I have felt heartache and unease every time I realized that they have become weaker, older. The grey in Appa’s hair, the slight tremor in Amma’s hands – changes I should have witnessed gradually, not in sudden snapshots. But that ends today. No more watching them through a screen, no more carefully worded answers meant not to worry me.

I find myself thinking about privilege lately – not just the kind that comes from education and bank accounts, but the rare gifts of having parents who dared to be different.

Despite the cultural pressure to have more children, especially a son, my parents chose to pour all their love into raising their daughter. While many girls were told to limit their dreams, my Appa believed education and one’s passion was one’s sacred right.

These nineteen years in America have taught me much about child psychology and education, but my deepest lessons came from home itself. I learned about community from watching Amma and other women making vathal and appalam together, sharing life’s burdens through simple acts of togetherness. I learned about service from Appa, who turned our modest home into an evening tuition center, believing that knowledge should be accessible to all.

Now it’s time to bring these lessons full circle. My immediate dream is to teach children to understand themselves better using the methods I have learned in America, and from my personal experiences. I want to create spaces where every child feels seen and heard. And perhaps someday, when the time is right, this could grow into something more – my own small school where these values and teaching methods could truly take root. But first, and most importantly, I want to be there for Amma and Appa. To return even a fraction of the care they’ve given me. For now, my heart feels content knowing by tomorrow, I’ll see Appa Amma and live with them for the rest of our lives in my childhood home.

With these final words, Vaidehi gently closed her journal and looked out at the clouds below. A mixture of emotions washed over her – peace at finally heading home for good, happiness at the thought of being with her parents, and yes, that flutter of anxiety about beginning anew. She closed her eyes, and took a deep breath, feeling her shoulders relax. ‘Everything is fine now’, she whispered to herself.

Her thoughts drifted to her spiritual journey, so different from the traditional path she was raised in. Growing up in the shadow of Sri Ranganathaswamy temple, she had loved the rituals, the festivals, the sense of community – but her own connection to the divine had always been more personal, quieter. She found God in the early morning silence, in acts of kindness, in the peace of meditation, in the joy of teaching. To her, she felt closest to God, the universal Father-Mother, the source of all creation, beyond the rituals and the boundaries of religion or tradition.

She had kept these thoughts mostly to herself, knowing her parents found such deep comfort in traditional practices. It wasn’t that she rejected their ways – she simply found her own path to the divine. Some differences, she had learned, could remain lovingly unspoken, wrapped in the deeper understanding that all paths lead to the same light.

Now, returning home, she felt a deep connection in the simplicity of her purpose – to live in her ancestral home, to care for her parents, to accompany them to the temple they loved, and to share love with the children just as her parents had done. She would help young children realize it is okay to dream differently and find their own path.

After several hours, the plane banked gently, and as the first glimpse of the Indian coastline appeared through the clouds, Vaidehi smiled with a certainty she hadn’t known in years.

Chapter 2 – Return to East Chithirai Street

The taxi wound through the narrow streets of Srirangam. The sounds of Tamil movie songs echoed through the speakers on the street corners, mixing with calls of busy street vendors. The taxi took a sharp left and passed the familiar government higher secondary school where children in blue and white uniforms still poured out of the gates just as they had in her time. A little further down, the St. Josephs convent school’s distinctive yellow walls came into view.

As the taxi turned onto East Chithirai street, memories flooded back – walking these routes with Amma to school, stopping at the corner for kulfi ice cream. As familiar landmarks passed by, Vaidehi’s mind wandered to the home awaiting her. In her mind’s eye, she could see their home’s distinctive red oxide floors (kaavi tharai), always cool even in harsh summers. The mutram, their central courtyard, collected rainwater in the monsoons and moon light in the Pournami nights.

She could almost smell the morning rituals of her childhood – the sharp freshness of camphor from Appa’s early prayers, the sweet incense from their small puja room, mixing with the earthy scent of wet floors as Amma drew her intricate kolams. Every morning, without fail, her mother would wash the front entrance of their home, a ritual as sacred as prayer itself. The kolam-making that followed was more than art – it was her mother’s daily offering to the universe. First, the careful sprinkling of water to clean the floors and settle the dust, then the rhythmic flow of rice flour between practiced fingers, creating patterns that welcomed prosperity while feeding tiny insects and ants. “When we honor the space, we live in,” Amma always said, “we honor all forms of life that share it with us.”

