by Sangeetha Vallat | Jul 17, 2026 | Musings, Today's Katha
On Jun 19th, as I sat looking out the floor to ceiling glass windows, wracking my brain for the right word while typing on my laptop, I saw the crane operator climbing to his cabin. I opened a fresh word doc file and typed the following titled – A Towering Compulsion. Next I created a Substack ID and posted it. Copying it here….
A TOWERING COMPULSION
Attacked by major FOMO, I sat on my Murum beige Millberget swivel chair from IKEA, staring at the tower crane outside.
A room with a view is a great blessing but a significant distraction. Instead of staying engrossed in my laptop, I often wheeled away (for better clarity) from my writing desk, whenever I was bored of reading what I had typed.
My apartment sits on a cul de sac, featuring ceiling high windows in all the rooms which opened to a balcony overlooking a road. A stretch of parking spots flanks the road below which leads to an apartment complex with few miscellaneous shops on the ground floor. Through every pane of glass, I get to see the cars vying for the parking slot and an ongoing construction site some 300 yards from our compound.
While the workers on the roof or the other ten floors largely charm me with their bevy of activities, it is the tower crane operator who gets my undivided attention. How the lengthy arm of the tower crane swivels carrying heavy loads, to drop them off gently on the ground, or to one of the floors is absolutely entertaining. I sometimes watch mouth open, fingers curled as the long arm almost grazes the building on the other side of the road. When the chain link on the pulley sways in the strong breeze, it looks as if a man with elongated legs was performing Michael Jackson’s moon dance. Oh, a sight to behold.
For months after we moved in, although I kept watching and tracking the movements of the tower crane I never sighted the crane operator. My husband suggested I wake up at dawn to spot the operator climbing up for his morning shift. Apparently, these operators stay perched upon their small cabins until a shift ended, carrying food, water and empty bottles. (He also said that modern tower cranes come with an inbuilt toilet.)
On an afternoon, hovering by the window I let out a shriek. I ran out to the balcony, grabbing my mobile phone. The crane operator was finally going up the rungs. I watched him take multiple breaks, sometimes clutching his back, sometimes resting on the tiny platform. At times striking a conversation with a fellow worker in the scaffolding.
I noted the time. This was probably a shift change. As soon as this man reached the top, I observed another coming down. The one who went up was lanky and wearing a blue uniform. The one descending was bulky dressed in a red T shirt and blue pants. Both wore gloves to grip the rungs.
Now, every day, between 12.30 and 1 pm, I am at my desk, sometimes with black coffee, to witness the changing of the guard. Also, I have typed several narratives – short stories, flash fiction with the crane operator as my unwitting protagonist.
Which brings me back to the major FOMO that attacked me: writing a Substack. I have subscribed to almost 20 Substacks. I read a few, I scroll through some, at times I delete without opening, occasionally I post a comment. Actually, that’s how I ended up with a Substack account. I had to register, create etc to reply on someone’s essay. I never had the intention of writing posts. Isn’t there already an abundance of opinionated writers out there?
But suddenly, when I saw people whom I had subscribed to were ‘following’ me, I worried if these people expected me to publish? Should I fall into this trap, egged on by peer pressure? Alas, what would I even write about? I do not have strong opinions about the world economy, nor do I have wise advice to dole out to struggling humans….
I am a simple writer, happily ensconced in my world of crane operators. Of mothers and nannies walking their kids to school. Of delivery boys dressed in reflective gear waiting to whizz off with hot food from the restaurant nearby. Of labourers sitting on the fire hydrant sipping chai. Of young kids talking on the pavement after their school bus drops them off.
Welcome to My Room with a View.
by Sangeetha Vallat | Mar 25, 2026 | Musings, Today's Katha
This incident, which happened in 2004, is still fresh in our memories. A group honeymoon that kick-started a tradition of group holidays. The cover pic was taken in 2019 on one of our group holidays.
No Privacy? No Problem! – The Spooked Groom Memories.
It was our fourth wedding anniversary, and we’d planned a holiday to celebrate. Joining us were a couple of close friends, one who had been married just two months, and another, newly married for only a week, who jumped in at the last minute after hearing about our trip.
“I haven’t planned a honeymoon yet,” he said. “It’ll be way more fun if we all go together!”
We weren’t so sure his brand-new bride would be thrilled about spending her honeymoon in a group setting, but he just shrugged it off. “Better to introduce her to our tight-knit friendship right away,” he grinned.
You see, we’d been friends since our school days, since 11th grade, to be exact. The kind of bond that’s rare and lasting, one that survives college, careers, marriages, and still thrives.
We finally decided on Coorg (or Madikeri) as the destination for what we jokingly called our “group honeymoon.”
We arrived on a misty afternoon and checked into a charming old building managed by KTDC. The place had a weathered charm, and the man at the reception barely looked up as he waved a young attendant in a white uniform to carry our bags.
