by Sangeetha Vallat | Jul 20, 2025 | Musings, Today's Katha
This was a blog post I wrote in August 2019. Teacher’s Day was around the corner, and I was feeling nostalgic about the calling I had misread. Dedicated to all the outstanding educators.
TO TEACH OR NOT TO TEACH.
I, too, had a dream, an ambition during my growing-up years. To be a Teacher ….an English teacher. We all love our English teacher more than the other subject teachers, don’t we?! Although some of us might be strong in numbers or the world of experiments or analyzing our past, most of us would be decent enough in the languages (or so we thought, having hardly studied for it during the exams), especially the Language given to us by the British.
My favourite game in my growing-up years was the “teacher game”. In a make-believe sari and a stick in hand, I zealously recited rhymes and stories to my collection of dolls and my dad. Yes, Achan sat in line with my dolls with a pencil and a notebook. I had colourful chalk pieces to write on the wooden doors of my Air Force quarters. I dusted off the chalk marks after playtime, and I never sullied the walls. My Achan was the best student in my class. He put up with all of my idiosyncrasies throughout, always. I would beat him, give him spelling tests, and assign homework.
An English teacher is someone who is well-dressed and speaks politely, and never punishes (mainly); all in all, they are loved by every student. This has been my understanding since my school days. I recently read about an English Teacher in a Government school near Chennai who was so loved by his students that they, along with their parents, refused to let him go on transfer; social media was abuzz with it. As I aspired to be an impactful teacher, I decided to pursue my degree in English literature (the railway job was in my future, but still, one could dream), another impetus being the introduction to good literature. I enjoyed reading the books in the prescribed syllabus…Shakespeare, Dante, Bernard Shaw, Milton, Hemingway, and their ilk. Poetry was not my strong point; I fell in love with the Drama paper. Shakespeare’s “Comedy of Errors”, Arthur Miller’s “The Death of a Salesman”, Oscar Wilde’s “The Importance of Being Earnest”, Tennessee Williams’ “The Glass Menagerie”, so many movies have been inspired by these, and when I recognise the sequence in a film that mirrors these books I whistle joyfully!
Never had the good fortune of studying under an inspiring special teacher, but the ambition stayed on. I remember being mesmerised by my English Professor during my degree correspondence classes. (Pity that I couldn’t join a regular college as I was waiting for my railway posting orders). What diction and a baritone voice. He made even the dry subjects enjoyable. I was proud because he always picked me out from the crowd to read passages aloud to the class. I remember having difficulty pronouncing “ecclesiastical,” and he smiled (I melted!) and gently corrected me. I can understand why students fall in love with their professors, especially the English teachers who sweep you off your feet, mouthing Shakespeare and Wilde!! Hah…I digress.
With great fortitude, I took on the task of tutoring the neighborhood kids alongside a Kendriya Vidyalaya mathematics teacher (he was the Teacher, and I was his assistant). This teacher wanted an assistant to handle English and Social Sciences. I liked these subjects and accepted his offer. I put my heart and soul into imparting knowledge to young minds. After a month, my employer asked me to teach Sanskrit to the students.
I was aghast and told him, “But I never studied Sanskrit in school.”
“You know Hindi? Sanskrit is similar. Add a couple of dots to the script. You can do it, browse through their books, it’s easy, I have been taking classes like that only.”
I reluctantly took on the extra role, poring through textbooks trying to learn Sanskrit and then teach the students. Our education system was atrocious; teachers managed any subject and any grade.
I was punctual in the tuition, prepared notes, and was gentle with the students. They never took me seriously and played pranks on me, and the primary teacher also started taking tuition elsewhere, leaving these students under my capable tutelage. He would come much later, give them sums, summarise experiments, and rush to another home tuition centre. I was distressed to see the mark sheets at the end of my third month of teaching. Almost all of my students failed to secure ‘pass’ marks. I had even managed to get a LKG kid to fail in her examinations. Was that even possible? Can they detain a young child? This was a motherless girl, Kayalvizhi, thin and dark but highly spirited. She sat on my lap during the tuition class.
Her dad oiled her hair, tied it into pigtails, powdered her face, and drew a black star on her forehead. Soon, he was to bring her a new mom, and I prayed that she wouldn’t come between the father-daughter love.
There was another adolescent Pandi, whose father worked in my Achan’s department. Pandi was the naughtiest and the lousiest in studies. But he was my favourite. He failed in all subjects. Before I joined, he had passed in at least a few subjects. Invariably, everyone failed in Sanskrit.