These memories washed over her as divine songs reverberated in the atmosphere – traditional nadhaswaram music floating from the temple. Flower vendors selling jasmine and marigold lined the streets. Vaidehi’s lips parted with a smile as she lowered her window, letting the familiar fragrances flood in. Just a few more turns and she would be home.

Vaidehi’s heart quickened as the taxi turned into the Agraharam – this ancient neighborhood that wrapped around Sri Ranganathaswamy temple like a protective garland. These narrow streets had witnessed centuries of life, from the times when the kings gifted this land to the temple Brahmin community.

“Stop here,” she called to the driver., her eyes immediately drawn to the intricate kolam outside their house. The traditional rice flour design was enhanced with pink, yellow, and green, creating a welcome message more eloquent than words.

Stepping out and wrestling with her two large suitcases, she noticed the familiar brass bucket with water and copper mug by the doorstep – the age-old reminder to wash the feet and hands before entering the home, signifying entering one’s home is by itself a sacred act. Before she could reach for the mug, a warm voice called out. “Vaidehi! Vandhacha?” (You’ve come?)

It was Malathi Mami from next door, her face lighting up with joy. Within moments, other neighbors emerged from their homes, drawn by the sound of her arrival. As she quickly washed her feet, remembering Amma’s words – “Our home is our temple, kanna. We enter it with pure hearts and clean feet.

“Amma! Appa!” she called out, and there they were – her parents appearing in their doorway, her mother’s eyes already brimming with tears. As Appa helped with her luggage, his hands trembling slightly, the reunion became a blur of tears and smiles, of Amma’s tight embraces and Appa’s trembling hands on her head blessing her.

Once the neighbor’s warm greetings subsided and her bags were settled inside her room, the family fell into their familiar evening routine. Yet, Vaidehi noticed the familiar sadness in her parent’s eyes when they thought she wasn’t looking. She recognized that look – the weight of unspoken concerns about their unmarried daughter.

Later, as Amma served filter coffee in the old brass tumblers, her hands lingered a moment too long while passing the cup. “You look thin, Kanna,” she said, her voice carrying years of carefully contained worry.

Vaidehi covered her mother’s hand with her own. “I’m fine, Amma. Really.” She meant it this time, unlike those first dark years after her divorce when ‘fine’ had been a shield against their worry. Five years of marriage to the man they had chosen – a marriage that had crumbled under the weight of betrayal and emotional abuse – had taught her that some kinds of loneliness were far worse than being alone.

“If only you had someone… a child, a companion…” Amma’s voice trailed off.

“Then there would have been three broken hearts instead of one,” Vaidehi replied gently. “Sometimes what seems like our biggest regret is actually our greatest blessing.”

She watched her father in his familiar spot by the window. She knew he carried his own burden of guilt about the marriage he had arranged. “Appa” she said softly, “You taught me to dream. To believe in myself. That’s what helped me survive, what helps me thrive now.”

“But after we’re gone…” Amma began.

“I have plans, Amma,” Vaidehi said, her voice stronger now. “Teaching… Maybe someday, when the time is right, I might even start my own small school. And yes, perhaps adoption too – giving a child the same love you both gave me. And.. maybe someone will come into my life naturally, organically. But this time, it will be on life’s terms, not society’s.”

In the small puja room, Anandan folded his hands before Lord Narayana’s picture. “Avar parthipaaru,” he whispered (He will take care of her). Tonight, these words carried not just worry, but also a father’s gradual acceptance of his daughter’s different path.

Later, Vaidehi found him alone in the mutram. “Appa, my meditation practice, my work – they give me peace. Real peace. Not the kind we pretend to have to make others comfortable.”

He nodded, understanding in his eyes. “You were always different, Vaidehi. Stronger than we knew.” He smiled looking at Vaidehi, and gently touched her cheeks, assuring her that he was okay and trusted his daughter’s decision. The evening bells from the temple rang in the distance, as if affirming their quiet understanding.