Our rooms were on the first floor, two adjacent ones for us and the other couple, and a “honeymoon suite” at the end of the corridor for the newlyweds. We agreed to freshen up and regroup in the suite.
The suite was spacious and quickly became our go-to hangout spot for evening drinks after a day of sightseeing. As bedtime approached, the rest of us began to leave for our rooms when the newly married friend suddenly said, “Why don’t we all just sleep here tonight? There’s plenty of space.”
We looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “Dude, this is your honeymoon. You really want all of us crashing here? Are you serious?”
He scratched his ear awkwardly. “Machan, just look at this room! The ceiling’s so high, and there’s a deep valley right outside the window. It feels like a horror movie setting. It’s spooky, da!”
We couldn’t stop laughing. We left him in the care of his amused bride and headed to our rooms.
Luckily, she fit into the group effortlessly. That trip kicked off a tradition we still follow, group holidays that now include more friends, their spouses, and even their children. Our circle’s grown, but the essence of our bond has stayed the same—deep, irreplaceable, and built to last.
PS. The new bride confided later that someone at the wedding had quietly warned her to be cautious of me. I guess I stood out, laughing loudly, joking around, mingling freely with the boys, who happened to be my dearest friends. To some, that was ‘unladylike.’ Honestly, it stung a bit, knowing I was judged for simply being myself. But what touched me deeply was that she, along with the partners of my friends and my husband Sujith, chose to see beyond the noise. They saw me, and embraced our friendship and who I truly am.
by Sangeetha Vallat | Feb 3, 2026 | Fiction Bites, Short Stories
Most of the stories I write are lived-in experiences. The Lunchbox is based on a memory from my childhood. Many tiny nuggets surface in my brain, now and then. Some are written, several recede into hiding.
THE LUNCHBOX
That night, Malavika was unable to sleep.
After a night of crumpling her sheets, tossing, and turning, she stared at the clock when daylight peeked into the room. The minutes seemed to crawl as she counted each passing second. On hearing her amma’s voice, she kept her eyes tightly shut, pretending to be asleep, waiting for the familiar footsteps of her parents to come and cuddle and kiss her.
However, this was not an everyday occurrence.
On school mornings, Amma would open the curtains, letting the harsh light rouse Malavika from her slumber. “Malu, it’s time. Get up. Brush your teeth,” she would say, her voice stern. Achan would be in the other room, quietly reading the newspaper.
On weekends, though, it was different. Not amma but achan awoke her in his unique way, calling her name in nine different variations. But the one that made Malu smile most was “Malu, my jeevankutty.” He would run his stubby fingers through her curly ringlets and wait for her to open her eyes. Then, gently drawing back the curtains to shield her from the blinding sunlight, he would scoop her up in his arms. Malu, still half-asleep, would wrap her tiny hands around his neck. Afterwards, he would place toothpaste on her toothbrush and watch her brush sleepily. Those were the mornings Malu loved the most.
But today was different. It wasn’t an ordinary day.
Today, Malu was turning seven, and for her birthday, amma and achan followed a ritual. A grand celebratory way of waking her up together, no matter whether it was a school day or a weekend. Filled with excitement, Malu woke up a little earlier than usual today, but kept her eyes closed, waiting for the familiar song. When they sang a cheerful, if slightly off-key, “Happy Birthday, dear Malu,” she fluttered her eyes open and enveloped her arms around their necks. They carried her to the living room, where the birthday presents awaited her arrival. Malu jumped up and down as she saw her new dress, a red with white polka dot frock with matching pumps and hairband.
Every year, Malu made a list of things she hoped to get for her birthday. She shared it with amma, who would discuss the list with achan. He would sit with a diary, counting the currency notes, while amma rummaged through the rice-and-dal tin in the kitchen to pull out the folded bills. Malu observed as achan unfolded the money and placed it inside the diary. He lifted her onto his lap and tickled her until her giggles filled the room.
This year, however, Malu surprised her parents with a simple request. Instead of a long list of gifts, she asked for just one thing: a new lunchbox, just like the one her friend Amudha carried to school. Amudha’s lunchbox was a tall, vertical steel container with a thin steel handle, unlike the round or square ones used by most children. Malu’s eyes sparkled, becoming round as the poori’s amma made when she described it to her parents. The words tumbled from her lips, often toppling on one another, making little sense.
Amma raised an eyebrow. “Villagers use those to carry porridge, or we can fill oil or buttermilk. Do you want that?”
Achan said, “If my molukutty wants it, then she shall have it.”
“Oh, don’t you pamper her more! She will not be comfortable eating from it.”
“No, amma, I will use a spoon.”
“So, you will eat dosa with a spoon?”
