The last few days have been busy.

And one of the reasons for the busyness was—

Drying coconuts.

Yes.

Kerala is traditionally associated with the coconut—the land of kera, coconut.

So we dehusked them, broke them into halves, drank the sweet water, savoured the soft, sweet coconut apples, and set them out on the terrace to dry.

Right in the middle of unpredictable Kerala rains.

Yes.

Very smart decision.

But it is Onam—the harvest festival—and we do need nice, aromatic, fresh coconut oil.

So it was justified.

Every time the clouds gathered, I ran to the terrace with covers to shield them. Sacks hauled up in the morning, coconuts laid out flesh-side up, gathered back in the evening, hauled down again. Depending on the sun, the whole process takes five or six days before the dried coconut goes to the mill for the oil to be extracted.

I actually enjoy the process.

There is something very satisfying about watching something slowly transform.

But this story isn't about coconuts.

It is about our children.

Because something caught my attention while I was watching those coconuts dry.

They didn't all dry at the same speed.

Some were ready sooner.

Some needed another day.

Some needed a little more sun.

I didn't stand there shouting,

“Dry, coconut! Dry!”

It took its time and I let it.

But letting it take its time didn't mean leaving it unwatched.

I still had to watch the sky.

When the rain threatened, I covered the coconuts. Because if they got wet at the wrong stage, they could develop fungus. And that would spoil the oil.

There was patience.

But there was also protection.

There was no rushing.

But there was attention.

And perhaps that is something we sometimes forget when we are raising children.

We look at them and see all the things they haven't become yet.

The child who isn't independent enough.

The child who isn't confident enough.

The child who still needs help.

The child who takes longer to learn something.

The child who isn't ready when everyone else seems to be ready.

And we start pushing.

"Come on!"

"You should know this by now."

"Why are you taking so long?"

But what if some things simply need time?

Were we born knowing everything? There is always a learning curve. Different for everyone.

Not all coconuts dry at the same rate.

And not all children grow at the same pace.

That doesn't mean we do nothing.

We watch, guide and protect.

We provide the right conditions.

And then we allow them to become what they are capable of becoming.

Because the purpose of drying the coconut isn't to put the oil into it.

The oil was already there.

It just needed the right conditions for us to get to it.

Our children are a little like that too.

Our job isn't always to put things into them.

Sometimes, our job is to create the conditions in which what is already inside them can emerge.

And to have the patience to let it happen.

At its own pace.

Without standing over them shouting,

“Do it, child! Do it!”

The oil was always there.

We just had to give it time, sun, protection—and a little care.

I would certainly like to think of my birth as some grand occasion, but it was actually rather uneventful.

When I opened my eyes, all I saw were many sisters like me and the lady who had planted my mother. She came running in delight and brought her children outside to see us.

The girl was sweet, asking if there was honey in the kodappan.

But the younger boy was a brat! He screamed that he wanted all of us right then and there.

Excuse me! I was young and pretty, but I still needed my mother. I wasn’t ready yet.

The lady showed us off to everyone who came to the house. Sometimes even dragging in some uninterested people. But everyone admired us.

“Oh! That’s a big bunch!” they said.

Slowly but surely, we matured. My mother taught us our duties well. She told us to always stick together. The twin sisters beside me swore they would never separate.

While I had only one dream.

To be paired with someone whom I could call my forever.

I had certain dreams about my man.

Tall. Serious about life. Well-spoken. Well-dressed.

Yet gentle and caring.

I dreamed of being the perfect partner, you know.

I had been preparing my whole life for it!

I was growing into a beautiful woman. I had seen my reflection in the bucket of water the lady brought for my mother to drink.

Then, one moonlit night, it happened.

No one realized exactly when.

In the morning, I heard one of the twins beside me shrieking and crying inconsolably.

When the lady came after her children and husband had gone, she was shocked too.

The other twin...

Was gone.

The lady hurried in and brought a vettukathi and a chair.

Phack... phack...

Just like that, we were separated from our mother.

She gave one last look at my mother and breathed out.

“Tomorrow breakfast will be ada, and for lunch we can make vazha pindi.”

My mother shed a tear of goodbye to us.

I looked ahead to where we were being taken.

I was going to fulfil my destiny...

I believed we were going to have a grand welcome.

But life had other plans.

The lady put us in a dirty gunny sack and tied it shut. For a minute there, I thought she was suffocating us to death.

We had been kidnapped from the bright sunshine!

In the evening, I heard hushed voices.

“It was a bat or some bird. Something ate one of the bananas. The kola is not fully ripe, but the gunny sack will ripen it quickly.”

Oh.

So that was the plan.

I was not doomed!

I was being prepared!

Two days later, the lady took us out, satisfied by the lovely yellow tinge we had taken on, and hung us in the prime area of the kitchen.

She was a lovely, busy woman. She loved cooking, I saw.

And every time someone visited, she would offer them bananas on a plate with other dishes.

I was higher up on the bunch. My sisters on the lower side started disappearing first. They were maturing quicker.

“They are so sweet,” the lady would tell everyone, as my sisters were taken away to fulfil their destinies.

I secretly hoped I would be called sweet too.

The next day, the house woke up to a whole bunch of us decked in a shade of molten gold.

I looked in awe at my reflection on the steel dabba near us.

Golden yellow.

A hint of green at my head.

I was admiring myself when my sister beside me whispered happily, “We all look alike.”

I thought to myself that I looked a shade prettier than her.

But I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

Suddenly, the steel dabba was taken down.

The lady took some white, powdery stuff from it. Coconut was grated. Salt was added. Water was measured carefully.

It was quite interesting to watch.

She mixed everything together and added some jeerakam.

Then she stuffed it all into a long vessel with water underneath.

Hmm.

Interesting.

After a long time of steam rising from it, she pushed the result onto a banana leaf.

He was...

White like thumbapoo that flowered in the yard.

Soft like the clouds.

Long and unbroken, even by the hot steam.

I thought men who went through tough times would be hardened and bitter.

But no.

Not this man.

He was a proper Malayali man.

Dressed in white coconut flakes, dotted with jeerakam.

His brand of cologne sweetened the kitchen.

The man...

Of my dreams.

I smiled shyly, hoping he would notice me. But like the proper, traditional girl I was, I peeked out from behind my sister.

The lady called out, “Puttu is ready!”

The ever-hungry children came running.

“What do we pair him with?”

“Me!” I thought.

“Kadala curry!” the brat shouted.

Oh, I hated him.

And puttu disappeared with kadala curry.

My heart sank.

But hope hadn’t left me.

I would put on my best skin tone yet.

The next day, he appeared again.

Oh, how gentle he was.

Even though the lady pushed him onto the plate, he would simply roll and settle himself there. But he never said anything.

His silence was most attractive to me.

I think he was the silent, broody kind of man.

“Puttu is ready!”

The husband came.

“Today, let’s have it with chicken curry,” he said.

The girl wanted pappadam.

“Pappadam!”

Who eats puttu with pappadam?

Such a characterless girl this pappadam is!

She goes with anyone and everyone. Rice, kanji, upma...

Why not me?

I felt so dejected.

Puttu was soft. I was soft.

Why would you choose the loud, crumbling-at-every-touch pappadam over me?

I was going green with envy.

I looked at my reflection on the dabba.

Was I imagining it?

Or had my skin been dotted with a few black spots?

Most of my sisters had by now gone off to fulfil their own destinies.

Would I remain here on the kola, forever forgotten?

Would puttu ever notice me?

Then the lady walked towards us.

For a minute, I had hope.

She took away another of my sisters and put her on the plate with puttu.

He's my puttu!

Mine!

I screamed.

Two other bananas snickered at my desperation.

“Why are you so desperate?” one of them asked. “Be your own girl. Independent. You don't need a man to fulfil your destiny!”

I scoffed at her.

Easy for her to say. She hadn't seen him roll onto the plate like he belonged there.

“I'm determined to win him.”

And then came two more days of waiting.

Or was it three?

I looked at the dabba, feeling miserable.

The yellow had faded.

More and larger black spots had become a part of my skin.

Had I matured too much?

My once-grand ambition seemed like a distant dream.

I overheard someone say, “These bananas are now only suitable to be given away to the unniyappam or bonda.”

I listened in horror.

Both men were pompously self-inflated.

Life with them meant ending in hot oil and misery.

They were harder, crisp to the point of being unpleasant. Not soft like puttu.

My puttu.

But maybe I was dreaming too big.

Maybe puttu was never in my destiny.

I was tired.

Tired of waiting for a dream that would perhaps never be fulfilled.

Suddenly, the lady walked towards me.

I looked up with wide eyes as she plucked me off the kola.

My sisters gasped.

“Goodbye.”

“Maybe you were right to dream!”

“You know, when I was a child,” the lady was telling her daughter, “Ammama made this delicious pairing with puttu.”

She peeled off my skin.

Inside, I was just as smooth, soft and buttery as before.

“How?” the girl asked.

“It needs a well-ripe banana, just like this one.”

And then I saw him.

There he was.

Long, white, covered in coconut flakes and dotted with jeerakam.

I inhaled his cologne, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

I was pushed towards him.

And I smiled shyly.

“Hello there.”

His voice was deep and... kind.

“H... hello.”

“You are beautiful. I’ve been seeing you, but I didn’t know how to reach you.”

I wondered if he noticed me blushing.

“Me too,” I blurted before I could stop myself.

Oh no.

I felt myself burning with embarrassment, right down to the peel.

He laughed.

A lovely, deep-throated, happy laugh that sent butterflies through my veins.

A few coconut flakes fell off.

The lady adorned us with ghee and sugar.

I was the happiest I had ever been.

And then, in a moment of ecstasy, we embraced each other, dissolving, becoming one.

There were no boundaries anymore.

Neither of us knew which bit was puttu and which bit was banana.

The ghee, the sugar, all became one with us.

He was warm.

I was soft.

He kissed every centimetre of my being and I simply melted into him.

Soft.

Smooth.

Fragrant.

Sweet.

I had finally become one with the man of my dreams.

My destiny had brought me exactly where I had always dreamed of being.

And just like that, the woman ate us.

“Mmmm... just like in my childhood.”

Those were the last words I heard.

The End.

✍️ From My Desk

Some weeks are neatly packaged. Others spill over their edges.

The past couple of weeks have been a little like that here. There were stories that needed to be told things to think about, and a few pieces that found their way onto the page before this little collection was ready.

So here we are, gathering them together. And perhaps it is fitting that this issue’s theme is Repair.

📖 This Week’s Stories

I love bringing something different to my writing, so this collection also includes a fictional mythological tale — Kaattu Thaaya, a three-part series. I’m including the first part here.