After saying goodnight to her parents, Vaidehi settled into her childhood room. The familiar space felt both comforting and new, like everything else about this homecoming. She changed into her nightclothes and sat cross-legged on her bed, opening her journal – a practice she had maintained for years now. She picked up her pen and began to write:

February 6, 2018

First day back home. Strange how familiar everything feels, yet different. Seeing Amma and Appa at the doorstep today – I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed their faces until that moment.

Amma’s concerns about me being alone don’t trigger me anymore. A few years ago, I would have been defensive and angry. It’s remarkable how our experiences change us. I feel grateful to attend the therapy sessions to help me understand my anger, my emotions. I feel grateful to practice meditation that has helped me to distance myself from what I am experiencing. I can empathize with Amma now, I see her worry comes from love.

I was so different when I left this house. So rigid, so sure about everything. The divorce changed a lot in me. Taught me life isn’t simple, people aren’t either.

Seeing Malathi Mami today brought up old memories. The way they’d compare Vishnu with me – him being labeled “average,” while I was the “model student.” I remember feeling uncomfortable during those conversations but didn’t understand why then. I just smiled, being secretly proud. Now I wonder how Vishnu is doing. Did those constant comparisons affect him the way I see it affecting children I counsel? Those grades we obsessed over mean nothing in life’s bigger picture.

Being the “perfect student” didn’t prepare me for real life. Didn’t teach me how to handle betrayal or rebuild myself after my marriage ended. I had to learn that the hard way.

Working with traumatized children opened my eyes. I see now how I was affected too – that need to be perfect, to be the best. The anger I carried for not seeing the signs sooner in my marriage, for not having the courage to follow my gut initially.

It took a lot to make this decision to come back. I’m grateful for these years of working on myself. The journey hasn’t been easy, but it has transformed me. I want to pay forward the privileges I’ve had – loving parents, education, the opportunity to be independent and to be self-sufficient. The teaching position at Sri Vivekananda School feels right. I want to help children understand themselves better, something I wish someone had taught me, Vishnu, and many of my other friends.

I will continue to work on my book about mental health in education after I settle in.

For now, I am just glad to be home.

Vaidehi closed her journal and placed it on her desk. She spread the cotton blanket on her bed, wondering if jet lag would let her sleep.

Vaidehi’s mother walked into the room with a glass of hot milk. “Drink this, kanna,” she said. The familiar aroma of pepper, cardamom and turmeric with a hint of sugar brought back childhood memories. Every night without fail, Lakshmi would give her this sleep-inducing home remedy.

“You remembered, Amma.,” Vaidehi smiled, taking the glass.

“How can I forget? You couldn’t sleep without it.” Amma smoothed the blanket and sat by her bedside.

As Vaidehi sipped the comforting drink, she felt her body relaxing. The jet lag didn’t stand a chance against this familiar comfort.

‘Sleep well, kanna,’ Amma whispered after taking the glass from her, and closed the door softly behind her.

Vaidehi felt her eyes growing heavy, jet lag no match for the comforts of home.

Chapter 3: The Taste of Home

The first rays of sunlight filtered through the east window of Vaidehi’s childhood room. Vaidehi woke up to the sounds of the temple bells and morning prayers. The familiar rhythm of steel containers clinking announced the arrival of milk at their doorstep.

After her morning shower, Vaidehi found her mother in the kitchen, the brass filter coffee setup already in progress.

The morning ritual of filter coffee was sacred in their home. Even before sunrise, Amma would begin her ceremony – measuring fresh coffee powder (a precise blend of 80% coffee beans and 20% chicory that gave the decoction its distinct character) into the brass filter’s upper chamber. The slow drip of hot water through the coffee grounds extracted the rich coffee essence, which would become their morning brew.

As Amma handed Vaidehi the perfectly foamed coffee in the brass tumbler-davara, Vaidehi smiled in joy.

“I missed this coffee for so long now. Thanks, Amma.”