Malu folded her arms across her chest, sticking out her lower lip in a determined pout. She nodded firmly.
“No point in talking to you both. Do whatever.”
So, the weekend before her birthday, Malu walked with her parents down the street flanked by shops selling steel utensils. Amidst the shining steel pots and containers, Malu’s eyes caught sight of the cylindrical container swaying gently from a hook. The rotund, bald storekeeper dawdled closer, noticing Malu’s animation. He grabbed a long stick with a hook at the tip and carefully lowered the hanging container. He dusted it off and smiled. “This is a perfect vessel for oil or buttermilk. Top-quality steel,” he said with a grin.
“Exactly. This is for oil, silly girl. How can you take lunch in something like this?”
Achan glared at amma. “Don’t call her silly.”
“If you lose this lunchbox, I will never buy you another one,” Amma warned.
“My molukutty never loses anything.”
Malu’s eyes met her father’s, and they shared a silent understanding. The deal was sealed. The storekeeper wiped his pate with the dustcloth, pulled a pencil behind his ear, and offered achan a notepad.
“Write the name you want on the container,” he said.
With the whir of a machine, Malu’s name appeared letter by letter, her ownership emblazoned. The storekeeper chuckled, added a small flower after her name, and chucked her chin.
Now, Malu sat mesmerised in her polka frock, gazing as her achan filled a box with eclairs and Amma packed fried rice into the new lunchbox.
As they rode their TVS 50 to school, Malu hugged achan tightly as they lagged behind a walking man. She rejoiced at the adoration of her teachers and friends as she handed out chocolates. At lunchtime, she proudly displayed her new lunchbox, but Amudha’s face stiffened, her lips drawn thin, and her eyes furrowed as she scrutinised Malu’s lunch.
Precisely one month later, Malu arrived at school with her old round lunchbox, cloaked in a dispirited sense of loss. It wasn’t clear whether she had misplaced her precious lunchbox or if amma had taken it to her mother’s house with some payasam, and Granny never returned it. But now, Malu would have to wait another 11 months before she could ask for the same lunchbox again. Or, by then, she would have other pressing needs and newer wishes. Perhaps a year older and wiser, she wouldn’t set her heart upon frivolous belongings.
Pic Courtesy: Cengiz Ozarpart
by Sangeetha Vallat | Sep 17, 2025 | Musings, Today's Katha
A few weeks ago, I chatted with 2 of my cousins whose young children had just started their school life. Memories unspooled of my own school beginnings, and I typed this immediately. Yesterday, a cousin from the UK shared details about the education system and the curriculum, which were quite illuminating. His daughter has graduated from Kindergarten and is now in primary school. Another write-up on that is sure to follow this.
Tiny Shoes, Big Steps: School Beginnings and Brave Goodbyes
It’s back-to-school season, and for many little ones, it’s the very first step into the world beyond their homes. Across the country, tiny shoes are being polished, new uniforms worn with pride, and water bottles and snack boxes packed with love. For many fledglings, it’s their first brush with the outside world. The start of school life is both tender and transformative, leaving behind the familiarity of home and stepping into a room full of strangers, while slowly discovering a new rhythm of the day.
Think about it. For these young children, everything is new. The faces of classmates, the teacher, the school attendant, and even the bus driver. They are asked to do big things: make friends, manage without their parents, follow routines, share toys and indulgence from elders. So many new tasks. So many emotions. So many adventures, just beginning.
Two of my nieces joined kindergarten this year. One of them in Kochi, Kerala, has her older sister studying in the same school. The other is a single child living in Bangalore, Karnataka. Both begin a significant chapter, both stepping into school life with vastly different reactions.
Teju, the Kochi Kutty, had her first day meticulously documented. She posed gleefully for photos, legs tilted, index finger resting on her chin, her lengthy tresses folded into two tidy pigtails. Dressed in a red checkered pinafore, she waved goodbye, then hesitantly stepped into her classroom, eyes constantly darting back to her mother, who stood behind the group of parents, anxious yet hopeful.
Chikku, the Bangalore Baby, on the other hand, didn’t pause for pictures. Clad in a bright CSK-yellow T-shirt and blue pants, her sparse hair tied up into spirited tufts, she confidently let go of her mother’s hand, clasped the attendant’s, and bounced up the school steps, eyes sparkling and grin wide. One quick wave and off she went.
Teju’s school journey started with a few hiccups, leaving her favourite umbrella behind on Day 1 and coming home in someone else’s (smaller!) shoes on Day 2. Each morning still comes with reluctance and negotiation.
Chikku, who already knew most rhymes and stories before starting school, is utterly fascinated by her new environment. She’s enthralled by the sights and sounds of her classroom. Chikku insists on going to school even on Sundays and bursts into tears when it’s time to leave school.