🌾 A Line to Carry Into the Week

An apology is more than just a word. It can be a little bridge between two people that says, “I see you, and I see your hurt.”

📚 From Another Writer

Every week, I’ll share one piece I couldn’t quite stop thinking about.

This week its ’s When Correction Does Not Remove the Weight. It explores what happens when the mistake has been addressed, but we haven't yet allowed ourselves to put the burden down

FGI Sharings

When Correction Does Not Remove the Weight

A mistake is discovered…

Read more

a month ago · 13 likes · 3 comments · Ekta Bafna

.

💬 Over to You

Think of one thing in your life that feels "broken."

Now ask:

Does it need to be repaired, forgiven, released—or accepted?

You might be surprised by your answer.

☕ Until Next Week...

Thank you for spending a little time right here.

Keep a little room this week for repair

Until next Sunday ❤️,

This, Right Here.

If someone came to mind while you were reading, I’d be honoured if you shared this week’s issue with them.

Share

You know how Wednesday bumps into someone, throws back her head, and has a vision?

Someone bumped into me at the supermarket the other day. They didn't even bother to say “sorry.” They just carried on with whatever they were doing.

I didn't have a vision.

But it did set me off with a train of thought that made me think for the next two hours.

Why did I expect a sorry?

What weight did the five-letter word carry?

It wasn't even a native word!

Was it the word carrying the meaning?

In introspection, if the person had merely mumbled a sorry, I would have raised my hand halfway, maybe nodded my head in acceptance that it was okay. Or gone as far as to explicitly mumble that the apology was accepted.

Would it even register?

Both of us would have still gone our different ways, never giving the incident another thought.

Then I imagined another scenario.

The person paused, looked into my face and held an apologetic expression.

“Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't see you.”

And I would pause, smile, look into their face and say,

“Oh, it's completely fine!”

And both of us would carry that feeling forward.

A little humility and gratitude.

A feeling of forgiveness and being forgiven.

Perhaps that was what I had expected.

Not the word.

The acknowledgement

🌿 Looking Closer

I started thinking about how apology shapes us through childhood and carries into adulthood.

As a child, I don't remember being apologised to.

All I remember is my mother preparing or serving an extra snack, or my father pretending nothing had ever happened.

Perhaps that was their way of repairing things.

Perhaps that was how their generation knew to say, I still love you.

As a parent myself, the first few times I had to put aside my ego and apologise to my child, it wasn't particularly easy.

Then it became a habit.

If I was wrong, I said so.

But I stumbled upon something else.

As I became more comfortable repairing things with my child, my 10-year-old became more comfortable expressing himself too.

Sometimes, that meant pushing boundaries.

He would speak harshly or get loud.

I would tell him that it wasn't acceptable and that I wouldn't tolerate being spoken to that way. Then I would walk away.

When he was calm, I would tell him that his words had hurt me and that they weren't respectful.

He would apologise.

He would say it wouldn't happen again.

And, as expected, it did happen again.

So I reminded him.

He apologised again.

After two or three repetitions, something changed.

He actually kept his word.

It made me realise that an apology doesn't magically erase a behaviour.

It is simply the beginning of learning how to do better.

And perhaps that is what I was teaching him without realising it.

You can be wrong and still be loved.

You can hurt someone and repair it.

You can apologise without becoming smaller.

And you can hold a boundary while still making room for forgiveness.

🧑 Let's Adultify

Arguments and mistakes are a part of any relationship.

What makes a relationship strong, eventually, is what happens after the fallout.

A sincere apology can mend something and, sometimes, make the foundation a little stronger.

But a person need not always be the one who apologises.

Sometimes, we are the ones receiving the apology.

And perhaps that requires a little grace too.

To accept an apology without making the other person suffer for it a little longer.

To resist the temptation to say, “It's okay, but you always do this,” or “You should have known better.”

Sometimes, all that is needed is to look at them and say,

“Thank you. I appreciate you saying that.”

Because an apology is a vulnerable thing to offer.

The person standing in front of you has already put their ego down for a moment.

Receiving an apology gracefully can means not making them pick that ego back up and carry it away with them.

And this brings me back to that supermarket.

Maybe I didn't need a five-letter word.

Maybe I needed recognition.

I saw what happened.

I know I played a part in it.

I'm sorry.

And perhaps the other half of that exchange is just as important.

I saw that you acknowledged it.

I accept your apology.

We can move on.

No courtroom.

No scorekeeping.

No debt left hanging between us.

Just two people, briefly meeting each other in that uncomfortable little space between:

“I was wrong.”

and

“It's okay.”

Perhaps that is what makes an apology meaningful.

Not the word itself.

But the little bridge it builds between two people.

🥜 A Nugget to Chew On

An apology is not just about admitting that we were wrong. Sometimes, it is an invitation to repair.

And perhaps growing up means learning both sides of that invitation:

How to say, “I'm sorry.”

And how to say,

“Thank you. I accept.”

✨ A Small Invitation

Think of the last time someone apologised to you.

Did you let the apology land?

And think of the last time you owed someone one.

Did you say it?

Not perfectly or eloquently.

Just sincerely.

Maybe there is a little bridge waiting to be built

.

This is the third and final part of a three-part serial.

Read Part 1 and Part 2 here

The Silence

You can hear your heart drumming in your ears.

But just like that...

The song stops.

Abruptly.

No voice.

No song.

No laughter.

Nothing.

The five of you make a dash for it.

Panting.

No one dares to stop.

No one dares to look back.

How long, you don’t know.

You are out of breath and your legs can’t carry you forward anymore.

Gradually...

the forest begins to sound normal again.

A cricket chirps.

Leaves rustle somewhere high above.

Amy slows first.

“I...”

She struggles to catch her breath.

“What is happening?”

No one answers.

Then...

through the trees...

you see it.

The jeep.

Half buried in the mud.

Exactly where you left it.

Relief crashes through the group.

Robin laughs.

It comes out sounding more like a sob.

A silent hope rises in your chest.

The Jeep

Nothing is said. Everyone just rushes towards it.

Akhil climbs into the driver’s seat.

He turns the key.

The engine coughs.

Once.

Twice.

Then starts.

Everyone exhales.

Almost daring to rejoice.

“Push!” he shouts.

Robin and you throw your shoulders against the side.

Amy and Rakhi push from behind.

The rear wheels spin wildly.

Hrrrrrrrhhh!!

Mud sprays across your clothes.

The jeep rocks.

Moves.

For one glorious second...

it feels as though it’s coming free.

Then...

SCHLUPP!

The rear tyre sinks deeper.

“Again!”

The five of you push until your legs tremble and hands ache.

Again.

Nothing.

Again.

Nothing.

You are grunting. Sweating. Praying.

Robin stuffs broken branches beneath the wheel.

Akhil reverses.

Accelerates.

The engine roars.

The tyres spin.

The jeep sinks even deeper.

Finally...

the engine dies.

Nobody speaks.

Everyone simply stands there.

Covered in mud.

Breathing hard.

Defeated.

The Song Returns

Then...

the song begins again.

Closer.

Much closer.

You freeze.

Listen.

“Run!”

Akhil grabs your wrist and yanks you with him.

The five of you stumble into the darkness once more.

The voice follows.

Sometimes ahead.

Sometimes behind.

Sometimes...

right beside your ear.

The Call

Branches whip across your face.

Creepers coil around your ankles.

You tear yourself free.

Tears stream down your face and you blink to see where you are running.

Then...

you hear it.

“...”

Amy’s voice.

You look towards her.

She is running in front of you.

She is crying, trying to escape whatever is singing.

Your stomach twists.

Again.

“...”

Robin’s voice.

Except...

Robin is beside you.

Breathing so hard he can barely stay on his feet.

Again.

“...”

This time, you almost give up. It’s your mother’s voice.

“Akhil!”

Your voice breaks.

“It’s calling me!”

His grip tightens painfully around your wrist.

“Don’t answer!”

The Fallen Tree

The trees rush past.

Your lungs burn.

Your throat so dry, you can’t scream.

Then—

CRACK!

The ground shakes.

Something enormous crashes ahead.

A giant tree blocks the path.

Fresh leaves still tremble.

Everyone’s frozen.

Behind you...

the song grows louder.

“We’ll go around!” Rakhi cries.

There is no way around.

Thick bamboo walls rise on either side.

The forest has closed.

The song never stops.

Sometimes laughter joins it.

Sometimes silence.

Sometimes...

your own name.

You think about climbing over the fallen tree trunk. It’s too big.

“Come on... Stand over my shoulder!”

Akhil bends down.

Robin immediately offers Amy to climb over him to help her over.

But somehow the trunk seems to get bigger.

It looks like you are not even upto its middle.

In desperation, you claw at the trunk, trying to pull yourself over.

Hours seem to pass.

Or perhaps only minutes.

No one knows.

The Breath

Your legs give way.

You fall to your knees.

Your chest burns.

Every breath hurts.

Robin tries pulling you up.

“There must be some way!”, Amy is hysterical.

Rakhi is also weeping.

You breathe heavily. As if your tears have run dry.

You have nothing left.

Then...

Cold breath brushes the back of your neck.

Not wind.

Breath.

Slow.

Patient.

Waiting.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

The voice whispers.

“...”

So close...

it feels as though lips are almost touching your ear.

Tears run down your face.

You don’t answer

The Turn

Everything goes quiet.

The song.

The forest.

Even your friends.

Only your own heartbeat remains.

Then...

one last whisper

“...”

You don’t know how long you’ve been running.

You don’t know if it’s still night.

You don’t know whether you’ll ever leave this forest.

You are tired.

So impossibly tired.

You cannot run anymore.

You cannot think anymore.

Somewhere far away...

you remember the old woman.

“If the forest calls...”

“Don’t turn back.”

You try.

You really do.

But hope has already left you.

Slowly...

your shoulders begin to turn.

Your head follows.

You open your eyes.

Nothing.

No creature.

No shadow.

No glowing eyes.

Only the forest.

Silent.

Still.

Your chest rises and falls.

One deep breath.

Then another.

The whispering has stopped.

For the first time...

you think perhaps it is over.

“.”

You turn.

The old woman stands a few steps away.

The same faded sari.

The same slightly bent back.

The same quiet eyes.

“...Kaattu Thaaya?” your voice is a hoarse whisper.

She nods.

There is no smile on her face.

Only sadness.

“I told you...”

Her voice is soft.

“...not to turn back.”

You lower your eyes.

She opens her hand.

The little red stone rests in her palm.

She places it gently into yours.

Her fingers close around your hand.

“I told you...”

She pauses.

“...I was walking with you.”

Somewhere...

far away...

an engine starts

Epilogue

You open your eyes to the sound of an engine turning over.