“American coffee never quite got it right, did it?” Amma asked with a knowing smile, watching Vaidehi take her first sip.

“Not even close, Amma.,” Vaidehi replied, savoring the perfect blend of bitter and sweet, the creamy texture of properly pulled coffee.

“Wait here,” Amma said, disappearing into the kitchen where the whistle of the pressure cooker meant breakfast is getting ready. The aroma of fresh idli batter being steamed filled the house.

“Lakshmi, did Vaidehi eat breakfast?” Appa called out from the puja room, having finished his morning prayers.

Minutes later, Amma appeared with a plate of pillowy soft idlis, accompanied by her special thenga chutney and a small bowl of idli podi mixed with gingelly oil. “Eat while it’s hot, kanna,” she said, watching with satisfaction as Vaidehi’s face lit up at the sight of her favorite breakfast.

“Wait till you see what I’ve made for lunch.,” Amma added with a smile. Appa chuckled, happily watching his daughter savor each bite. These simple moments, Vaidehi realized, were what she had missed most in America – the taste of love in home-cooked meals, the quiet joy in her parents’ eyes.

Mid-morning brought a surprise visitor – Raman Mama, her maternal uncle, who had always been more like a second father.

“Vaidehi, yepadi ma irukka?” he greeted her warmly, his face brightening with genuine pleasure at seeing his niece. As they caught up on family news and memories, the delicious aroma of Amma’s cooking drifted from the kitchen, promising a feast.

By lunchtime, the banana leaves were spread on the floor, a practice Vaidehi had sorely missed abroad. Amma had outdone herself – golden-brown medhu vadai, crispy appalam, creamy vendakka mor kozhambu and kothavaranga paruppu usuli seasoned just right. Then came the surprise that touched Vaidehi – pineapple rasam with ginger, made exactly as she had discussed with her mother months ago during one of their phone calls. Such a small detail, remembered and recreated with love. A bowl of spiced buttermilk and semiya payasam completed the elaborate meal.

“Amma, you didn’t have to make so many dishes,” Vaidehi protested weakly, even as she delighted in each taste.

“First day home,” Amma said simply. “Everything should be perfect.”

After Mama left, patting Vaidehi’s head with a blessing, the afternoon settled into its familiar rhythm. Appa retreated for his customary nap. Amma busied herself with her post-lunch routine, humming softly as she worked.

Vaidehi sat in the mutram, watching the afternoon light create patterns on the red oxide floor. The perfect time, she thought, to share her plans with her parents once they gathered for evening coffee.

Chapter 4: A Different Approach to Education

“I have some news,” Vaidehi said, looking at her parents.

“Sri Vivekananda School confirmed my position. I’ll be teaching social studies and creative periods, and they’ve agreed to let me be a counselor too.”

“That is wonderful ma.”, Appa said happily.

She paused, then added, “This actually aligns perfectly with the book I’m working on.”

“A book?” Amma’s eyes widened with interest.

“Yes, something I’ve been writing based on my experiences counseling children, my psychology studies, and what I’ve learned about teaching with empathy. It’s about how we can make education more than just academics – helping children understand themselves and others better.”

“Tell us more,” Appa encouraged, leaning back in his chair.

“Well, take how we teach social studies. Instead of just memorizing facts and dates, what if we helped children understand different perspectives? When we study World War II, beyond battles and dates, we explore human choices. Like Chiune Sugihara, the Japanese diplomat who defied orders to save Jewish refugees. What makes someone risk everything for strangers? These discussions help children think about courage, conscience, and doing what’s right.”

Appa nodded, listening intently. Amma, however, looked uncertain. “But the syllabus…”

“We’ll cover everything required, Amma. Just in a way that encourages understanding and empathy.”

“These are such complex topics for children,” she said, still hesitant.

“They grasp more than we think”, Vaidehi assured her.

“First, we give them the historical facts. Then they reflect – what would they think about, worry about, hope for in that situation? When we studied Nelson Mandela, one student wrote letters he might have written to his children from prison. Another wrote about being a prison guard whose views changed after meeting him. Their insights were remarkable.”

“Isn’t that too heavy for them?” Amma asked.