I told my employer that what he was doing was wrong. Either he should be present in this centre for the whole duration of classes, or hire a better assistant who knows how to handle the students. I resigned, and he left the students unattended. I watched the children playing in the park during classes.
Not ready to accept my failure (yet), I joined as a teacher in a nearby school. My Amma said that perhaps I would do better in a classroom or school situation. She reasoned that these tuition kids were beyond repair and not my fault (A mother’s logic). Actually, in those days, it was true that only children who needed extra assistance attended tuition, unlike nowadays, when even the brightest attend tuition. It’s become a matter of pride. My neighbour, who worked at a nearby school, took pity on me, as I was bored waiting for my posting letter from the Railways. I was instructed to come prepared with a “Rhyme” for kindergarten, as the principal wanted to test my teaching skills. Racking my brains, I selected a simple rhyme that would be easy to enact. Armed with dancing moves (Tu cheez badi hai mast was the top of the chart in those days!) and jumping tricks, I addressed my class of tiny tots, who were measuring me with eyes wide with bewilderment. I felt trapped like a zoo animal. They waited to see rabbits fly out of my bag.
As the cue for action came from the principal, I was on, guns blazing. Hickory Dickory Dock (I was doing the Akshay Kumar hand movements), and then mayhem ensued. I was perplexed at the cries and shrieks of “miss he is pushing me “, “miss she’s biting her”, “miss I want my mommy”.
Complete pandemonium, and I was sweating and swearing. With kids pulling my dress and climbing onto me, I looked at the principal with a silent cry for help, who concluded that tiny tots were a burden on me (I still am incapable of handling kids). Not wanting to discourage me, she decided to give me a chance with the older kids.
I was the class teacher for grade 2 students, who were better behaved. They showered me with so much love. I revelled in their adulation. I was famous and impactful within a day. The principal called me over and mildly chastised me for using “yeah” instead of “yes,” as the whole school was chanting “yeah” fervently (this was in 1995, when casual slang wasn’t acceptable in a formal setting). I grinned and answered “yeah” and left the room.
The third day dawned fresh, and I reached the school in a yellow organza sari. Young girls often admire and compliment their teachers on their clothes. I had started wearing saris to school because the principal said otherwise, I looked like a school kid myself. These saris were borrowed from my Amma and a cousin. School was a breeze till noon. My energy waned by the time the sun was overhead, with continuous classes and homework corrections, with not a free period. I was tasked with an additional responsibility to handle the grade 6 brats as their teacher had an emergency. The kids were so tall, I felt like a Lilliputian! My zeal and enthusiasm ebbed, exhaustion kicked in, and I was unable to cope with the Herculean task of standing on my feet, hollering at the kids. I, a frail woman (many eons ago), fainted in class, mid-sentence, and was sent home in a cycle rickshaw. What a bathetic conclusion!
I sent my resignation through the neighbour and was pleasantly surprised when the principal requested that I come as a part-time teacher at least, such was my impact! Realisation struck that I was not cut out for TEACHING and it was not my calling. And not wanting to risk the future generations, I called it Quits!! I should have realised this when I narrowly missed being born on Teacher’s Day!
Salute to the teachers who continue to inspire and mould young minds!!!
P.S. The unrequited dream still affects me, and I don the teacher’s robe at times with my spouse. He calls me “question paper”!!
Photo – Unsplash Haseeb Modi
by Sangeetha Vallat | Jul 15, 2025 | Fiction Bites, Short Stories
My Achan and I liked black tea. He often asked me to make ‘Kattan Chaya’. When a chance discussion with neighbours about customs and traditions sparked an idea, I combined our love for Suliamani Chaya and brewed this short fiction. This was written in July 2022 for the Tell Me Your Story (TMYS) project, titled ‘Food and Drinks- Cultural Identity and Ideology II.’
SULAIMANI CHAI
I trudged down the stairs with palms spreadeagled under my football belly. The chanting of AUM from the stereo pervaded the room. On the swaying wooden swing sat my Appa rolling the beads of the tasbih (Islamic prayer beads).
‘Do you still listen to this every day, Appa?’ I eased into the high-backed chair and rested my swollen feet on the footstool.
‘Old habits die hard, kannamma. Along with your Umma’s coffee, this too percolated into my system. I will get you coffee.’ Appa ambled to the kitchen, not before thrusting a cushion for my back.