Laughter.

Amy, Rakhi and Robin are joking about something.

Akhil starts the jeep.

“Wait...”

Relief floods through you.

“Was I dreaming?”

Suddenly Amy goes quiet.

“Are we forgetting something?”

“You’re always forgetting something,” Rakhi laughs.

Robin glances at his watch.

“Come on.”

“It’s already 4:30.”

“We have to reach the checkpost before sunset.”

Akhil doesn’t say anything.

He shifts into gear.

The jeep begins to roll away.

Without you.

“Wait!”

You scream.

No one hears you.

Your voice disappears into the trees.

You run after the jeep.

No one sees you.

No one turns.

The jeep disappears around the bend.

You stop.

Breathing hard.

Slowly...

you open your hand.

The little red stone still rests in your palm.

Warm.

Familiar.

You close your fingers around it.

Behind you...

soft footsteps.

You don’t turn.

You already know who it is.

You look at your watch.

7:45 p.m.

Far away...

the song begins again.

And this time...

you recognize one of the voices.

The forest wasn’t silent.

It was… waiting.

The End

This is the second part of a three-part serial.

Read Part 1 here

The Fire

All five of you stand at the edge of the clearing.

The song has fallen silent.

For a long moment, nobody speaks.

The warm yellow glow spilling from the hut feels almost unreal after the darkness of the forest.

Hope rises quietly in your chest.

“Amma! Arengilum undo?” Akhil calls.

“Hello?” Rakhi adds.

No one answers.

Akhil steps across the threshold.

One by one, the rest of you follow.

A fire crackles softly in one corner.

Flames lick the sides of a soot-blackened pot resting on the stone hearth.

Something inside bubbles gently.

The smell reaches you.

Warm.

Familiar.

Comforting.

It reminds you of evenings at home after the rain.

Without thinking, you slip your backpack from your shoulder.

“Akka...? Amma...?” you call, using one of the few Tamil words you know.

Silence.

Only the crackle of firewood answers.

A little broth bubbles over with a soft hiss.

The Woman

Amy wanders around the hut.

It is almost bare.

A rolled mat.

A few brass vessels.

The stone hearth.

Nothing more.

Robin crouches beside the fire.

Click.

He photographs the hearth.

Checks the screen.

Frowns.

Still holding the camera, he absent-mindedly turns it over in his hands.

Curious, you and Amy move closer to the pot.

Warmth slowly returns to your fingers.

Your shoulders relax.

You lean over it, trying to guess what is cooking.

A voice speaks quietly behind you.

“Vanthittaya?”

Both of you jump.

You spin around.

An old woman sits quietly in the farthest corner of the hut.

No one remembers seeing her there.

Click!

Robin’s camera flashes.

“S-Sorry!” Robin blurts out. “I got scared.”

“Where did you come from?” Rakhi blurts out.

Akhil nudges her sharply with his elbow.

The woman says nothing.

She rises slowly.

Her back is slightly bent.

She walks to the fire.

Without looking at any of you, she stirs the bubbling broth.

She feeds a few more pieces of firewood into the fire.

The firelight dances wildly across the walls.

Yet her face seems untouched by the dancing light.

She could have been thirty.

She could have been three hundred.

No one could have said for certain.

Only later do you realize Amy has stopped crying.

The woman places five earthen bowls on the floor.

She fills each one with steaming broth.

Without being invited, all five of you sit.

Only then do you realize how fiercely hunger has been gnawing at your stomach.

You lift the bowl to your lips.

You’ve never tasted anything like it.

Yet it feels strangely familiar.

All five of you finish your bowls almost without speaking.

Someone asks for another.

Then another.

She serves each of you with the same quiet smile.

Third bowls.

Fourth.

Or was it the fifth?

Only much later do you realize the pot never seemed to empty.

“It tastes like...” Amy begins.

She stops.

Confused.

Robin stares into his bowl.

“It reminds me of my mother.”

Rakhi smiles faintly.

“It reminds me of home.”

You close your eyes.

For one fleeting moment...

you are home.

“Aunty...” Rakhi laughs softly.

“You have to teach me this recipe.”

Amy shoots her a look.

“I don’t think she understands English.”

“I understand everything.”

Her Tamil is clear.

Her voice is soft.

Unhurried.

Akhil freezes.

The bowl remains halfway to his lips.

Slowly...

he lowers it.

The Stone

The woman’s eyes drift towards your pocket.

She becomes very still.

The faint smile leaves her face.

She holds out her hand.

“Andha kallu.”

Your heart skips.

Without knowing why, you reach into your pocket and place the little red stone in her palm.

Robin draws in a surprised breath.

“The stone you picked up at Echo Point!”

She turns it over once.

Then closes her fingers around it.

She speaks quietly in Tamil.

Akhil listens.

The colour drains from his face.

“What did she say?” Robin asks.

Akhil doesn’t answer.

The woman continues speaking.

Longer this time.

His eyes remain fixed on the floor.

“What did she say?” Rakhi repeats.

Akhil swallows.

“She said...”

His voice barely rises above a whisper.

“...the forest has chosen its...”

He stops.

The woman looks at him.

Then says a single word.

“Aranyacharan.”

The hut falls silent.

“What does that mean?” Robin asks.

Akhil doesn’t reply.

The woman speaks again.

“The song?” you ask.

Akhil nods slowly.

“She says...”

He hesitates.

“...it isn’t calling.”

Another pause.

“It’s a warning.”

The old woman turns towards you.

For the first time...

she looks directly into your eyes.

She speaks softly.

“Kaadu unnai koopiduven...”

Akhil’s breathing quickens.

She continues.

“Thirumbi paarkkaadhe.”

“What did she say?” Amy whispers.

Akhil finally answers.

“If the forest calls...”

He swallows.

“...don’t turn back.”

The woman’s gaze never leaves you.

For the briefest moment, her eyes catch the firelight. They seem to glow an impossible shade of green.

And she quietly says your name.

“”

Leaving

Nobody moves.

Then, together, all five of you rise.

Your heart is pounding.

The warmth that had comforted you moments ago now feels strangely heavy.

Everyone grabs their bags.

A sudden panic grips the room.

Robin speaks urgently. “We’re leaving.”

No one argues.

No one wants to stay inside a hut with a woman who somehow knows the name of someone she has never met.

Rakhi folds her hands.

“Thank you.”

The old woman finally speaks again.

“Pokathe.”

Akhil looks at her.

She repeats herself.

Even more quietly.

“Ippo pokakoodathe.”

“She says...”

Akhil’s voice shakes.

“...don’t leave.

Not now.”

The five of you exchange uneasy glances.

How could she know your name?

What was an Aranyacharan?

Why had she begged you not to leave?

The silence becomes unbearable.

Robin reaches for the door.

The five of you step outside.

Everyone stops.

No one says a word.

The warmth of the sun feels absurd after the cold of the forest.

Birds call from somewhere beyond the trees.

Amy lets out a nervous laugh.

“See? We just scared ourselves.”

Relief washes over everyone.

You walk forward.

One step.

Two.

Three.

Robin stops.

“...Guys.”

The birds are gone.

The sunlight is gone.

The cold returns all at once.

You look at your watch.

7:35 p.m.

Slowly...

all five of you turn around.

The hut is gone.

No fire.

No clearing.

Only trees.

Their trunks stand shoulder to shoulder.

As though nothing had ever been there.

Robin frantically flips through his camera.

“G-Guys...”

Robin’s voice cracks.

“Look.”

The photograph shows the hearth.

The bubbling pot.

The bowls.

The wall behind them.

But the corner where the old woman had been sitting...

is empty.

No one breathes.

As you stare at one another, the colour draining from every face...

somewhere...

far away...

the song begins again.

To be continued…

Deep in the Western Ghats, there is a forest called Silent Valley.

But anyone who has visited it knows the name is deceiving.

Birds call from the canopy.

Cicadas buzz without pause.

Crickets fill the spaces in between.

The forest is home to creatures both ferocious and meek.

But sometimes...

The forest falls silent.

The crickets don't chirp.

The cicadas don't sing.

The owls don't hoot.

The forest isn't silent.

It is waiting.

The Road In

"Yes, darling," Rakhi says into her phone. "We're staying at a homestay tonight and coming back tomorrow morning."

She pauses, then laughs.

"What's so interesting about a forest?" she repeats.

She puts the call on speaker.

"Tell him."

You grin.

"What's not interesting about a forest?"

Amy joins in immediately. "Exactly! This is the whole reason I planned the trip."

Aadi, her fiancé, chuckles over the phone.

Robin doesn't even look up. He's busy wiping the lens of his camera.

"If I don't photograph at least one elephant, this entire journey is a failure."

"You'll be lucky if you see a squirrel," Rakhi teases.

Robin pretends to be offended.

"I'll settle for a tiger."

"From very, very far away," Amy replies.

Everyone laughs.

Rakhi kisses her fiancé goodbye and tucks the phone into her pocket.

"He's just jealous he couldn't make it," she laughs.

"Ah... missing him already?" Amy nudges her. "Three more months and he'll be the one asking where you've disappeared to."

You laugh as Rakhi grabs Amy in a playful headlock.

When you glance at Akhil, his eyes are fixed on the checkpost ahead.

The jeep rolls to a stop.

A forest officer walks over.

"Five persons?"

Akhil nods and hands over the permit.

The officer counts each of you before taking the fee.

He stamps the receipt.

Then, instead of waving the jeep through, he leans slightly towards the driver's window.

The Warning

"Sunset-ku munnādi thirumbi vandhidunga."

He pauses.

"Even the locals don't enter the forest after sunset."

His eyes travel across each of your faces...

...before stopping on yours.

He purses his lips.

For a moment, you wonder whether to look away.

Then, as if thinking better of whatever was on his mind, he straightens up.

He gives the bonnet a light slap and signals to the operator.

The barrier lifts.

Akhil drives forward.

As the jeep rolls away from the checkpost, you glance into the rear-view mirror.

The guard is still standing there.

One hand rests on his cap.

His eyes remain fixed on your jeep.

Echo Point

The drive to Echo Point is spent laughing at silly jokes and stopping every now and then for Robin to photograph just about everything.

Every so often, he excitedly asks Akhil to stop the jeep, convinced he has spotted some rare animal, only to discover it was a tree stump... or a shadow.

In just two and a half hours, Akhil parks the jeep at the base of a slope. You all get out and walk towards the barricaded cliff.

Echo Point is beautiful.

Almost untouched.

Beautiful enough to make you forget the litter.

Tourists are everywhere.

Talking.

Laughing.

Clicking photos.

"So..." Amy stands with her hands on her hips, grinning. "How do you like my itinerary?"