Then there’s another little story from a school run by a friend of mine. She noticed one of her new students crying in class and gently took him outside to the garden, hoping to calm him. She pointed at the teensy-weensy fruits scattered under the trees and suggested they collect them for the birds. “The birds will eat them and say thank you,” she said.
Little Luttu Singh, his long hair tied back in a single ponytail, looked at her, hands on his hips, and replied with piercing logic, “Birds don’t know how to talk. If they can’t speak, how will they say thank you?” Without missing a beat, he added, “You have two phones. Call my mom now and tell her to come pick me up.” In his mind, the school didn’t stand a chance; he was clearly smarter than everyone there!
Hearing these stories stirred up memories of my own first days at school, tales my mother has lovingly repeated so often that I can play them like a movie in my head and vividly picture my younger self. I was a pampered only child and a terribly fussy eater. My poor amma would spend over an hour coaxing me to finish a single idli or biscuit with milk. She would dress me in my pristine white uniform shirt and skirt and braid my hair. She then walked me to school. But the moment the school bell rang, like clockwork, I would promptly project that solitary idly or biscuit back onto my uniform. Amma, always prepared, would rush in, scoop me up to the washroom, clean me up, change my clothes, powder me, tuck a fresh biscuit in my palm, and send me back in. Meanwhile, the ever-gracious attendant would mop up the mess.
This wasn’t a one-time drama. I repeated this routine not for one day, not ten, but for an entire month. Every single year, until I grew comfortable with my new teacher and classmates. In fact, this pattern continued until I reached Class 3!
These moments, however messy or tearful, are such precious markers of growing up. Each child handles school beginnings in their own beautiful way, some with tears, some with twinkling eyes, some with logic sharp enough to question bird conversations!
So, here’s to new beginnings. To the juniors taking their first brave steps into school life. To the parents, sending them off with kisses and silent prayers. And to the teachers, caretakers, and staff who welcome these young souls with warmth and open arms.
Wishing everyone, students, parents, and educators, a joyful and fulfilling school year ahead!
Picture Courtesy: Unsplash- Note Thanum.
by Sangeetha Vallat | Aug 28, 2025 | Musings, Today's Katha
On August 17, 2025, our Vallat family lost a valuable member. Like the first time I began writing after letting my Achan go, writing this piece for FB is my way of dealing with grief. We had been praying continuously to all the Gods possible since July 21, the day she was hospitalised. She suffered a lot – prodded, pricked, and intubated, giving us hope one moment, only to engulf us in uncertainty the next. God denied us a miracle; he will have his reasons….
An Irreplaceable Loss.
The first time I spoke to her was at a relative’s engagement function. My cousin handed over his mobile and said, ‘She’s the one my mom has chosen for me.’ As I said hello, she replied, Sangeetha chechi, how are you? How is Suju Chetan? I was surprised at her familiarity, and from that moment on, she became a part of us, the Vallats. Our connection was extra special as her birthday and my wedding day were the same, Jun 23.
The first time I met her was at her engagement function when I officially started addressing her as Edathiamma. Three years younger, but by marrying my older cousin, she was now on par with my mother. She took her role seriously and mothered all of us, cared for all of us, old, young, aunts, uncles, children, cousins, dogs, crows, squirrels, et Al. Her home was where we could go anytime and she would welcome us with her warmth and sunny disposition. And her coffee, the best… She would make every person their own specific coffee to taste. Even if we were a group of 10 people, every person would receive individual attention. I reprimanded her and suggested she make a cauldron of coffee and serve everyone. Nope. She loved to pamper us. Each of us felt special under her nurture.
She gave the Vallats, our first set of twins, a boy and a girl. She was the best daughter-in-law any family would desire. She made my cousin, who brought her to our family, more endearing. I can never mention my cousin’s name without also mentioning his wife’s; they were inseparable.
She attended my book launch, although she was weak and sitting for an hour enervated her. But she wanted to be there, for me, for my success. Before I travelled back to Dubai on Apr 18, I met her at her home. After some time, she gently asked, ‘I am feeling tired, can I go and lie down for a bit?’ She offered to make coffee even then. When I left, she was lying on the bed, and I requested her to rest and get well soon.
I didn’t know that exactly 4 months later, on Aug 18, I would land in Chennai to see her lying on a freezer box. I didn’t know that the last time I met her was the last time I would ever speak to her. I have her voice message on my mobile, which I hold on to dearly. Her wedding day wish on Jun 23, 2025, when I wished her happy birthday, will never be deleted. Her love, her smile, her voice, her care, her coffee …..nothing will ever be forgotten by all those who have ever met her once.
I will miss you, dear edathiamma. For all the kindness and love you showered on us over the last 23 years since you married into our family, this unexpected, untimely exit from our lives and the grief you have immersed us all in… wait, until I meet you again… you have to answer my question….what was the hurry?