“We handle it sensitively, Amma. Take Oskar Schindler – a businessman who initially just wanted to profit from the war but ended up spending everything he had to save his Jewish workers. Students explore what makes someone change so fundamentally? When does conscience overcome self-interest?”

Appa, deep in thought, asked “And, you think this helps them understand better than just facts?”

“Yes, because they connect emotionally with the situation. When studying environmental issues, they might write from different viewpoints – a farmer watching his land turn barren, a factory worker whose family depends on that job, a child imagining the future they’ll inherit. They share these writings in class, listen to each other’s perspectives. They learn there’s rarely just one side to any story.”

“And they’re learning to express themselves too,” Appa nodded.

“Exactly. Some prefer to present their writings dramatically, others quietly read them. We respect each child’s way of sharing.”

“But kanna, how will you handle children’s personal struggles? These days, there’s so much pressure on them.”, Amma asked with concern.

“That’s where the counseling helps, Amma,” Vaidehi explained. “I worked with many children struggling silently.”

She continued after a pause, “Like this bright fourteen-year-old girl –always scored well, very responsible. Suddenly her grades started dropping. Teachers labeled her ‘distracted,’ parents were frustrated. But when I spoke to her, I realized she was having panic attacks before exams. The pressure to maintain her ‘perfect student’ image was crushing her.”

“In my counseling sessions, I helped her understand that grades don’t define her worth. Taught her simple breathing techniques, ways to handle anxiety. Most importantly, created a safe space where she could talk about her fears without judgment.”

“Tell us more, Vaidehi”, Appa asked.

“There was this twelve-year-old boy avoiding school, claiming stomach aches every morning. Classic anxiety symptoms. Turned out he was being excluded by his friend group. He felt completely alone. So, we worked on building empathy in the whole class. Started a buddy system, had group activities where everyone had to work together.”

Appa sighed, “These children today face so many pressures.”

“Yes, and sometimes they don’t need solutions right away. They just need someone to listen. Like the girl whose parents were divorcing – she didn’t need advice, she just needed space to process her feelings through art therapy. Or the boy who lost his grandmother – we created a memory book where he could write letters to her, share his grief safely.”

“I want them to understand that every person’s journey is unique. There is no single right way to grow, to learn, to be.”

“Meditation and self-reflection help a lot to create self-awareness. A minute of quiet reflection helps students to center themselves. Children can regulate emotions better when they practice self-awareness, by noticing where in the body they feel different emotions. Or having them write about a time they felt angry versus a time they felt peaceful. It’s about making them aware of their inner world.”

“Vaidehi, this is important work. We are so proud of you.”, Amma smiled with pride.

“It’s good and important to give back to the community. How wonderful it is you get to do this through your job!”, Appa beamed.

Vaidehi smiled. “You both have shown me the beauty of giving in your own quiet ways.”.

After a pause, Vaidehi added.

“Appa, I would like to start evening tutoring sessions when summer break begins, I need help finding a space. I plan to teach mathematics and social science.”

Appa face lit up. “I could help with the mathematics,” he offered. “These children need strong fundamentals.”

“The old library space might be perfect for this,” Amma suggested practically. “It’s close by, and many families who know your father used to teach there.”

“That’s wonderful, Amma.”, Vaidehi smiled.

“One step at a time,” she said softly, assuring herself.

A comfortable silence settled between them.

“Shall we go to the temple?” Vaidehi asked, rising from her seat. “It’s been so long since I walked there with both of you.”

“Let me just change into another sari,” Amma joyfully said, already heading to her room.

Appa folded his newspaper with a smile. “We missed going to the temple without you, Kanna. I am so happy you are home with us now.”

As they walked together through the familiar streets – Vaidehi in the middle, her parents on either side – the temple bells began their evening song. Tomorrow would bring new beginnings but tonight was about these precious moments – walking to the temple with her parents, just as they had done countless times before.

The Chennai Diaries – Lessons in Kindness and Leadership

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Storyteller in My Life – Celebrating Appa

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Kaa wasn’t one to give up easily.

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

Plop… plop… plop!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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