"Like the cherry on the cake," Rakhi says, breathing in the cool mountain air. "This is the perfect way to end our trip."

Robin doesn't answer.

He's already flipping through the photographs on his camera.

"Come here," he calls.

The five of you gather around the tiny screen.

A large squirrel with a deep maroon body, creamy patches and a long bushy tail stares back at you from a tree branch.

"Wow... what kind of squirrel is that?"

"The Malabar giant squirrel."

Robin smiles with quiet satisfaction.

You settle into a shady patch overlooking the valley.

For a while, no one says much.

A little later, the first jeep leaves.

Then another.

A couple who had been taking photographs of each other ride away on an Enfield.

Slowly, the laughter that had drifted across the valley begins to fade.

Before long, only your group and a family that had arrived in a Traveller remain.

A few minutes later...

They leave too.

You glance at your watch.

4:00 p.m

.The Wrong Turn

Amy stretches.

"We've still got plenty of time."

Robin checks the remaining battery in his camera.

Rakhi shakes her head.

"Let's not get too late."

She gets up and takes Amy's outstretched hand.

Akhil tosses you the keys.

The five of you start walking back towards the jeep.

Something red catches your eye.

You stoop to pick it up just as Robin bumps into you.

"Oh! Sorry, bro." He doesn't even look up. He's still scrolling through the photographs on his camera.

You turn the little red stone over in your palm as you walk.

Without thinking, you slip it into your pocket.

A breeze brushes past your face.

It lifts your hair for a moment.

You glance at Amy and Rakhi.

They continue walking arm in arm.

Not a strand of their hair moves.

"Coming?" Amy calls.

You blink.

"Yeah."

Everyone climbs into the jeep, except Robin.

He sees something and clicks his camera.

A deer stands between the trees.

It doesn't run.

It simply watches.

Only when Robin lowers the camera does it slip quietly into the undergrowth.

You settle into the driver's seat, push the clutch and turn the key.

The engine kicks to life.

"Akhil... what's wrong?"

You glance at him for only a second before looking back at the road.

"Nothing."

Robin finally looks up.

"Yeah... you've been quiet all day."

Akhil shrugs.

"I didn't sleep well last night. Had some really bad dreams."

"I told you not to sit up chatting with that hotel bellboy, he was creepy!" Rakhi says.

"He was just telling me about some local legends."

"Legends?" you ask.

Akhil is silent for a moment.

His eyes remain on the road ahead.

"He mentioned... Kaattu Thaaya."

Amy leans forward. "I don't remember reading about that while planning the trip."

"He said..." Akhil hesitates.

"...legend has it she's almost as old as the ground she walks on."

Nobody says anything for a moment.

You keep looking for the next signboard.

It doesn't come.

The road forks.

Amy leans back.

"I still don't remember reading anything about Kaattu Thaaye."

Without taking your eyes off the road, you think you recognise a tree...

...and turn left.

For a while, the road seems familiar.

Then gradually...

It doesn't.

The clouds gather overhead.

A light drizzle begins.

Within minutes, the rain is pouring.

The gravel gives way to wet earth.

The tyre tracks ahead disappear beneath the rain.

The trees seem to crowd closer on either side.

The smell of wet earth hangs heavy in the air.

Normally, you would have loved it.

Today, it turns your stomach.

You tighten your grip on the steering wheel.

Finally, you slow the jeep.

"Guys..."

Your voice feels strangely small.

"I think we're lost."

Everyone falls silent.

"Turn back," someone says.

Amy unlocks her phone.

"No network."

One after another, everyone checks.

Nothing.

The rain keeps falling.

The path grows narrower.

The trees edge closer.

BAM!

The steering wheel jerks violently in your hands.

You slam on the brakes.

The jeep skids before sinking heavily to one side.

You look at your watch.

7:22 p.m.

Nobody remembers driving for four hours.

The rain stops.

Robin climbs out.

A few moments later he shines his torch underneath the jeep.

"The tyre's blown."

He pauses.

"And we've sunk into the mud."

Rakhi draws in a sharp breath.

"What do we do?"

Nobody answers.

You swallow the lump rising in your throat.

Amy has started crying.

The cold suddenly feels sharper.

Akhil reaches for his phone.

The screen goes black.

"My battery just died."

Robin raises his camera.

The autofocus hunts.

He wipes the lens.

Raises it again.

Then slowly lowers it.

"It won't focus."

He looks back towards the trees.

"Everything just looks..."

He hesitates.

"...foggy."

The Voice

Something feels... wrong.

At first you can't tell what it is.

Then you realize.

The crickets have stopped.

No chirping.

No buzzing.

Not even a leaf moves.

The silence presses against your ears.

Then...

You hear it.

A voice.

So faint that, for a moment, you think you imagined it.

You look at the others.

They're listening too.

Without realizing it, you lean towards the voice.

No one speaks.

Akhil takes the first step.

No one asks why.

You follow.

The others fall in behind.

The song drifts through the trees.

It never seems any nearer.

Yet somehow...

it never grows farther away.

Branches brush against your shoulders.

Roots catch at your feet.

The canopy thickens until the last evening light disappears.

The forest seems to close behind you.

You glance at your watch.

7:24 p.m.

Despite the cold, sweat trickles down your forehead.

Rakhi catches her foot on a thick root.

You grab her before she falls.

"Look..."

Robin's voice is barely above a whisper.

He points through the trees.

A warm yellow glow flickers in the distance.

Everyone's pace quickens.

The trees begin to thin.

A small clearing opens before you.

In the middle of it stands a shabby thatched hut.

A warm yellow light spills through the gaps in the thatched walls.

For the first time since getting lost...

you allow yourself to hope.

To be continued...

A month into the new academic year, the 10-year-old came back with his school bag wide open, as if it were in a silent scream.

As I saw him enter the house, I wondered if he had lost half its contents.

"Mamma, it broke!" he declared.

That night, on seeing the broken zipper, his father made another declaration.

"I need to make you bags from iron!"

Since an iron bag is, thankfully, not possible, and because the bag was still practically new, I decided to seek out a craftsman who is becoming very much extinct nowadays—the cheruppukuthi—the mochi. Also known as the Indian cobbler.

Once upon a time, they were readily seen as part of the Indian scenery. They sat in tiny spaces at street corners, surrounded by bags, shoes, belts, and purses, with an anvil held tightly between their feet, which met face to face in what modern yoga calls the butterfly pose. The Indian cobbler had perfected this yogasana long before it found its way into yoga studios.

Now they are a rare species. Changing fashions and the convenience of buying new accessories have made us replace rather than repair.

But, as I said, the bag was practically new. So I picked up that bag and another that had a small tear but was otherwise perfectly usable. For good measure, I added two pairs of footwear. I might as well make the trip worthwhile, I thought.

I went to the old market. The place still had its old peedikas (shops). Decades ago, it had been a thriving marketplace. As a child, my father used to bring handmade kaithola paayas (woven grass mats) here to sell. Now the whole place had changed.

Outside stood supermarkets and beautiful new buildings. Inside, the old market was made up of the last of the limestone-and-clay-brick buildings — weather-beaten, battered amd crumbling.

I found my cheruppukuthi tucked away among piles of old bags and shoes in a quiet corner, sitting in the cobbler's pose with an anvil between his feet, bent over his work.

I was on my two-wheeler. I parked it in front of his workspace. The road was hardly wide enough for two two-wheelers to pass each other.

He didn't lift his head.

I watched him deftly insert a needle, lock in a thread, and pull it through the slipper he was repairing.

Then he looked up.

"Hmm?"

He peered at me over the top of his glasses. He must have been in his sixties. His face looked tired, and his expression leaned more towards a scowl than a smile.

"Chetta, can this zipper be replaced?" I asked, showing him the bag.

"Yes. You can take it now itself. Move your scooter. Autos have to pass through."

He said it all in one breath.

I took out the other bag and the footwear. I began rattling off what needed to be done.

At this, he got annoyed.

"So many! I thought it was only this bag!"

Aren't many repairs good for business? I wondered.

"Take this bag."

He quickly replaced the zipper.

I took it and pushed the other items towards him again.

"I don't have time," he replied gruffly.

Then he picked up the footwear.

"I'll give this on Monday."

I tried to get him to look at the other bag again.

He flatly refused.

"Look at all these."

He gestured around him.

His tiny workspace was brimming with old footwear and bags.

"People bring them to be repaired. They never come back," he barked.

I paid for the repaired bag and left my footwear with him. He told me to come back the following Monday.

I went home and had a laugh recounting my encounter with the cobbler to my mother-in-law.

"I won't blame him," I said. "Imagine spending your time mending things, only to wait... and no one comes back for them."

Monday came.

But my six-year-old fell sick.

My mind went back to the cobbler.

Would he look at my footwear and think, "Sneaky woman. I knew she wouldn't come back"?

The next day, I had to go out for a few things. So I went to the cheruppukuthi.

"Which were your footwear?"

We rummaged through the pile and found them.

He hadn't touched them.

"I'll do them for you now. Wait five minutes."

His voice was a little different.

The gruffness was gone.

I stood there for a while, then slowly wandered into the dilapidated peedika next door, drawn by a few things that caught my eye.

A completely unnecessary pink mop, wallpaper for a sudden DIY whim, and a velvet doormat later, I was back.

A three-year-old was screaming at the top of his lungs while his father scolded him.

I found the cobbler chuckling.

The father asked, "Do you want a beating?"

"Yes!" the child replied.

The cobbler was roaring with laughter as he repeated the exchange to me, his eyes twinkling.

I laughed with him.

My heels were looking as good as new.

He picked up my other pair—a pair of wedges. One side had come apart. He stitched it back together, and then, for good measure, he stitched up it’s twin too.

"Seventy rupees," he said.

I paid and left.

The skies were gathering dark clouds like a woman collecting ripe mangoes in the thala of her saree—the loose end draped over her shoulder.

Then, as though the thala had slipped from her hands and all the mangoes had tumbled to the ground, the clouds burst open.

I smiled to myself.

The other day, the cheruppukuthi must have been having a bad day.

I didn't judge him.

And perhaps...

I was right.

✍️ From My Desk

Kerala has its own calendar. According to it, Karkidakam is the last month of the year. Traditionally, this was a difficult season. For a state that relied heavily on farming, food and money often ran short before the next harvest. It was also a time of heavy rains and illness.

Maybe that is why our ancestors encouraged simpler living during this month—eating food like medicine, reading the Ramayanam, gathering for prayer and looking inward

As I reflected on Karkidakam this year, I thought maybe this was the time to reflect more on Grace.

.📖 This Week’s Stories

🌾 A Line to Carry Into the Week

Grace is not a promise that life will be free from suffering. It is the assurance that we will not walk through it alone.

