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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 Chennai Diaries – Bicycle Adventures on Mangesh Street

The warm summer breeze caressed my face as I perched sideways on the front bar of my elder cousin Hari’s bicycle, giggling heartily with each turn of the wheel. Hari, in his late teens, pedaled confidently through the bustling streets of T.Nagar, his wavy hair swaying in the wind. With his chiseled face glowing in the bright sun, his sweet smile and mischievous eyes held a charm that seemed to make every passerby smile back.

Hari’s world was an extraordinary one, and during my summer breaks at my aunt’s house, I had the privilege to be a part of it. Those summers at my aunts were the happiest days of my childhood, free from judgement and filled with endless adventures. The neighborhood buzzed with life, and every evening, kids aged 5 to 25 spilled out of their homes, ready to play.

Hari was the heart of these escapades. He teased me endlessly, pampered me when I least expected it, and even made me play chess with his friends, who deliberately let me win. Though I didn’t understand it then, their lighthearted gestures were meant to cheer me up and make me feel included.

One of my favorite memories was riding on Hari’s bicycle as he expertly navigated the chaos of Mangesh Street. Auto rickshaws swerved through narrow spaces, pedestrians crossed the streets boldly and vehicles moving in their own instinctive patterns. My cousin navigated these streets like a seasoned professional, knowing exactly when to pause, speed up, or make those sharp turns. Every now and then, he mischievously threatened to throw me off the bicycle into a dirty pit.

As we rode, I enjoyed observing the people and their moods and made wonderful stories in my mind, one of my childhood hobbies. Each street was its own living story – the fruit vendor cutting guavas and mangoes into thin long strips became the warrior hero, the vegetable seller neatly arranging tomatoes into perfect pyramids became the spy, the shoe repairman on the corner of the road claiming his own space became the wise elder, and the children playing with marbles became the supporting cast. Even the animals played their part perfectly. The dignified cow near the temple stood like an ancient guardian, while the street dogs provided perfect comic relief to the daily street drama.

In my mind’s theatre, the street’s cast changed daily – today’s protagonist could be tomorrow’s antagonist, each passerby stepping into new roles in my ever-changing story.

While the streets offered their daily theater, our next destination promised a different kind of adventure. We made our first stop at the library.

This library held a special place in my heart. Each visit felt like finding yet another secret passage into an endless adventure. As we entered this quaint dark shop, the narrow wooden stairs and small floors weren’t just physical spaces – they were gateways to different worlds. Each floor held its own genre kingdom – adventures on one level, fairy tales on another, and so on. I found the musty-sweet aroma of the old books mixed with the scent of the wooden shelves both comforting and mysterious. One must literally crawl their way to the books. It felt like a luxury to be here, as a ticket to one of the adventures specially designed for an imagination-thirsty kid.

The store owner, an old man with a long beard, weary eyes, and a kind smiling face, always greeted me as “papa.” He tirelessly helped me find books I would love to read. The helper boy, not much older than me, moved like a quick squirrel among the narrow shelves, knowing exactly where each book lived.

My cousin parked his bicycle here and, after getting some books, we walked to the ice cream shop down the street, right at the intersection of two main roads. They also served fresh juices here. That shop still stands today serving their fresh juices and ice creams.

The ice cream shop was a single room that houses a long wooden bench. A big fan was running non-stop on one side of the wall. They had limited flavors of ice cream and always had my favorites – vanilla and butterscotch. Hari got himself a sugarcane juice, while I got my favorite butterscotch ice cream on a cone. With no place to sit, we stood outside the shop enjoying our treats. It was a race against time and heat, a game I played with the sun. I focused on the serious business of saving each golden drop before it met the floor, my tongue quick to catch any escape attempts. I felt victorious when I had my ice cream in a completely clean manner. My cousin found this hilarious and would often tease me about my efforts with his friends, but I simply didn’t bother.

Back at my aunt’s house, I settled into the sofa surrounded by the books I borrowed from the library. I was ready to read new stories, shaping my imagination further. Soon, the evening would call us out to join our friends – some older, some younger, all part of our colony’s extended family.

Looking back, those summers weren’t just a series of carefree adventures; they were a blessing in finding joy in the ordinary. Hari’s easy charm and mischievous confidence were infectious. He taught me how to embrace the chaos of the world with a smile and how to find joy in the simplest moments. Even now, when I think of Mangesh Street, I remember Hari’s innocent laughter echoing through time, reminding me of a childhood filled with freedom, imagination and love.

Peaks and Papaya: A Tale of Misplaced Confidence

They say marriage is about balance. Our 25^th anniversary in Hawaii took that lesson quite literally – from the serene heights of mountain trails to the fiery depths of Thai spice levels.