My Umma smiled, perched on the wall behind the haze of incense. We took this picture on vacation in Ooty. Umma made matching outfits for us. She looked adorable in any attire. I was a pale shadow of her. A recurring joke amongst my friends was that the hospital must have swapped me as an infant.
Umma hailed from an affluent Iyengar family of lawyers and was widely criticized for eloping with the son of an Imam. Fortunately, the families were non-believers in honour killing, and Appa and Umma became the poster couple for religious harmony. Well, I addressed Umma in the Malayalee-Muslim way and Appa in the Tamil-Brahmin manner.
‘Nothing like a fresh decoction coffee.’ Appa’s eyes crinkled as he cautiously handed over the steaming cup.
‘Ah, the aroma! Where’s yours?’
‘Ramzan roza (fasting), Kannamma.’
‘Tch, I forgot. Suraj has sent a box of dates for you.’
‘Alhamdulillah.’
‘Nowadays, I am turning into a tea person. Suraj prefers tea. He loves sulaimani (spiced black tea).’The colourful bangles on my hands from the valakaapu (baby shower) ceremony tinkled like the wind chime back home. Hah, wasn’t this also my home? I missed Suraj. Already. While there, I missed my Appa. If only one could have everyone around.
‘Hmmm. My choice changed into Umma’s beverage, so the cycle continues.’
The caffeine smell conjured a memory, and a smile tugged at my lips. When I was in grade six, Umma was unwell, and I wished to surprise my Appa by making coffee, unaware that he always had tea first in the morning. So, mixing a smidgen of filter-coffee powder into a cup of lukewarm milk, I offered it to Appa. He beamed at me, unmindful of the flotsam, gulped it, and declared it the best coffee ever.
‘You are glowing in the valakaapu pictures. Masha-Allah! The black sari you draped while coming home contrasts perfectly, too! The traditional gifting of a black sari to a pregnant daughter in her fifth month to ward off the evil eyes makes absolute sense.’
‘But Umma never wore black. She said it reflected and darkened her face. If only evil eyes could have been….’
‘Kannamma, only happy thoughts now. OK, idlis for breakfast. For lunch, I will try your granny’s special Iyengar puliyodharai (tangy tamarind rice).’
‘Wow. That would be a miracle, Appa, for someone who loves biryani to make puliyodharai. But when you are fasting….’
‘Hah, I can’t starve you NOW. Remember, once you wanted to observe Ramzan fasting and fainted. You and your Umma cannot handle hunger.’
I gazed at his creased forehead with the darkened centre as he pored over a tattered booklet, handwritten recipes of my nine-yard sari-clad granny.
I left Appa to stew and called Suraj’s mobile, but couldn’t connect. According to his uber-traditional dad’s dictum, Suraj was sent out on an errand when I departed for my Appa’s house. It’s considered bad luck if the husband sees his pregnant wife leaving for her delivery. I shook my head as images of the seemantham (baby shower) function came alive. They tied the choicest of sweets and savouries onto my belly with my sari end and dispatched me to our bedroom like a new bride. His aunt ordered us to polish off the snacks before morning. I made Suraj eat as much as he could, and in the morning, he complained of indigestion, poor darling. Yes, silly customs, but Suraj loves his family and their traditions, so I gave in. A way to showcase my gratitude to his family for accepting me, a product of mixed religions.
While relishing idlis and onion chutney, I asked Appa if I would have valakkappu and seemantham for all my successive deliveries.
‘Are you planning for a cricket team?’ Appa winked and continued, ‘Valakkappu can be done if one wishes, but seemantham, as the name suggests, is done only during the first pregnancy.’
‘Hmm… Suraj’s family follows so many customs! His Amma asked me if I had celebrated my puberty function, and how I blushed! Reading my face accurately, she explained it. Traditionally, the mother is not supposed to see the daughter for the first time when she gets her first period, and on the third day, a special sweet puttu (steamed rice cake) is given to the girl. On the fourth day, five women, other than the mother, pour turmeric water along with neem leaves through a sieve over the girl’s head. If I have a daughter, she will go through this rigmarole!’
‘Your Umma didn’t want to advertise your menarche. I love customs and rituals. However, unfortunately, nowadays, reeking of modernism, people often abhor such traditions. So slowly, these customs will disappear unless elders insist and impart.’