📚 From Another Writer

Every week, I’ll share one piece I couldn’t quite stop thinking about.

This week, its I sleep-trained my firstborn by . In this very personal essay, Dr. Amy opens up about guilt, changing our minds, and extending grace to ourselves when we realize we didn't know then what we know now.

The (WHOLE) CHILD

I sleep-trained my firstborn.

I was a new mum, breastfeeding, taking every night shift alone. I was exhausted in a way I hadn’t known was possible. I couldn’t access the foods my body was craving to recover. Every evening I dreaded bedtime; not because I didn’t love my son, but because the cycle felt endless. Rock him, feed him, lay him down, creep downstairs to cook, and before the…

Read more

a month ago · 14 likes · 9 comments · Dr. Amy See, PhD

💬 Over to You

Where have you noticed grace this week?

It doesn't have to be extraordinary. Sometimes it is a helping hand, a patient word, an unexpected kindness, or simply someone who stayed with you.

☕ Until Next Week...

Thank you for spending a little time right here.

Keep a little room this week for grace.

Until next Sunday ❤️,

This, Right Here.

If someone came to mind while you were reading, I’d be honoured if you shared this week’s issue with them.

Share

.

We were on our way back from our baby’s choru kodukkal—the beginning of his weaning journey. His first morsel of solid food, blessed by Lord Guruvayurappan at the Guruvayur temple.

Things hadn’t gone quite as we had imagined. You can read about my anticipation here, and what actually unfolded here.

There was one more stop before heading home—a housewarming function of a neighbour. Coincidentally, their new house was near Guruvayur, so it made sense to go straight there. We arrived a little late, but the hosts were genuinely happy that we had come.

After the usual greetings, we made our way to the pandal where lunch was being served.

It. Was. Hot.

I asked my husband to eat first while I sat with the boys. Afterwards, we would switch, and he would hold the baby while I ate. The boys happily wandered off to get ice cream from a teenage boy serving cones in one corner.

By the time my husband took over the baby and I sat down to eat, he was already drenched in sweat.

He didn’t realize the baby was too.

When we finished our meal, we walked over for ice cream. Since we were among the last guests, only a little remained.

A couple, slightly older than us, were already waiting.

The moment they saw my boys, they warmly told the boy serving,

“Give the children first.”

I smiled and told them it was alright. The boys had already enjoyed one cone.

They insisted.

“They’re children,” they said.

From the way they spoke to the young man, I realized he was their son. They were relatives of our neighbours.

There was something instantly warm about them.

The kind of people who somehow feel familiar even when you’ve just met.

A moment later, I saw them walk towards my husband.

They smiled at the baby, gently lifted him from my husband’s arms, and carried him into the shade of a nearby tree.

“Ayyo... he’s sweating so much.”

The lady unbuttoned his tiny shirt.

Her husband found a piece of cardboard and began fanning him.

Only then did we realize just how soaked he was.

We stood there talking.

About the weather.

About children.

About life.

At one point, they laughingly mentioned that God had blessed them with only one son. They said it with humour, but I could hear a quiet tenderness behind those words.

They cared for our baby as though he were their own.

When it was time to leave, they waved us goodbye as we climbed into our car.

As we drove home, I turned to my husband.

“They were so kind.”

He nodded.

“I didn’t even notice how much he was sweating until they pointed it out,” he said. “I was sweating just as much myself.”

The children slowly drifted off to sleep in the back seat.

Outside, the trees drifted past the window.

And I kept thinking about those people.

We never asked their names.

They never asked ours.

No one blamed two tired parents for not noticing a sweaty baby.

They simply stepped in.

For a few minutes, they carried a little of our world. No grand gestures. Just kindness.

This week, I’ve been thinking a lot about grace.

Perhaps it isn’t always something dramatic.

Grace sometimes arrives in the form of an old man offering water to a tired six-year-old.

Or a couple giving children their turn for ice cream.

Or hands that instinctively reach for a hot, sweaty baby.

Some things arrive at exactly the right time, in exactly the right place.

We may never know the names of the people through whom grace reaches us.

But somehow... We remember them.

.

It's Karkidakam in Kerala, the last month of the Malayalam calendar. A month of living simply, eating food like medicine, and drawing closer to God.

In many homes, lamps are being lit in the evening, and the Adhyatma Ramayanam is being read once again.

Growing up, I knew it simply as tha Ramayana maasam (month). I knew the rituals and stories. But this year, a question has been sitting with me.

What is grace?

As a Hindu, I have always heard the word kripa—God's grace.

I have often felt that I have carried it throughout my life.

Not because I am special or because I have done anything to deserve it.

In fact, when I look back, I don't see a life where every prayer was answered or every door opened.

I have seen closed doors and missed opportunities.

I have seen disappointments and heartbreaks.

I have seen grief and personal losses.

I remember those moments when I sat with tears in my eyes and asked, "But why me?"

If grace meant that life would always go the way I hoped, I don't think I could say I have lived under God's grace.

There's a story from the Christian tradition that always comes to mind when I think about grace. A man looks back on his life and notices that during his hardest moments, there is only one set of footprints in the sand. He wonders why God abandoned him. God replies, "Those were the times I carried you."

Whenever I think about grace, I find myself returning to that image.

Years ago, a friend said something that has never left me.

"God gives a burden because that person is capable of carrying it."

I remember wondering if that could really be true. Because there were times I didn't feel capable at all.

There were burdens that felt too heavy.

And days when I didn't know how I would take the next step.

And yet... I did.

Strength seemed to arrive when it was needed.

Sometimes through the kindness of another person.

Sometimes through an unexpected opportunity.

Sometimes through an inner peace I couldn't explain.

And sometimes, simply through the courage to wake up and try again.

Maybe that is what grace is.

When I look back now, I realize God didn't always give me what I asked for. At the time, I thought those unanswered prayers were disappointments. But in hindsight, I can see they were part of a bigger picture—one that was better than anything I had imagined for myself.

For example, I used to think life would have been very different if my father hadn't chosen to leave his job and move to our village while I was still in school. The whole course of my life would have changed. The family I have today—the people I love most—might never have existed. Looking at my life now, I wouldn't want to change a thing.

So I feel grace is not a promise that life will be free from suffering. It is the assurance that we will not walk through it alone.

Perhaps kripa is not seen in a life without storms.

It is seen in the One who walks beside us through every storm and carries us when we are too tired to go on.

As I read the Ramayanam this Karkidakam, I don't see a story where everything went according to plan.

I see exile, separation, loss, waiting and anguish.

Yet through it all, dharma remained, and the Divine never left the story.

Maybe our lives are not so different.

We may not understand every closed door or every unanswered prayer.

But one day, looking back, we may discover what I am only beginning to understand now—

that grace was never the absence of hardship.

It was the unseen hand that carried us through it.

Perhaps that is why we return to the Ramayanam every Karkidakam. It doesn’t promise a life without sorrow. Instead, it reminds us that even through sorrow, we are never beyond the reach of grace.

.

The other day, I read a Note by that had restacked. It was about how children often long for connection more than structured activities or elaborate experiences.

It made me think of my ten-year-old's birthday.

The day before, we'd celebrated in the simplest way. He wanted only our immediate family and cousins. He asked for a simple cake. No decorations—just about ten balloons.

I was the one who insisted on getting him a nicer cake and a few more balloons.

He also didn't want any grand gifts or toys. Instead, he asked if he could join music classes. On his birthday, he wanted to visit the temple with me. And he wanted to buy ten little chicks.

He had been counting down the days to his birthday, and I remembered doing the same as a child.

As the day unfolded just as he had hoped—in all its simplicity, surrounded by the people closest to him—he was genuinely happy.

After everyone left, he came to me and thanked me for making his birthday so special.

Later, he went and thanked his father too.

When I later came across Dr. Amy's Note, my mind wandered in a different direction

🌿 Looking Closer

What surprised me wasn't what he wanted for his birthday.

It was what he didn't want.

He didn't ask for toys or gadgets or expensive gifts.

As I sat with that, a thought crossed my mind.

Are children today craving connection because we've become too busy?

For a moment, I wondered if that was true.

But the more I thought about it, the less certain I became.

Because when I look around, I don't see parents who don't care.

I see parents trying.

I see parents reading parenting books after their children have gone to bed. Searching Google and every other resource they can find, hoping to become better parents.

I see them worrying about screen time, emotional regulation, healthy meals, school choices, and whether they're spending enough time with their children. I see parents apologising when they lose their temper. I see them trying to break patterns they grew up with.

If anything, I think parents today are carrying more than ever before.

And then another thought came to me.

Maybe we don't give ourselves enough credit.

Maybe we're so surrounded by messages telling us what we're not doing that we've forgotten to notice what we are doing.

We remember the moments we lost our patience.

We forget the hundreds of ordinary moments we showed up.

The lunchboxes packed before school.

The bedtime stories read through tired eyes.

The endless Google searches trying to figure out whether we're doing the right thing.

The rides to music classes and football practice.

The conversations in the car.

The hugs before bed.

The apologies after difficult moments.

The intentional decisions to do things differently than we were raised.

No one says “Well done!” or appreciate us.

But they matter.

They are the everyday ways we tell our children, "You matter to me."

We spend so much time wondering if we're doing enough that we rarely stop to notice how much we're already doing.

Almost immediately, another thought followed.

Am I being unfair to the generation before us?

I don't think I am.

But I don't think they're the problem either.

My parents loved me.

They worked hard. They sacrificed. They gave me a safe home and opportunities they themselves didn't always have.

Did they get everything right?

No.

But neither will I.

They didn't know everything we know today.

They weren't reading about attachment, emotional regulation, or gentle parenting. Most of them were simply raising children with the understanding, resources, and support they had.

And I think they were gentler and more connected than the generation before them.

My parents often told me about their own childhoods. Before and after school, they were expected to work—helping on the farm, caring for livestock, and finishing whatever chores were assigned to them. They were even threatened with being denied dinner if they didn't. Food was scarce then, and the thought of a lost meal was enough to motivate them to finish their work.

Looking back, I realise they didn't parent me the way they had been parented.

They had already changed the story.

And now it's our turn.

We know more than they did.

Our children will probably know more than we do.

That's how every generation moves forward.

Perhaps, twenty years from now, our children will look back at us and say,

"They didn't know..."

And they'll probably be right.

Not because we didn't love them.

But because every generation has blind spots that only the next generation can see.

Maybe parenting was never about being the generation that finally gets everything right.

Maybe it's about doing the best we can with the light we have, while leaving a little more light for the children who come after us.

🧑 Let's Adultify

Children aren't the only ones who long for connection.

