The reason for me to write these reflections and share them is my way of reaching with the outer world, perhaps in a way that feels safe for me.
Working from home since Covid has in a way disconnected me from the outside world and socializing. Moving to a new place prior to Covid didn’t help either – the isolation of Covid amplifying the challenge of building new connections. Even before, I have been this reserved, someone who can easily connect deeper one-on-one, rather than in a group. It has come from some challenging trauma around school bullying and people.
I have come a long way taking care of myself – physical fitness, health, mental health, routine practices like meditation, being in nature. Through these practices and therapy, I’ve found peace in solitude, even learned to embrace it deeply. Yet there’s a part of me that longs to be around people – not in large groups, but in meaningful connections.
This morning brought a realization I hadn’t expected: I don’t feel safe around people I don’t know, especially when I need to meet them physically and regularly. This understanding explains why I haven’t joined or have not continued any in-person classes recently – yoga, art, or community groups. Perhaps it’s the fear of getting hurt again, or maybe something deeper I’m still trying to understand. It’s strange because I used to regularly participate in group activities before – volunteering at a hospice, working in homeless kitchens, being a community teacher. But especially since moving and through these Covid years, I’ve felt paralyzed around people. It’s daunting.
While my therapy and meditation practices have helped me heal so much from my depression, find my cheerful self and in fact made me happier than I have ever in my life, there’s a part of me that is still hurting and not open to embrace the goodness of socializing in a way that speaks to me, to feel safer inside beyond the people, environment that I am used to.
Writing this down feels healing somehow. At this moment, I offer a prayer to our Creator to help with continuing my healing journey, to be replaced with Love from Him.
Being aware is the first step, isn’t it? I can feel it – this understanding is already part of the healing. I know I’ll move through this phase too, just as I’ve moved through others before it.
The sun hadn’t even peeked through the blinds when I heard Mom’s alarm. My tail thumped against the wooden floors before I opened my eyes – morning means breakfast! I stretched out my paws, let out a big yawn, and caught the first hints of a new day.
The Tuffy Song: An Embarrassment I Secretly Love
I hear Mom’s cheerful voice, ‘Good Morning, Tuffy!’ before launching into what she calls my special Tuffy song.
It’s a… (ahem).. unique… piece of music, composed and performed exclusively by her, in a tune that I would suspect would make most dogs cringe. It goes something like this:
“Tuffy ma… Tuffy ma… Little Tuffy ma! Tuffy is a good boy, chella kutti ma…..”
I’ll spare you the rest. Human singing can be quite something.
The funny thing is, even though it’s arguably the most embarrassing song in canine history, I find myself wagging my tail every single time. Maybe it’s the way her face lights up when she sings it, or maybe it’s because deep down, I know I’m her absolute favorite. (She likes me more than Dad, and my brothers, and we both know it). I pretend to tolerate it, but between you and me – Those silly songs are our thing. Don’t tell her, I miss it when she’s too busy to sing it.
The Art of Begging: A Masterclass
Mom heads towards the kitchen, and I spring into action. I sit up, wagging my tail in slow anticipation, my best “I’m starving” look firmly in place. She knows my routine but plays hard to get, acting as though Arya’s breakfast and school lunch preparations are far more important than my needs.
I lock eyes with hers every chance I get, but I have to play it cool – too much desperation and she might start thinking I’m dramatic.
Finally, she walks towards the closet where my food is kept in a tightly closed box. (Apparently, Labrador self-restraint is a myth. One unfortunate incident involving an open food bin and a very full stomach means I’m now on a strict security protocol.)
Mom measures my food with that ridiculous little cup. Humans and their portion control – completely unnecessary. I’m a Labrador, for heaven’s sake! I have needs. The waiting is torture. A thick string of drool betrays my dignity, but who cares about dignity where food is involved?
I remember the golden days, back when Grandma used to sneak me yolks from hard-boiled eggs. It was a glorious time. Then one day, the vet called me “insanely obese” (harsh) and put me on a “healthy diet” (human talk for starvation). It was too easy to get Grandma’s attention. One “sad puppy look face”, and she would give in.
Since then, I’ve had to get creative.