‘Oh, but that neighbour auntie forced me to gulp cups of gingelly oil and some gunk made of urad dhal. Argh! How I hated her.’
‘Kamala maami was a kind soul. Those food items are believed to strengthen a woman’s childbearing muscles. It’s like strike when the iron is hot, right when a girl is….’
‘Appppaaa, your love for idioms, proverbs, whatever is annoying. Grr!’
‘You are your mother’s daughter. She used to shut her ears!’
‘Suraj calls me Daddy’s girl. He says, although I look nothing like you, I have some of your mannerisms.’
A click escaped my lips as I noticed a fleeting grimace on Appa’s face before he said, ‘Kannamma, you watch TV. It’s time for Dhuhr namaz.’
Appa rarely called me by my name. It was always Kannamma. He loved Bharathiar’s poetry. Appa read both in Tamil and Malayalam. Sadly, I never picked up Malayalam from Appa, as my parents conversed in the common language, Tamil.
Once in anger, when a neighbour mocked my parents’ religious disparity, I shoved a Ganesha statue from the table. Appa replaced the broken statue before Umma noticed. He sat me down and explained how, as parents, they didn’t want to force their religious beliefs on me. To let me choose my path. Non-vegetarian food didn’t gel with me, so I grew up vegetarian. I enjoyed wearing ethnic clothes and visiting the temple with Umma. Although I watched Appa performing namaz every day, I never asked him to teach me. And in college, Suraj, a typical brahmin lad, proposed, and I accepted.
A bowl of pomegranate materialized next to me.
‘Appa, sit here with me.’
‘OK, but later, I will ace your granny’s puliyodharai. I know you crave it.’
‘We can cook together. You, the MasterChef, and I, the sous-chef. Deal!’
With the TV on, I dozed, and Appa was on the phone with my mother-in-law when I woke. She treated me like her own, perhaps pitying a motherless girl. I watched my stocky, stooping Appa talking obsequiously.
Umma’s accident had completely transformed Appa. He discarded exercise and eating right. Age was catching up as well.
As parents, Umma was a disciplinarian, while Appa sanctioned all my whims. Appa stopped smoking after the accident as if he had to live Umma’s deprived quota too. Although he never scolded me, he gently assured that I reigned in my rebelliousness.
‘Let’s start cooking. Before the little one begins kicking and demanding food.’ Appa tenderly tousled my hair.
‘What did Amma say?’
‘She will send me a list of what to feed you after delivery. It seems a new mother should avoid red and green chillies. Instead, food is to be prepared using pepper and cumin seeds. And to feed you loads of snake-gourd and broad beans.’
‘Hmmm. Have you found someone to bathe the baby?’
‘Yes, Kannamma.’
‘I will make sulaimani chai while you reread the recipe.’
‘Subhan Allah!’
This has been our family thing. Always. A light black tea, a stick of cinnamon, and a spoonful of sugar served with a sprig of mint leaves in a glass mug, just like Appa’s Umma had practised. I loved to watch my parents unwind every night with a sulaimani, discussing their work, my future, and me. Suraj and I implemented this now—our special time.
“You drink milk with saffron, not black tea!”
“APPA…”
A whirlpool of Deja vu slapped me while Appa and I worked like the two needles of a clock. I mutely added coriander, sesame, and methi seeds while Appa dry-roasted them.
We had been cooking aviyal (mixed vegetable stew). Appa chopped the veggies while I ground the coconut and green chillies, and then churned the sour curd with a fork when we received the news of Umma’s road accident. Appa left me with Kamala Aunty and returned after two days, haggard and dazed, with the lines on his face never dissolving.
The image of Umma waving from her bike on her way to work was tattooed forever in my mind. It was her birthday. And last day.
Appa and Umma were labeled the lovebirds of our colony.
Our neighbours regaled stories of how Umma folded Appa’s banana leaf inwards at a Hindu wedding after lunch to indicate satisfaction and a wish to return for happier events, unlike when it was folded outwards at unfortunate events. And once, at a Muslim ceremony, Umma was aghast at seeing people sitting around a large plate and sharing food. Appa explained the significance of communal camaraderie and served her a bowl of curd rice.
They were each other’s constant, Guiding and Complementing. Time never healed Appa. But these days, he was excited and certain of having a granddaughter.
‘Hello, where are you lost in thoughts? This is your granny’s powder with the secret ingredient that takes the puliyodharai to the next level.’