Think about the last time life felt heavy.

Did you need someone to solve your problem?

Or did you simply want someone to sit beside you, listen without judgement, and remind you that you weren't alone?

Connection isn't something we outgrow.

It's one of our deepest human needs.

Maybe that's why my son's birthday took me down this path.

It reminded me that connection is something human beings never stop needing.

Perhaps our children are asking for it.

And perhaps we are too.

🥜 A Nugget to Chew On

Every generation parents with the best light it has.

Our parents gave us what they knew.

We are giving our children what we know.

One day, our children will know things we don't.

That's not failure.

That's how humanity grows.

❓ Over to You

I'd love to hear your story.

What's one thing your parents gave you that you're deeply grateful for?

And what's one thing you're intentionally trying to give your own children that you didn't experience growing up?

I'd love to read your thoughts in the comments.

✨ A Small Invitation

This week, whenever the thought "I'm not doing enough" quietly creeps in, pause for a moment.

Instead, ask yourself:

"What did I do today that helped my child feel loved?"

Maybe it was reading one more story.

Maybe it was apologising after a difficult moment.

Maybe it was listening without rushing.

Maybe it was simply showing up.

Write down one small thing each day this week.

You may discover that you're doing far more than you've been giving yourself credit for.

So here's the grace I'm learning to hold.

Give grace to the people who raised you. They parented with the knowledge they had.

And hold grace for yourself. You're parenting with today's knowledge, today's expectations, and today's pressures.

You'll make mistakes.

You'll learn.

You'll wish you'd known more.

That doesn't mean you're failing. It means you're human. Perhaps that's what grace looks like.

Not pretending everything was perfect or lowering the standard.

But refusing to confuse imperfect with unloving. Knowing that every generation is simply doing its best with the light it has.

Maybe that's grace.

✍️ From My Desk

Belonging is seldom loud. Sometimes it’s found in the place we return to after years away. Sometimes it’s held in a friendship that endures. Sometimes it’s in the peaceful sight of the people we love, asleep before sunrise.

This week’s issue is smaller than I first imagined, but perhaps that’s fitting. Belonging need not be measured by how much we gather. It’s found in the people, places, and moments where our hearts come to rest.

📖 This Week’s Stories

Today we visited our local temple, where Subrahmanian Swamy is the presiding deity. Today our little Lawyer turns ten. We sought His blessings and returned home with prasadam and hearts full of peace and gratitude. 🤍

🌾 A Line to Carry Into the Week

Belonging isn't something we only find. It's also something we can offer

📚 From Another Writer

Every week, I’ll share one piece I couldn’t quite stop thinking about.

This week, its Dil.. dosti aur yeh darmiyan.. by . In this heartfelt essay Priyanshu explores how true friendship can survive time, distance, and changing lives, and why belonging is often found in the people who never let us go.

Priyanshu Raj

Dil.. dosti aur ye darmiyan..

A quote by Richard Bach has stayed with me for years…

Read more

2 months ago · 134 likes · 98 comments · Priyanshu Raj

💬 Over to You

If someone has quietly helped you feel that you belong, perhaps today is the perfect day to let them know.

🎁 A Little Something

This week’s keepsake is a small invitation to notice. Print it, fill it in, and let ordinary moments become a collection you’ll treasure.

☕ Until Next Week...

Thank you for spending a little time right here.

Keep a little room this week for belonging.

Until next Sunday ❤️,

This, Right Here.

If you know someone who might enjoy this peaceful corner of the internet, I'd be honoured if you shared this week's issue with them.

Share

It was like any other day. I woke up before sunrise. The room was dimly lit by the little LED night lamp.

I prayed, got off the bed, and turned around.

That’s when I realized my heart was still lying on the bed.

Three little boys.

Lined up almost perfectly in order of their size.

All sleeping on their tummies.

The eldest.

The middle one.

The baby.

I smiled.

And a single thought crossed my mind.

How blessed I am.

The moment filled me with so much happiness that I quietly reached for my phone and captured it.

There have been louder moments.

Birthdays. Festivals. First words. First steps. First days at school.

But there are few sights more peaceful than watching your children sleep.

And in that stillness, I could suddenly see ten years all at once.

This Sunday, I complete ten years of being an Amma.

A decade.

Where did those years go?

It feels like only yesterday that I wondered if I would even know how to hold a baby.

I remember joking that my own baby might cry the moment I picked him up.

“I don’t like this Amma. Give me someone else!”

Patience wasn’t exactly my greatest strength.

Truth be told, it still isn’t.

And when I imagined motherhood, I didn’t imagine very much at all. I wanted two children simply because I came from a family with two children—a boy and a girl.

That was my entire plan.

Well... Life smiled. It had other plans.

Before my first son was born, there were negative tests.

Waiting.

Disappointment after disappointment.

Then one day, finally...

Two pink lines.

Doctor appointments followed.

Then came words no expectant mother wants to hear—that I might have to let the pregnancy go.

A little later, when I was four months pregnant, I slipped down a staircase.

As I lay there, bruised and frightened, I was convinced I had lost him.

But somehow, we were both held.

Looking back now, I realise motherhood didn’t begin when someone first called me Amma.

It began the moment someone else’s heartbeat became more important than my own fears.

My first son arrived.

A few years later, his little brother arrived.

Again, a boy.

People were sympathetic.

“Not a girl?”

“Two boys!”

But all I could think was how grateful I was.

When you’ve once feared never becoming a mother, you stop worrying about whether God sends a son or a daughter.

You simply whisper,

“Thank You.”

Still...

After my second son was born, I carried a strange feeling that our family wasn’t complete.

I loved my boys with everything I had.

Yet it felt as though someone was still missing.

At the same time, I worried.

Would a third child take something away from the second?

Would my love have to divide itself?

One day I overheard my eldest praying,

“Oh God, please give my Amma one more baby.”

His little brother, sitting right beside him, prayed,

“Oh God, please don’t give my Amma another baby.”

I laughed until my stomach hurt.

Months later, they had somehow negotiated a peace treaty.

Now they prayed together.

“Oh God, please give our Amma a baby boy.”

Life answered my fears better than I ever could.

My heart didn’t divide.

It expanded.

It simply did what it had done twice before.

It made room.

Over these ten years, I thought I was raising three boys.

But now I realise they were quietly raising me too.

The Lawyer taught me integrity.

There were days I’d ask someone to say,

“Amma isn’t home.”

He would look at me with those serious eyes and ask,

“But Amma... didn’t you tell me lying is wrong?”

Children have an extraordinary gift for handing your own lessons back to you.

If this publication exists today, somewhere behind it is one little boy whose questions refused to let me settle for easy answers.

The Explorer taught me movement.

Karate.

Swimming.

Adventure.

He has a way of pulling me into life before I have time to overthink it.

He reminds me that life isn’t only meant to be understood.

It is meant to be lived.

Then came the Baby Boss.

By then, my heart had begun returning to God after a few years of doubts and searching.

After a long time, I visited Guruvayur.

That day I couldn’t get close enough to the sanctum to see the Lord.

In our tradition, we believe that even seeing the light of the lamps in the sanctum is a glimpse of Him.

So I stood far away, looking at that tiny flame, and prayed,

“Bhagavan... let me see You in the form of a baby.”

I don’t know why that was the prayer that came to me that day.

It simply was.

The next month, I found out I was pregnant.

Today, that little answer to my prayer is seven months old.

He smiles as though joy is the easiest thing in the world.

He has removed half my hair, scratches our faces, and laughs as though it’s the funniest thing imaginable.

He has captured the whole family’s heart.

And every day, he reminds me that peace can come wrapped in a tiny, laughing baby.

Ten years ago, I thought motherhood meant raising children.

Now I think motherhood has been one of the greatest ways God has raised me.

More patient.

More curious.

Braver.

More playful.

More prayerful.

Not perfect.

Just... different.

This week, our family celebrates ten years since one little boy made me an Amma.

And my mind goes back to that quiet morning before sunrise.

Three little boys.

Sleeping in order of their size.

All on their tummies.

Completely unaware that their mother was standing there looking at them with a heart so full she thought it might burst.

One day, they will be taller and stronger than me.

One day, these mornings will become memories.

But on that morning, in the darkness, they were all still my little boys.

I stood there silently thanking God.

Because somewhere over these ten years...

You didn’t just make me a mother.

You made me this Amma.

I was born in Mumbai, and until seventh grade, I never once felt out of place.

The bank quarters provided by my father's workplace were home. Hundreds of families from different religions, languages, and cultures lived there, but to me they were simply neighbours, friends, and extended family.

We celebrated Diwali, Onam, Christmas, Holi, and Gudi Padwa with equal fervour. Someone's loss was our own loss. Someone's promotion was reason for celebration.

I remember a young man in the quarters getting promoted and an entire paltan (gang) of children being treated to Cornetto ice cream.

Everyone shouted, "Raj! Raj! Cornetto!"

I had only seen the advertisement on television, so of course I jumped too. I was fascinated that ice cream could come tucked into a cone and wrapped in paper.

It was the crunchiest cone I had ever tasted. And right at the very bottom of the cold, creamy goodness sat a little block of chocolate, as if it were a reward for finishing it.

It was my very first Cornetto.

My happiest childhood memories were woven into those buildings and playgrounds—running from one home to another, playing until dusk, dancing, singing, and never once wondering whether I belonged.

Then we moved.

My father was transferred to Kerala, and overnight, everything familiar disappeared.

I went from a child who eagerly participated in every extracurricular activity and consistently topped her class to a thirteen-year-old who started consistently scoring zeroes and becoming invisible almost overnight.

We spoke Malayalam at home, but nothing had prepared me for the Malayalam of Thiruvananthapuram. The words, the rhythm, the slang—it all felt so unfamiliar that I wondered if I had landed in a different country altogether.

I stood out in a class where most of the girls had known one another since first grade. They shared memories, inside jokes, and friendships built over years.

I was simply... the new girl.

They would laugh about something, and I would eagerly ask what it was, only to be met with a shrug. I became lonely in a class of forty girls.

One day, one girl spoke to me.

"Hi, I'm Sarika. But everyone calls me Paara.

I was delighted that someone had finally spoken to me, but I had no idea what Paara meant. As soon as I reached home, I asked my mother.

"Paara is a type of fish," she replied matter-of-factly while folding a bedsheet.

I looked at her, puzzled.

"But why would they call her a fish?"

My mother laughed when she realized I was talking about a classmate.

"Oh! She doesn't mean the fish. She means she's a tattletale. She probably tells on everyone to the teachers."

"Oh!"

I had added a new word to my vocabulary—the first of many I would gather as I moved from one part of the state to another.

I was doing what many children do without even realizing it.