Plan A: Act like I’m starving. Wag tail, sit attentively, look soulfully at food providers. Plan B: Shadow Mom. Follow her around the kitchen, strategically positioning myself near anything that could fall. Plan C: Floor patrol. Any crumbs, abandoned snacks, or overlooked morsels? I’m on it.
Does it work? Rarely. But a Lab must try.
Each family member has a role in my master food scheme:
Dad is the softie with treats.
Mom is my snack partner when no one’s looking.
Arya has a habit of “accidentally” dropping food.
Manav? The hardest to crack. The guy acts like I’m on some kind of detox program.
Bathroom Breaks & Condo Woes
After breakfast, it’s time for my morning bathroom break.
Living in a condo means my entire existence depends on humans – especially my bladder. Try explaining to your body that you live on the 11th floor and require an elevator ride just to find a patch of grass. To make matters worse, at any given time, two of the four elevators don’t work. It’s a waiting game, and let me tell you – when nature calls, that’s a game I do NOT want to play.
The elevator is its own source of entertainment. Humans are unpredictable. Some see me and turn into excited puppies themselves – ‘Oh, what a good boy! How old is he?’ Others press against the walls like I am a wild beast. (Have they even seen how adorable I am!?)
Then there was that day.
An elderly woman saw me when the doors opened on her floor and immediately let out a shriek, as if I were a ghost, and actually fell backwards! All I was doing was sitting there being my handsome self, tail wagging, saying hello.
She then proceeded to curse me in what sounded like three different languages.
Dad was horrified, I was confused. I mean, I’m a yellow lab. I’m practically a Golden Retriever’s cousin! How terrifying can I be?
The thing about humans is, they’re completely unpredictable. Some want to pet me endlessly, some act as if I’m invisible, and others treat me like I am a wolf in a Lab’s clothing.
Sidewalk Surprises: A Gourmet’s Guide to Forbidden Snacks
Now, let’s talk about my greatest passion: found food on the trails.
Mom calls it “disgusting street scraps.” I call it “sidewalk surprises.”
The moment I spot something – a half-eaten sandwich, a mysterious morsel, a bone, or my personal favorite, an abandoned piece of who-knows-what, my instincts take over.
“NO, TUFFY! NO!”
As if yelling will make me just drop this rare delicacy.
What follows is our classic Sidewalk Standoff.
Mom panics.
She tries the “drop it” negotiation tactic. (“Drop it, Tuffy! Here, have this treat!”)
I pretend to consider it. (Interesting offer, woman, but this is a once-in-a-lifetime discovery.)
I execute the “Fake Distraction Maneuver.” (Suddenly fascinated by a squirrel, I wait for her to look away…)
I chew faster.
If I’ve learned one thing in life, it’s this: Swallow first, act innocent later.
The Final Verdict: My Humans Are Pretty Darn Adorable (Mostly)
After all my adventures – food battles, elevator escapades, and sidewalk snack negotiations – the day winds down.
I listen to the familiar sounds of home:
Mom’s soft footsteps. (Probably headed to the kitchen. A potential snack opportunity.)
Dad’s heavy footsteps. (Less likely to share food, but good for belly rubs.)
Manav’s brisk footsteps. (Not worth the effort – strictest of all humans.)
Arya’s quick, fluttering steps. (Most promising. He’s my best bet for ‘accidental’ snack drop.)
As I settle in, curled up in my bed, I hear Mom humming my Tuffy song again. I let out a sigh, tail wagging a little.
Humans are a strange species – completely unpredictable and oddly obsessed with unnecessary rules.
But mine? They are pretty darn adorable.
A little stingy in food distribution, but have to admit, nobody’s perfect!
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.
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?
Some people have a natural gift for turning ordinary moments into memorable stories. In Appa, my husband’s father, I discovered a masterful storyteller, a passionate sports enthusiast, and a grandfather whose eyes light up at the sight of his grandchildren.
Our relationship defied traditional labels. In Appa, I found something rare and unexpected – a friendship that transcended conventional family bonds. When I first met Appa, his laughter filled the room, breaking the formalities. Over time, his quiet strength and open-heartedness turned our relationship into something deeper – built on respect and affection.
Appa stands as the pillar of warmth and wisdom in our family. His jovial demeanor and thoughtful ways have been a quiet anchor for our whole family.