It wasn’t until halfway up the trail that I made two profound discoveries: I forgot water, and my bladder had excellent timing. Of all the vacation planning list I made, basic survival needs somehow didn’t make the cut. When I declared my discoveries to my dear husband, he humorously suggested I use nature’s own bathroom facility, but it simply met with my city-girl horror – apparently my dignity is far more important than my bladder’s desperate pleas. Of all the anniversary traditions couples collect over the years, I never imagined “discussing bathroom options on a Hawaiian trail” would make it into our top ten memorable moments.

I approached the second hike with questionable confidence, but somehow my determination won over my legs.

This rainforest hike was utterly beautiful. The trail promised us a waterfall at its end. My husband imagined a majestic waterfall worthy of a tourism brochure and I was more than happy enjoying the massive trees. After a while, my inner monologue shifted from “Look at these beautiful trees” to “Why didn’t I train for this?” My stoic eyes were looking down on the rocks and stones we had to walk on. I could feel a tremble in my legs, but I kept going with determined confidence.

As we reached the end of our trail, the imagination of a majestic waterfall fell flat for my husband as he saw something like a nature’s drinking fountain, but I didn’t care. I was just happy I made the end of it and now I just need to go down the hill and I can finally eat something!

My husband turned to me and asked, “What next?”
“What, what next? It’s time to eat! I am having a headache. I am starving. I am physically exhausted.”

Whoever invented the word “hangry” deserves a Nobel Prize. After years of thinking I had a unique talent for turning hunger into an emotional crisis, discovering this word was like finding my tribe. All those childhood moments of food-related meltdowns suddenly had scientific validation. I wasn’t being difficult – I was being hangry before hangry was cool.

I declared we go to a Thai restaurant. My husband, who typically maintains diplomatic neutrality in the face of Thai food suggestions, found himself in an anniversary-induced compromise.

Google Maps played its favorite game of “You have arrived!’ at every wrong location.
After a few failed attempts of going in circles, we made the executive decision to park our car and then simply walk towards the restaurant. Walking worked!

Having conquered two mountain trails, I felt invincible – a dangerous state of mind when you’re both starving and facing a Thai menu. You know how they say anticipation makes everything better? Well, my long-awaited Thai lunch was about to become memorable in ways my spice-loving ego wasn’t quite ready for.

There are moments when our heart speaks, our brain objects, and our stomach gets voting rights. This was one of those moments. There I was, physically exhausted from hiking, sweating in the Hawaiian sun, and what does my brilliant mind conclude? Yes, this is the perfect time for maximum spice on my basil vegetarian fried rice and papaya salad and piping hot water.

The waiter came and when my turn of the order came, I quickly answered “Papaya salad and vegetarian basil fried rice with maximum spice. Hot water please.”

“You mean, Spicy?” the waiter asked, with what I now recognize was a mix of concern and amusement. Like a warrior declaring battle plans, I confidently replied, “Yes, spicy!'”

The waiter’s glance at my husband wasn’t just a look – it was a silent telegram of “Is she sure about this?” My husband, veteran witness to my spice-related overconfidence, simply shrugged with a smile and was earnest to see how it is going to unfold.

First bite: excitement.
Second bite: realization.
Third bite: regret.

The basil fried rice I’d ordered with maximum spice became irrelevant – my taste buds had already gone on strike after the papaya salad assault.

In a plot twist that surprised absolutely no one except past-me, the hot water I’d so proudly ordered became less ‘soothing comfort’ and more ‘adding fuel to the fire’ – “literally”.

My husband, watching this culinary drama unfold, silently offered his ice from his water – a peace offering in my moment of crisis. I kept putting the ice on my hot water in the hope of making it cold to the point it was just barely warm.

Where was the waiter? The one time I needed someone hovering over my table asking, “How is everything?” and the restaurant had suddenly become a masterclass in efficient privacy. The irony of desperately wanting ice water after proudly ordering hot wasn’t lost on me, but dignity takes a backseat when your tongue feels like it’s auditioning for a fire-walking show.

In a final lesson in humility worthy of our anniversary adventure, there I sat – physically exhausted from hiking, defeated by a salad, and still somehow hungry. The scenic morning views had given way to an afternoon of what I can only describe as ‘spicy meditation.’ We ended our day with another 40-minute walk in the peak sun, because apparently, the universe wasn’t quite done with its lessons in humility. And that’s how our romantic anniversary hike turned into a tale of two temperatures – the cool mountain trails and the fire-breathing papaya salad that followed. At least we got our cardio in, even if most of it was from my tongue doing the hot sauce dance.