I listened carefully.

I tried to sound like everyone else.

The thing is, I wanted to belong.

Eventually, I did.

I made friends. I found my footing.

And just as life began to feel familiar, three years later...

We moved. Again.

This time it was Thrissur.

I joined a school near the end of the academic year. Everyone already had their circles.

Ironically, the Thiruvananthapuram slang I had worked so hard to learn now became the very thing everyone teased me about.

The moment I opened my mouth, the classroom erupted in laughter.

So I adapted again.

I learned a different rhythm of speaking.

Different expressions. Different ways of fitting in.

But something else happened too.

Slowly, I began to belong.

Thrissur was my father's hometown. My cousins lived nearby. I made new friends, and little by little, I came alive again.

I threw myself into extracurricular activities. My confidence returned. My academics improved.

I wasn't a different person—I was simply a person who finally felt at home.

Those weren't the end of my adaptations.

There were several more cities to explore, each teaching me something new about people, places, and myself.

Enough, eventually, to understand what belonging really meant.

🌿 Looking Closer

Looking back, I see a pattern that repeated through school, college, and every new place I lived: whenever I felt I belonged, I flourished. Not because I suddenly became smarter or more talented — because belonging gave me the confidence to be fully myself.

As parents, we focus so hard on grades, behaviour, confidence, resilience. But we rarely look at the soil all of it grows in.

A child who's changed schools may not be struggling because the lessons got harder.

A child who's gone quiet may not have forgotten how to make friends.

They may simply be carrying the invisible weight of starting over — answering do I fit in here, will anyone choose me, can I be myself long before they answer anything on a test paper.

🧑 Let's Adultify

The search for belonging doesn’t end with childhood.

We walk into a new workplace and spend the first few days watching — how people talk, what they joke about, how much of ourselves to show before it’s safe to show more.

We call it fitting in. But fitting in and belonging aren’t the same.

Fitting in asks us to edit ourselves for acceptance. Belonging lets us be accepted without hiding.

Many of us are still that thirteen-year-old walking into a room of strangers, wondering if we’ll find our place — which is why creating belonging matters everywhere: friendships, marriages, workplaces, communities.

A place where people don’t have to perform is a place where they can flourish.

🥜 A Nugget to Chew On

Children flourish where they belong. When they don’t, they often spend their energy trying to find their place instead of discovering their potential.

❓ Over to You

This week, ask yourself:

"Where do I belong?"

"Who in my life might flourish simply because they know they belong with me?"

✨ A Small Invitation

This week, help one person feel like they belong.

Sit beside the parent standing alone.

Invite the new child into the game.

Or simply tell your own child,

"You never have to earn your place here."

✍️ From My Desk

Often we are so focused on the future that we forget to value what we hold in our hands. But what if we pause for a moment, stay with what we have and appreciate the people, our growth, the things we take for granted. This week, I have tried to put together stories that focus on presence. Let’s practise presence in our lives and live a little more fully.

📖 This Week’s Stories

🌾 A Line to Carry Into the Week

Presence has a strange way of outliving conversation.

📚 From Another Writer

Every week, I’ll share one piece I couldn’t quite stop thinking about

This week it’s an essay by . Presence isn't always about knowing what to say. Sometimes it's remaining long enough for something true to emerge. This essay stayed with me long after I read it.

Dr Mathew Thomas PhD

The Question I Wasn’t Supposed to Ask Sometime.

Someone asked me for a dating tip recently. They had a date that night and didn’t know where to start…

Read more

2 months ago · 3 likes · 6 comments · Dr Mathew Thomas PhD

💬 Over to You

What was one moment that stayed with you this week?

Were you truly present in that moment?

🎁 A Little Something

A printable One-Minute Wonder Cards keepsake, created especially for you. Print, cut, share a moment with your loved ones.

.

☕ Until Next Week...

Thank you for spending a little time right here.

Keep a little room this week for presence.

Until next Sunday ❤️,

☕ This, Right Here.

If you know someone who might enjoy this peaceful corner of the internet, I'd be honoured if you shared this week's issue with them.

Share

I was sipping my ginger tea and furiously tapping away at an article on my phone.

At 4 a.m.

Because I had to publish it that day.

I sipped absentmindedly, hardly noticing whether the ginger stung or if the tea tasted right.

Then, almost on its own, my train of thought changed tracks.

I'd been thinking about presence all week. It was the theme of my magazine this week.

I'd thought about being present for a child.

For a parent.

For someone else.

But what about presence… as a present for myself?

I set my phone down and took another sip. The tea was a little hotter than warm, but not scalding. I lingered over the aftertaste.

There was the familiar sting of ginger. A hint of cardamom. The tea leaves were just a tad too strong. I liked my tea that way.

The tea leaves were from Munnar. My husband had brought them back from a trip the month before.

One heaped teaspoon and a little jaggery.

That’s how my cup of tea is brewed.

Everyone has their own cup of tea.

And by tea, I don't necessarily mean tea. I mean that little thing that helps us exhale.

A favourite chair at the end of the day.

A morning walk before everyone else wakes up.

The smell of old books (or new ones).

A song we've heard a hundred times.

Watching rain.

Holding a sleeping baby.

We all have something.

Something that quietly whispers, "Stay here for a while."

But how much of that comfort do we actually experience?

How often do we rush through the very things that are meant to restore us?

At the end of a long day, we sink into a soft settee. Our shoulders finally relax. We let out a long sigh. But even then...

Our minds have already wandered.

Tomorrow's meeting.

The bills.

The laundry.

The next thing.

Every time we reach a goalpost, we're quick to move it another fifty metres ahead.

Out of sight.

Just far enough that it always feels out of reach.

This week I reached 200 subscribers.

For a brief moment, I caught myself almost doing that.

I could immediately move the goalpost to 500.

Count every new subscriber.

Chase every like.

Wait for every comment.

Or...

I could stay here for a little while.

Celebrate.

Look back and see how far I'd already come. See my own growth and be proud of it. Be deeply grateful for every person who had chosen to spend a little part of their day with my words.

Presence can simply mean allowing ourselves to arrive before rushing toward what’s next. To celebrate the journey—and the destination—for just a little while longer.

To take another sip from our cup.

To savour it.

To notice the sting.

The sweetness.

The strength, too.

Life has already placed so much in our hands. And sometimes... all that's left is to notice it.

🌸 A One-Minute Presence Practice

Before you move on with your day...

Pause for just one minute.

Take a slow breath.

Notice:

That’s all.

For one minute, let nothing else matter.

Just be here.

An autorickshaw came to a stop outside the decorated building on the highway.

Marigold garlands swayed gently in the mid-morning breeze. A small crowd waited near the entrance, chatting excitedly. Today was the inauguration of Navami Fashion House's newest retail outlet.

An elderly woman stepped out first. She turned immediately and offered her hand to the man inside.

He reached for his walking stick.

Then for her hand.

Finding his footing, he slowly shuffled onto the road.

Every step was careful, deliberate and measured.

Navami:

I was busy putting the finishing touches for the inaugural function.

You know, how it is.

No matter how much you prepare, there is always something forgotten, something misplaced, or something that just doesn't look quite right.

There was barely half an hour left. Our chief guest, a young playback singer from our hometown, was on her way.

She had become quite famous recently.

Yet when I invited her, she simply smiled and said yes.

Just then an autorickshaw pulled up outside.

I looked up from the ceremonial lamp I had been adjusting.

It was my parents.

My two boys were already running towards them while Mamma helped Papa out.

“Didn’t I tell you to throw away his walking stick?” my five-year-old asked his grandmother. “Then he would have walked properly!”

Papa and mamma were laughing.

Papa hardly stepped out of the house anymore.

I directed one of my staff girls to place the lamp and hurried outside.

"Mamma... Papa... You came!"

“We came to see you, Neelu.”

His voice still had that familiar warmth.

Deep.

Kind.

The kind of voice that makes people feel everything will be alright.

I was called Neelu affectionately.

His fingers trembled as they reached for mine.

But when he squeezed my hand... It was still Papa's squeeze.

He was finding it difficult to walk and he leaned on me.

"You really didn't have to come all this way."

I had invited them, knowing the journey would be difficult.

I honestly didn't expect them to come.

Seeing them there filled my heart with happiness that knew no bounds.

Papa paused for a moment at the entrance and looked up at the signboard.

Navami Fashion House

A slow smile spread across his face.

I helped him to a chair with armrests. I wanted every little thing to be comfortable for him

Raghavan:

I wasn't always like this.

Bent over.

Dependent on a walking stick.

There was a time when I could lift heavy dumbbells with ease. This little girl would cling to my arms while I exercised, squealing with laughter every time I hoisted her upwards.

Now...

I lean on her.

Funny how life comes full circle.

She has two beautiful boys now.

Good boys.

Talkative boys.

Just like their mother.

Everyone else sees a businesswoman.

I still see my little Neelu.

She told me not to trouble myself by coming all this way.

As if I would miss this.

I wanted to see her.

To see her dream standing here with her name on it.

She helped her Mamma and me to our chairs.

Poor thing...

She kept rushing from one corner of the shop to another.

Every few minutes she'd look over.

"Are you comfortable, Papa?"

I'd smile and nod.

She had inherited her mother's habit of worrying.

Hari came over as soon as he saw us. He clasped both my hands in his.

"Papa... Mamma... I told Neelu I'd come and pick you up. She said the journey would be too much for Papa."

Such a good boy.

He has cared for us like his own parents ever since he married Neelu.

Sharada had already started chatting with his mother.

I simply sat there and watched.

The customers.

The decorations.

My grandchildren were running about. The younger one tumbled over a box. For a moment my heart stopped!

But he sprang up as if nothing happened, brushed his clothes and started shouting and running again.

They were so loud!

I smiled to myself.

My daughter was stopping every now and then to straighten a ribbon or move a flower pot.

It was a beautiful shop.

It looked exactly like something Neelu would create

Navami:

"Are you comfortable, Papa?"

He sat with both hands wrapped around his walking stick. His back was hunched and his face looked tired.

He smiled.

Then nodded.

Lately, he had become very forgetful.

"What happened to your other two shops?" he asked.

"Did you shift here?"

"No, Papa," I smiled. "Those two are still open.

This is our third shop."

He smiled with quiet satisfaction.

A few minutes later...

"What happened to your other two shops?"

I laughed softly and answered again.

And again.

By the fifth time, I could feel my patience wearing thin.

Then I'd look at him.

His gentle smile.

His searching eyes.

And I'd remind myself...

He wasn't asking on purpose.

Raghavan:

Something important seemed to be happening.

Neelu kept glancing at the clock. Her steps had become quicker.