I sprinkled the powder and gently mixed the rice.
‘You are handling it like it’s a rare specimen. I wish you had pursued science. Suddenly, you hated science. Weird.’
Securing the utensil with a lid, I let it rest, and followed Appa to the living room as he switched on the TV for the noon news. How could I tell him that the results descried during a science project in Genetics during college impelled me to hate science?
A confrontation would create insecurities.
After losing Umma, in its aftershock, paranoia gripped me. Fear of losing my other parent. Many nights I watched if Appa’s chest rose and fell. If he stayed late at work, I was scarred with images of Appa lying in a pool of blood on the road.
Suraj saved me from sliding into neurosis and wrecking my life. Destiny paired us at a cookery competition. In replicating a street food, however clichéd it might sound, sparks flew, the universe collided, and we won the event and each other with our dhabeli (a Gujarati snack). The butter-slathered buns filled with peanuts and sev (fried gram flour) sealed our hearts together. His patient love and positive vibes helped me overcome my anxieties.
This pregnancy had me thinking about the choices my parents made. But why didn’t they expose me to the truth? Giving life to an abandoned child was a noble deed. My questions will remain unasked and unanswered.
I watched Appa’s wrinkled face as he rested his head on his hand, the thumb under his chin, and the gnarled index finger across his cheek to his temple. My love spurted through my eyes. Ah, wretched hormones! Then, padding across, I linked my hands around his neck and kissed his bald pate.
My Appa.
Like the golden colour seeping from the tea leaves into the sulaimani, Appa is one ingredient integral to my life.
&*&
Photo By – Unsplash Zeki Okur
by Sangeetha Vallat | Jul 15, 2025 | Fiction Bites, Short Stories
Sarojamma was a maid in Bangalore, and this is her story. Ever since I began writing, a few stories of strong women have slipped into my fiction as characters. The mother-in-law in this story is based on my own. I added a few fictional ingredients and cooked up this short fiction. This was an entry written in September 2022 for Tell Me Your Story – TMYS, Story Project 10, a niche publisher focusing on Women’s History among various other topics, and was published in an anthology titled DEVI.
A MOTHER LIKE NO OTHER.
Sarojamma was the hot topic of discussion in our apartment complex, ‘Swagat’, since the news of the marriage broke out. During the morning walks on the rubberized tracks that snaked around the massive 15 towers, spread in the shape of the alphabet S, whispers about Sarojamma rent the air.
Red-haired aunties in salwar-kameez and Adidas sneakers swung their dumpy arms in tandem, discussing the latest gossip – the wedding. Porky uncles in shorts and T-shirts with UCLA and NYU flashing in bold letters huddled in the corner of the tennis court, gesticulating and muttering about where the world was headed. Nubile girls in posh tights displaying Victoria’s Secrets and theirs, jiggled and trotted ahead of the aunties, sipping kale juice as music blared from their ears. The ball missed the basket and bounded higher as the acne-ridden boys collectively exhaled, their eyes not on the ball bouncing on the ground.
The wives served hot puris and dished out information on the upcoming nuptials for which they were collecting gift money. The bewildered husbands bobbed their wool-gathering heads.
If you were wondering who the…, well, let us not resort to crass language as we are all educated society people. So, who was this Sarojamma, and why was she on the radar in ‘Swagat’, the multi-storeyed residential towers in JK Nagar in the Garden City of Bengaluru?
Sarojamma was our 62-year-old maid, working in many houses in ‘Swagat’, and most of the residents called her ‘amma’ or ‘ajji’. I stayed in the B tower on the 9th floor, and Sarojamma managed to keep our utensils and floor spotless.
To set the context right, I need to narrate the story from the time before I heard about the wedding.
Sarojamma huffed and puffed as she reached the gated community. She wiped her face, taking care not to smudge the red circle of vermilion right in the middle of the lined forehead. Then, she proffered the identity card to the watchman, who blinked his eyes rapidly and said, “I can’t believe that you are arriving late to work!”
The reticent Sarojamma flashed her perfunctory smile, revealing her betel-stained teeth. She waited while the watchman performed the customary entry of her details in the register. Finally, she trudged up the walkway, entered the elevator, and reached her workplace.
The livid lady of the house answered the doorbell. “This is the third time you have been late in the past six months! At least buy a mobile phone, so I can call you to find out your whereabouts.” Raji peered through her glasses, lashing at Sarojamma, who swiftly moved to the kitchen and worked at the sink that brimmed with dirty dishes.