As in any relationship, ours has weathered its storms. There have been disagreements and difficult moments – as natural in any family dynamic. Yet what stands out is not the challenges but how we’ve moved through them. The deep respect and love we share has only grown stronger through these tests, showing that true family bonds aren’t about perfect harmony but about choosing to understand and cherish each other despite our differences.
What strikes me most about Appa is how effortlessly he turns ordinary moments into meaningful connections. Whether sharing his written stories, organizing family gatherings, or simply being present, he weaves our family closer with each interaction. His ease in engaging anyone – regardless of age or background – reflects a deep, genuine interest in people that I deeply admire. Here is a man who wears his happiness openly, making every conversation feel like a celebration.
It’s fascinating how some people naturally turn strangers into friends. Wherever he went, Appa’s buoyant personality shone through – his cheerful eye contact and genuine smile greeting others came straight from his heart.
But Appa’s gift for connection wasn’t limited to conversations – it extended into the stories he told. His ability to draw people in, to make them feel part of something bigger, truly shone when he began to weave tales, especially for his grandchildren.
Appa has always been a man of many worlds – a storyteller, a strategist, and a quiet force of energy. Even in his 80s, his mind remains sharp, always searching for the next story to tell or game to play.
Creativity isn’t something Appa switches on and off – it’s simply a part of who he is. Whether through his vivid writing or animated conversations, his stories light up the room, turning simple moments into lively, memorable experiences. Whether it’s a tale from his childhood or a recent family anecdote, Appa has a way of painting pictures with his humor. His stories come alive with carefully chosen details, perfectly timed pauses, and that characteristic twinkle in his eye that signals a humorous turn ahead. Even stories I’ve heard before feel fresh with his skillful delivery – adding a new detail here, a different perspective there, making each retelling an adventure of its own.
Nothing captures Appa’s playful creativity better than his tale of Kaa, the clever crow – a story he told countless times to entertain his grandchildren during dinner. Yet, with every telling, he added new twists, turning it into a fresh adventure each time.
Once upon a time, high in the branches of a grand banyan tree, lived a clever crow named Kaa. His feathers shimmered like polished charcoal in the sunlight, and his sharp, black beak gleamed as he surveyed the world below. Kaa lived happily with his beloved wife, Mei, whose glossy feathers caught his eye the very first time he saw her. They built a cozy nest together and soon welcomed six lively chicks – four who looked just like Kaa and two who mirrored Mei’s graceful form.
The banyan tree echoed with the sound of their laughter and songs. Kaa loved to entertain his chicks with playful dances, while Mei patiently taught them how to flap their tiny wings and spot tasty bugs hiding in the bark.
One scorching afternoon, Kaa set off on his daily hunt, searching for the juicy worms his babies loved, and the crunchy beetles Mei favored. But no matter how hard he tried, the ground was dry and bare. Weary and parched, Kaa perched on a wooden fence, his wings drooping.
“Oh, how I wish for just a drop of water,” he sighed
Just then, something caught his eye – a clay jug sitting on a wooden table on a house’s deck. His heart leapt with gratitude! Kaa flapped over eagerly, only to peer inside and find the water far out of reach. His slender beak couldn’t dip low enough to reach even a sip.
But Kaa wasn’t one to give up easily.
Scanning the yard, he noticed small pebbles scattered across the ground. A clever idea sparked in his mind. Picking up a pebble in his beak, he dropped it into the jug. Plop! Then another. Plop! Slowly, he watched in amazement as the water began to rise.
Plop… plop… plop!
Finally, the water reached the brim. Kaa took long sips, feeling the strength return to his wings. As if by magic, right there in the garden, he spotted plump worms wriggling and shiny beetles crawling under leaves. With his beak full of treats, he soared back home, his heart light and joyful.
Back in the nest, the chicks chirped excitedly, and Mei smiled warmly. Kaa proudly shared his feast, and the family spent the rest of the day singing and dancing among the banyan leaves.
My children’s eyes would widen at each twist, their small hands holding their spoons mimicking the crow’s flight and every now and then be reminded by Appa to take the next bite as he proceeded through the story.