She hardly looked my way anymore.

A car pulled up outside.

A young girl stepped out.

People hurried towards her. Cameras flashed.

Someone handed her a bouquet.

I simply sat there and watched.

My back had begun to ache.

Lying down sounded rather nice. I looked around to see if there was something more comfortable.

As my eyes searched around, I forgot about my aching back for a moment.

There were racks of clothes all around.

They were beautifully arranged.

My daughter had set up a shop. The walls were painted in her favourite colour — Lavender.

"Are you comfortable, Papa?", Hari had interrupted my thoughts and I was startled.

He was bending over. I looked into his face. What a pleasant smile he had.

"Very comfortable," I smiled.

He adjusted my chair ever so slightly and made sure my walking stick was placed properly if needed.

"Call me if you need anything."

Such a thoughtful boy.

He had been taking good care of us ever since he married Neelu.

I watched him hurry back.

Poor fellow.

He had a hundred things to do today.

Navami:

My heart began to race.

It was time.

Our guest had arrived.

I hurried towards her with a bouquet of carnations. She was wearing the satin blue halter-neck dress I had gifted her.

She looked so pretty in it.

We welcomed her inside. She cut the ribbon, said a few words and, to everyone's surprise, even sang a song for us.

How sweet of her.

Then came the lighting of the ceremonial lamp.

Hari and I invited our parents and our chief guest to join us.

Papa's hand trembled as he held the little lamp to light the ceremonial lamp.

Hari quietly reached over and steadied his hand.

The little flame flickered for a moment...

...then burned steadily.

I looked around the shop.

Everything had gone exactly as I had hoped.

I finally let out the breath I had been holding all morning.

Raghavan:

I watched Neelu and Hari moving from one guest to another.

One arranging chairs.

The other welcoming people.

Without speaking, they seemed to know exactly what the other was thinking.

I saw them exchanging glances and smile. They looked just as happy as they were 9 years ago.

I smiled.

There was a time when both of them had good, secure jobs.

Then one day they announced they wanted to start a business.

I tossed restlessly in my bed for days. Sharada had been concerned about me being so tensed.

She would tell me to trust Navami and Hari.

But I had spent my whole life working in a bank

A steady salary.

A steady life.

That was what I had wanted for my daughter.

But Neelu had always been her own person.

Even as a little girl.

Once she made up her mind, no one could persuade her otherwise.

I looked up at the board once again.

Navami Fashion House.

She had done well.

Very well.

Navami:

After the function my parents got into the auto and left. They had been very happy to come.

I was very happy too. They had given us their blessings.

My younger son had wanted to go with them. But then who would take him to school the next day?

So we waved goodbye and returned to our home after the function.

A few months later I drove to my parents' home. I opened the gates. Lucky barked.

"Lucky...!". He started whining and I laughed. He recognized me and came running to be petted.

I removed my sandals outside and enthusiastically walked to the kitchen with long strides. Mamma was cooking something.

"Ah, I was making mango pulissery because you said you will come".

Mamma's cooking was delightful. I could never make something as good as her.

"Check if the salt is fine".

Mamma always wanted me to check the salt.

As if anything she made could ever be imperfect.

I laughed and tasted it. I reassured her that it was perfect.

I turned towards the verandah, still smiling, where Papa always sat on a traditional wooden chair.

"Papa, Mamma is asking me to check the salt..."

The words faded on their own.

"... again."

The afternoon sunlight rested quietly on the wooden chair.

His folded newspaper was gone.

The little table beside it stood empty.

No glasses.

No teacup.

No walking stick leaning against the armrest.

A maroon cushion rested on it for supporting the back.

The comfort was there.

Papa wasn't.

The sunlight was fading into the horizon, and an eight-year-old girl was skipping up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. Her cheeks were flushed from playing, her hair damp with sweat, and a grin stretched across her face.

She knew Sam Uncle would be home.

It was Saturday.

And Sam Uncle always came on Saturdays.

Sam Uncle was in his twenties. Tall and lanky, with thick sideburns and a smile that stretched from ear to ear, he looked exactly like The Rock—or at least, that's what my eight-year-old self insisted.

"Sam Uncle! Do the eyebrow!"

Without fail, he'd raise The People's Eyebrow.

I'd burst into laughter every single time. Why, even the sideburns matched!

The three of us—Sam Uncle, my brother and I—would sit glued to WWE. Back then, The Rock was everybody's favourite.

At least in our little world, he was.

But wrestling wasn't why I loved Saturdays.

I was a chatterbox.

Actually, chatterbox is putting it mildly.

I only needed an audience.

School stories.

Made-up stories.

Movie stories.

Stories that began with one thing and somehow wandered somewhere completely different.

I narrated everything with dramatic voice impressions, exaggerated expressions and enough hand gestures to qualify for a one-girl stage show.

My mother would laugh.

"Give your uncle a break! His ears must be ringing."

And every single time, Sam Uncle would answer exactly the same way.

"No, no... let her talk. Who else will she tell her stories to?"

So I did.

I talked.

And he listened.

Not the half-hearted listening we all recognize.

Not the kind where someone's eyes are on you but their thoughts are somewhere else.

He laughed at the funny parts.

Looked surprised at the surprising parts.

Asked questions at exactly the right moments.

Questions that made me continue, with even more dramatic pauses and excitement.

For an eight-year-old, it felt like every story I told actually mattered.

A few years later, we moved to another city.

I was now thirteen.

Now weekends belonged to Benny Uncle—Sam Uncle's elder brother.

If Sam Uncle wore his warmth on his sleeve, Benny Uncle almost never showed it.

He spoke less.

Smiled less.

But when he smiled, his eyes crinkled first.

Sam Uncle made me laugh.

Benny Uncle made me work.

He insisted on discipline and chores quite religiously.

One day, he mentioned coconut burfi.

I immediately got excited, bouncing around wanting to make it. I loved experimenting in the kitchen.

He bought everything I needed.

Then he made me grate five enormous coconuts.

"Ghiss... ghiss... ghiss..."

The coconut scraped against the jagged teeth of the scraper, falling in soft white flakes.

One coconut.

Two.

Three.

By then my arms had decided they wanted nothing more to do with the body they were attached to.

"I thought you wanted coconut burfi", he said with a completely straight face.

Inside, I was sobbing, my back ached, my hands ached, my legs ached. The coconut scraping looked like a never ending saga.

Outside, I maintained the dignity of a teenager who refused to surrender.

Then came the stirring.

Endless stirring.

Continuous stirring.

So the mixture wouldn't burn.

The mixture had to be stirred until the ghee separated, a slow, tedious process. And then, finally, the mixture was spread onto a steel plate to cool, garnished with slivers of almonds, and cut into diamonds.

I was proud. The burfi tasted heavenly. But my arms refused to feed my mouth.

My arms went on strike for three days afterwards.

Lifting them above my shoulders became an ambitious goal.

My arms never forgave Benny Uncle for the Coconut Incident. Couldn't he have atleast given a heads up?

Apparently, I don't learn from experience.

Because another day I announced I wanted to make a chocolate banana milkshake.

Again, he bought every ingredient.

This time, thankfully, he took pity on me and helped.

Looking back now, I realise they loved in completely different ways.

Sam Uncle listened with conversations.

Benny Uncle listened with actions.

Years passed.

We moved again.

Life became busier.

Visits became fewer.

Then my father passed away.

I was six months pregnant.

After lighting the funeral pyre, I turned away carrying a grief too heavy for words.

And there they were.

My two uncles.

Standing quietly.

Hands folded.

Waiting.

I didn't say anything.

I simply fell into their arms and cried.

They had loved my jovial father deeply.

Nothing needed to be explained.

Some grief is understood without language.

Months later, after my baby was born, they travelled all the way to see us.

They live quite far away.

Yet both came with their families.

As they were leaving, Sam Uncle hugged me.

Then he gently kissed my forehead.

For a moment, time folded in on itself.

To him, I was not a mother of three.

I wasn't the grown woman grappling with the challenges of adulthood.

Somewhere, I was still that little girl with endless stories.

And then another thought arrived., like a moment of realization.

I don't remember a single story I told him.

Not one.

I don't remember the questions he asked.

Or the jokes we laughed at.

The stories have long been forgotten.

But I remember his presence.

I remember his attention.

I remember how he made me feel.

🌿 Looking Closer

We spend so much time worrying about saying the right thing to children.

Finding the perfect advice.

Teaching the right values.

Giving the right answers.

But perhaps that isn't what stays.

Perhaps what stays is the feeling of being seen and heard.

Children don't always remember our words.

But they remember our presence. Our whole-hearted, undivided attention.

Presence has a strange way of outliving conversation.

🧑 Let's Adultify

As children, we searched for someone who would listen.

As adults, we have the opportunity to become that listener.

Not because we have the perfect advice.

Not because we always know what to say.

But because sometimes, people don’t need our advice. They simply need our presence.

🥜 A Nugget to Chew On

The stories fade. The feeling of being heard remains.

❓Over to You

Who was that person for you?

The teacher who always noticed you?

A grandparent?

An aunt?

A neighbour?

Someone who gave you their complete attention without making you earn it?

Perhaps you don't remember every conversation either.

But you simply remember how they made you feel.

Tell me about them.

✍️ From My Desk

This week, I turned 39. I can’t remember the last time I was this excited about a birthday—except perhaps my 35th, when I celebrated by finally doing a tumble roll after joining karate. This year, my gift is this little magazine—a place to gather my thoughts and share them with you.

I wish for a quiet space to reflect, be myself, and wonder at “human”-ness. To find the extra in the ordinary. I hope I never get carried away by constantly moving the finish line, but instead remain grounded and keep alive a childlike sense of wonder.

📖 This Week’s Stories

🌾 A Line to Carry Into the Week

An inquisitive mind helps us hold on to a little of our childlike wonder.

📚 From Another Writer

Every week, I’ll share one piece I couldn’t quite stop thinking about.

This week, it was What’s so big about their “little asks”? by Positive Parenting with Ron. It begins with a handmade Father’s Day card and becomes a gentle reflection on how our children’s “little asks” often carry far more than we realise.

Positive Parenting

What's so big about their 'little asks'?

What costs you a moment can mean everything to them…

Read more

2 months ago · 5 likes · Positive Parenting with Ron

💬 Over to You

What ordinary moment made you stop, wonder and smile this week?

🎁 A Little Something

A printable Wonder Walk bookmark collection, created especially for you.

☕ Until Next Week...

Thank you for spending a little time right here.

Keep a little room this week for wonder.

Until next Sunday ❤️,

☕ This, Right Here.

If you know someone who might enjoy this peaceful corner of the internet, I'd be honoured if you shared this week's issue with them.

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