Raji, a freelance writer working on an article, went back to typing on her laptop. She inhabited the large apartment with her twins, husband, and his mother. The master of the house mostly trotted around the globe while Raji juggled with the kids, work, home, and managing the cantankerous mother-in-law.
That would be me, the cantankerous one. This term was first used to describe me by a section superintendent years ago when I was a lower-level clerk in a state government office in Madras (now renamed Chennai.) Old names and old people were chucked away into the annals of history. I had regaled the office incident to my dearest daughter-in-law once upon a time, and it has been her favourite word since. However, pardon my digression; it happens frequently nowadays. I got lost in my chain of thoughts. Where was I?
Sarojamma washed the vessels and neatly organized them on a towel to dry. Then she took the broom and meticulously swept room by room, collecting the fine dust and hair into a dustpan. She entered Raji’s room with a gentle knock on the door. Raji gestured with a finger on her lips, listening intently on her mobile. With International Women’s Day approaching, she was wrecking her fingernails, googling inspirational women to write an article. My suggestion of ‘me’ being the suitable example attracted smirks. Sarojamma quietly tiptoed and swept the room clean as Raji stared at the blank screen.
Even though engrossed in the daily soap on Sun TV, my eyes and ears were all over. The story never progressed, and I could catch forty or fifty winks midway and still wake up to the same sobbing scene. I diligently followed the doctor’s advice and planted myself on the balcony, sharing space with the numerous potted plants in the mornings, soaking in the sun. Thanks to my well-oiled (coconut oil, a miracle worker!) genes, my eyes and ears were attuned to the minutest sight and sounds. After watching the drama unfold in the walking tracks, I did my daily ablutions, and then it was TV time until lunch.
Saroja and I were in the same age bracket. For a few seconds, Sarojamma let herself get distracted by the TV. While I was relaxing and enjoying my old age, Saroja toiled from dawn to dusk. When the advertisements started playing, I muted the TV and turned toward her.
“Why were you late today? Raji was blistering.” I winked at Sarojamma.
“It is my son’s death anniversary, amma. So, I had to finish the rituals before coming to work.”
“Oh! It’s been what, four years now?” Sarojamma had just begun working in our house when tragedy struck her life—a disaster no mother should ever encounter.
Sarojamma lived in the settlement behind our complex with her drunk, invalid husband and two sons. The eldest eloped with his school sweetheart before the class 10 examinations began. When the girl’s parents bawled and cursed, Sarojamma stood in front of her son and wife, shielding them. Taking in all the abuses, she welcomed the newlyweds and provided for them. Soon, grandchildren crawled while the son did odd jobs to support his bounty. The younger son completed his higher secondary and applied for a bank loan with which he purchased an auto-rickshaw. Sarojamma prided herself on his achievement and began the search for a suitable bride.
Precisely after six months of their wedding, an erratic lorry rammed into him head-on on a dark, rainy day, and the auto-rickshaw and the young man were mangled beyond identity.
Sarojamma’s smile never reached her eyes after that day.
“Hmmm. I still wonder if only he hadn’t gone out on that stormy night, driving his auto-rickshaw.” Sarojamma swallowed as tears pooled in her eyelids while the memories shrouded her.
“We cannot win over fate. I know the pain of losing a son. I lost mine when he was ten years old. So many years ago, but the scar remains.” I often wondered if motherly love or loss was measured by the number of years of her child’s life. People offered commiserations to me, saying, ‘You lost your child quite early. Imagine losing a well-grown son.’ What do I tell such people?
Sarojamma went ahead and mopped the house while Raji cooked lunch. I dawdled with my hands looped behind my back, inspecting the drying vessels and the cut vegetables, and peering into the boiling, frothy substance on the stove. This irked Raji, who turned her head, gnashing her teeth, and mumbled, ‘She must check on what I cook, cut, etc. Now she will come with some caustic comment.’
“Are you cooking carrots? Boil them well.” I said, twitching my eyebrows.
“I know you don’t have teeth, and I always boil and cook to your taste.” Raji boiled.
“I know. Still, I am reminding you.” A chuckle escaped me at having succeeded in my endeavour to rile up my daughter-in-law. Old age was boring without some drama.
Sarojamma finished her chores and sat cross-legged on the floor.