Appa’s voice would dip low as he described Kaa’s thirst and rise with excitement as Kaa discovered the jug and discovering the worms, and break into a triumphant tone for the journey home. My children would lean forward, completely absorbed in his theatrical narration. With his voice modulations, dramatic pauses and facial expressions – he presented a masterclass in keeping his audience engaged.
Just as he crafted stories with flair, Appa approached games and sports with the same creativity and passion. Whether through words or play, he found joy in engaging minds.
Games were never just games with Appa. Whether it was a tense chess match or a lighthearted round of cards, he played with a strategist’s mind and a child’s enthusiasm. In his younger years, he was quick on his feet with badminton, cricket and other sports, and today, he’s just as quick-witted in online chess. His love for play wasn’t just recreation – it was a way of thinking, one that his children and grandchildren carry forward.
Card games with Appa have always been more than just games – they’re chapters in our family story, blending strategy, laughter, and life lessons. Hours would slip by as cards shuffled and stories unfolded, often stretching from post-lunch into dinner during my early marriage years.
Through countless deals and shuffles, our relationship evolved from formal in-law status to something more genuine and comfortable. His systematic approach to the game – methodically arranging cards, planning moves ahead – reflected his larger approach to life and family.
Our card game sessions are like well-orchestrated performances. Appa deals with practiced precision, his fingers expertly shuffling the deck while he hums softly with a mischievous smile. Between hands, stories flow as naturally as the cards – tales of his youth, wisdom wrapped in wit, and observations that make everyone laugh.
What’s remarkable is how this playful spirit didn’t stop with him. Watching my children plot their next move in a board game or invent whimsical stories, I realize how deeply they’ve inherited Appa’s love for thinking differently and embracing challenges.
What has always left me in awe of Appa is his boundless energy and spontaneous spirit. He embraced life fully, treating every moment as a gift to be savored. Whether offering a heartfelt compliment to young or old or sharing his unfiltered thoughts, Appa has an extraordinary ability to make people feel truly seen. With him, what you saw was exactly who he was—authentic and unapologetically himself.
Even when faced with health challenges, Appa’s mind never rested. He found joy in staying engaged – whether through a game of online chess or penning down his thoughts. His unwavering integrity and commitment to his principles has guided him through life. He wasn’t afraid to speak his mind, and his words always carried weight because they came from a place of honesty and courage.
That same fearless authenticity is what drew me closer to him. It wasn’t just his stories or games that left an impression; it was how he lived – boldly, sincerely, and without pretense. It’s a trait I see reflected in his children: the courage to be themselves and the joy of embracing life fully.
Appa’s life is a vibrant example of living with purpose, staying true to oneself, and finding joy in every chapter. His energy, integrity, and spontaneity continue to inspire me and remind me that life, with all its twists and turns, is best lived with honesty and a full heart.
The 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.
It was back in sixth grade when I was learning to ride a bicycle. Every night after 9 PM, my elder brother and the watchman from my dad’s hospital would try to teach me. Night after night, we practiced, but my fear wouldn’t let go. My brother, then in tenth grade, was growing increasingly frustrated with my hesitation.
One particular night, his patience finally ran out, and he yelled at me about my fear. We were both young – just children really – but something shifted in me that night. Angry at being scolded, I challenged him that I would ride the bicycle the next day without any help.
That’s when something strange happened. Even as I went to bed that night, I had this inexplicable knowing – a quiet certainty that I would indeed ride that bicycle the next morning.
I woke up early, around 5 AM, and wheeled the cycle out by 5:30. Chennai’s roads would soon be filled with traffic, but in that early morning quiet, it was just me and my bicycle. I fell a few times, but that inner knowing never wavered. And then it happened – I was riding on my own. The fear that had held me back for so long simply wasn’t there anymore. Later that morning, I even rode three kilometers to my friend’s house and back, navigating through the now-busy streets.
Looking back, what strikes me most isn’t the achievement of learning to cycle – it’s that moment of absolute certainty I had the night before. It was as if something within me already knew what was possible, even before it happened.
Throughout my life, I’ve experienced this same knowing many times – this quiet certainty that comes not from ego or ambition, but from somewhere deeper. Each time I’ve felt it, I’ve found myself accomplishing exactly what I set out to do.