“Stay for lunch, Sarojaamma. You are free for the next few hours, isn’t it?” Raji threw a glance at her while she tempered the curry.
“Yes, Shanti madam will come after Monday. So, I am free. No Raji-ma, I am fasting today. No solids. Give me tea if possible.”
“Why tea? I will make Horlicks for you. But why are you fasting?” Raji’s brow furrowed.
“A prayer to our family deity for my daughter-in-law’s wedding.”
“What?” interjected Raji and I in unison.
“Yes, amma. My son’s wife is too young to spend the rest of her life as a widow. I was waiting for her to complete her degree course.” Sarojamma had paid for her daughter-in-law’s college education.
Raji set the hot beverage next to Sarojamma and pulled the chair beside me. “What about your grandson?” Raji asked with a worried expression as she rested her ample back on the chair, which emitted a low groan.
“A good family boy has agreed to marry my daughter-in-law. He said she could bring her son too. But the groom’s mother is not too keen on taking my grandson. My elder son and daughter-in-law assured her they would bring up the little boy as their own.”
“How sweet of them. But will the mother be able to stay away from the child?”
“She sobbed a lot, but I have drilled sense into her. She can visit us to see her son. But she needs to start living her life again.”
“Hmmm, you are quite a progressive woman, Sarojamma.”
Sarojamma opened a bundle tied to her sari. She spread the betel leaves, picked two, wiped them, and plucked the stalk. Then she applied the slaked lime paste and added fragrant areca nuts. Finally, she folded them and placed them in her mouth.
“Oh, this is not a good habit. Why don’t you quit?” Raji implored.
“This is my only vice. Let me be, dear Raji-ma.” Then, chewing for a while, she continued, “I am a woman who knows the difficulty of surviving without a man. My husband is very much alive, but a good-for-nothing guy. He drank and never earned a penny ever since we married. Then, fortunately for him, he fell sick with paralysis, and the whole burden of running a household and taking care of him fell on my shoulders.”
“I didn’t know your husband was alive, Sarojamma.” I blurted out and bit my tongue. I had assumed Saroja was a widow like me. However, the big circle on her forehead belied my belief. I also sported a tiny dot, but nowadays, everyone is a liberal.
“A woman dresses for her husband. Mine was as good as dead. If I dress up, he asked, for whom are you decking up? So, I withdrew from everything. My sons are my life. When God took my younger son, it shattered me. The grief never ebbs. But I had the responsibility of guiding my young daughter-in-law.”
Sarojamma got up to leave. Raji hugged her while I patted Saroja on her shoulder.
A look of understanding passed between us, the stronger sex.
At lunch, I relished the carrots. “Raji, the carrots are cooked well. Thank you.”
Raji’s countenance lit up. “Amma, there is ice cream in the freezer. Shall I serve you a scoop?”
“Ah, excellent.”
Later in the evening, Raji asked me to proofread the piece she had written for Women’s Day. A mother like no other – The untold story of Sarojamma.
&*&
Photo By – Unsplash Tracy Hocking
by Sangeetha Vallat | Jul 11, 2025 | Musings, Today's Katha
11 July 2025. My mom was my first friend. Growing up as a single child, I shared every thought, every detail of my life with my mom. The habit continues. As Oscar Wilde said, “Every woman becomes their mother…” Much to my delight and consternation, I can see that I am slowly transitioning into my mother. Hopefully, I will beget her strength and fortitude.
Finding Strength in Solitude: Voice Notes and Balcony Views.
When my father passed away in 2018, the silence he left behind felt deafening. As I prepared to return to Dubai, I asked my mother to come with me, just for a few months, to heal. But she surprised me with a quiet strength I hadn’t anticipated.
“No,” she said gently. “I’ll come later. I need to get used to being alone. Dubai will only be a temporary escape. If I go now and return to an empty home, it will be unbearable.”
Her clarity stunned me. I understood her reasoning and chose not to let others influence me with their well-meaning but intrusive suggestions and chorus of opinions: “Don’t leave her alone!”, “Why not stay longer?”, “This is what happens when children live abroad…” I trusted her instinct. She knew what she needed, and I respected that. I had to return to Dubai, to Sujith, and our life. And life, inevitably, had to move on.
Today, my mother lives alone in Chennai. We visit each other as often as we can, alternating between her home and ours in Dubai. We’ve even enjoyed a couple of mother-daughter vacations, where the roles subtly reversed, she, the curious child, and I, the protective parent.