But here’s what I’ve come to understand – this isn’t something special about me. It’s a gift we all carry within us: that deep knowing that we’re taken care of, that all is well. This understanding has carried me through many of life’s challenges, gently reminding me to trust in something larger than myself – in the boundless possibilities that life offers, often beyond our understanding.
Have you ever experienced this kind of knowing? That quiet certainty that comes not from planning or logic, but from somewhere deeper within?
I met Shobana in seventh grade, and something about her drew me instantly. Despite life’s challenges, she had this remarkable way of making everyone around her smile. Her energy was infectious – she could light up any room she entered.
She has this incredible gift for humor – it’s not just what she says, but how she says it. Her perfect timing, those deliberate pauses, the way she uses her expressions and gestures – she can make anyone burst into laughter. Even the simplest story becomes hilarious when she tells it.
She created her own style, wearing her father’s loose shirts with confidence, starting trends instead of following them. She was always surrounded by friends, both boys and girls, drawn to her natural warmth and authenticity.
Back then, my world felt heavy. Growing up in a home where anxiety and stress seemed to linger in the air, I struggled with low confidence and craved love and attention. While I found it hard to make friends, with Shobana, friendship came easily. We spent hours in mindless chatter and laughter. Those were simpler times – I would just hop on my bicycle and ride to her apartment whenever I wanted to see her.
Being an only child, she turned her whole apartment complex into a family. She had this gift of making instant connections with strangers, calling them brother or sister, making them feel like family or old friends. People who had never met her before would find themselves comfortable in her presence within minutes.
I admired everything about her. Sometimes I felt silently possessive of our friendship, but I never showed it – perhaps because I understood that trying to contain her joy would only diminish it. Looking back, that might have been my first lesson in unconditional love.
We remain best friends to this day, and I still feel the same wonder and gratitude about our friendship. Through her, I learned some of life’s most valuable lessons – how to keep things light, how to greet strangers with warmth, and most importantly, how to choose happiness despite life’s challenges. She was a blessing in my young life, and continues to be one, silently guiding me toward joy just by being who she is.
Our friendship taught me that true beauty lies in how we make others feel, and what a blessing it is to have someone in your life who can still make you laugh like you’re in seventh grade.
Simply by being herself, she showed me something precious – that keeping things light and finding reasons to laugh felt so much better than carrying the weight of worry and sadness. She taught me that having a sense of humor isn’t just about making jokes – it’s a way of moving through life, of finding lightness in ordinary moments, of transforming everyday situations into occasions for joy. This gift of seeing life through a lens of humor continues to remind me that there’s always room for laughter, always a way to lighten the heart, always a moment worth celebrating with a smile.
Sometimes wisdom finds us in the most ordinary moments. There I was, just scrolling through Facebook one afternoon, when I saw it – a picture of Gandhi with his words about truth. It stopped me in my tracks and made me think about all the times I’ve struggled with speaking my truth.
You know how it goes – those moments when you need to say something important to someone you care about, something that might hurt a little but needs to be said. For years, my pattern was so predictable. I’d share my truth, see the hurt in their eyes, and immediately say “Sorry.” It felt like the right thing to do at the time, this little word that was supposed to soften the blow.
But oh, how that backfired. Instead of focusing on what really mattered, the conversation would shift: “There you go again, saying hurtful things and then just saying sorry.” My attempt to be kind was actually undermining the important things I needed to say.
It’s funny how a simple quote can suddenly make everything so clear, showing you a better way forward. I guess that’s how wisdom works – it waits patiently until we’re ready to receive it, until we’re in exactly the right place to understand.
I’m holding this lesson close to my heart now, accepting it with gratitude. Do I know if I’ll get it right every time? Probably not. This is more of a journey than a destination, I think. But I’m making a promise to myself – to practice this new way of being, to learn how to speak truth with both courage and love.
And when it feels too hard (because sometimes it will), I’m learning to surrender it to God, asking for help to find that sweet spot where truth meets kindness. To be strong enough to stand in my truth, gentle enough to deliver it with love, and wise enough to know the difference.
It’s a practice, this dance of speaking truth. Sometimes we’ll step on toes, sometimes we’ll float gracefully through. But maybe that’s okay – maybe that’s exactly how we learn to be both honest and kind.
lotusheartgrateful.com 