Her daily voice messages are a constant in my life. They arrive in waves, updates, thoughts, musings from her day. When I’m in the middle of writing or caught up with chores, the barrage of messages can feel intrusive. I’ll play her voice in the background while doing something else, only to hear her ask later, “Why haven’t you replied?” I’ve snapped, said things I shouldn’t have, and quickly regretted it. Thankfully, neither of us lets such moments fester. We vent, move on, and return to everyday conversation, never letting arguments grow into monsters.
One of her favorite pastimes is sitting on the balcony of her 14th-floor apartment, watching life unfold below. Five years ago, one doctor insisted she needed immediate cataract surgery. Another said she didn’t have cataracts at all. Either way, she seems to have better eyesight than I do!
Every day, she narrates what she sees, a running commentary of everything she sees: a toddler wobbling around under a grandmother’s watchful eye, a mother escorting her daughter to tennis class while balancing twin toddlers on her hips, the eldest child dragging a tennis racquet behind. The occasional police jeeps or ambulances in the complex. She clicks pictures of the monkeys hanging on the door grill or prancing on the terrace and recounts their antics, all the while laughing uncontrollably. The area was once a mango orchard, but the trees were felled to make way for the high-rise apartments. So, the monkeys were in their habitat and refused to move away. Yesterday, she was particularly animated. The colleges have reopened, and our apartment complex, which sits beside a university, is buzzing again. Students are back, hanging around in groups, chatting, laughing, revving up their bikes. “The college kids are back!” she beamed. “It’s so lively! Remember that Prabhu Deva song about April and May! I feel exactly the same.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or admire her joy. This childlike enthusiasm, this ability to find delight in the everyday, is her superpower. Living alone at her age isn’t something most would recommend, but she does it with grace, strength, and a sense of wonder that keeps her going.
She has taught me that healing doesn’t always come from company or distraction. Sometimes, it comes from sitting still, looking out from a balcony, and learning to be okay with your own company.
by Sangeetha Vallat | Jul 10, 2025 | Passport Pages
CHAPTER 4 KWAHERI (GOODBYE) KENYA
From Falls to Farewells: Wrapping Up Our Kenyan Adventure
To be honest, Thomson’s Falls didn’t quite live up to the hype. I’ve seen grander ones, and the constant presence of Maasai tribals and touts asking for a fee to click pictures dampened the charm. Word of caution, don’t be fooled by the friendly poses; there’s usually a price attached.
We had a long drive ahead to Nairobi, and as always, I kept Moses, our guide, company with a flurry of questions. At one point, I went quiet, and he instantly asked if everything was okay. That’s Moses for you, observant and kind.
Something curious caught my eye along the way. For the sixth time on this trip, I saw men lying prostrate on the roadside in a very specific “X” position – arms and legs splayed. My first thought: Are these drunkards passed out? It’s not an unusual sight in India, after all. But Moses explained something far more humbling. These were weary travelers, some of whom had walked for days, either searching for work or trying to sell their goods. When exhaustion hits, they simply collapse and sleep wherever they can. The unspoken rule? Don’t disturb them. Let them rest and continue their journey.
We passed through several counties- Nyeri, Laikipia, Kisumu (or was that near Masai Mara?), and Narok. The order blurred, but the landscapes never failed to charm. At Subukia County, we stopped at a Rift Valley viewpoint. We were traveling on the A104, a major highway in Kenya. Moses explained the road system: “A” for international trunk roads, “B” for national, “C” for primary, and so on.
Soon we hit a massive traffic jam and had to divert onto a dusty, chaotic off-road path. Vehicles formed four messy, self-created lanes with a few good samaritans stepping in to direct traffic. We crossed Kikuyu town, home to Kenya’s largest tribe. Kenya’s first President, Jomo Kenyatta, and his son, Uhuru Kenyatta, both belong to the Kikuyu community.
A stretch lined with towering Cypress trees came next. Moses shared that this area was once infamous for highway robberies. Thankfully, those days are long gone.
By late evening, we rolled into Nairobi, checked into our hotel, and headed straight to Carnivore Restaurant, a must-visit for any adventurous foodie. Think: chicken, lamb, beef, pork, turkey… and the exotics – crocodile, ostrich, and yes, ox balls. A feast fit for the wild-hearted. Bellies full, we slept like babies.
Originally, our plan was to visit the Masai Market, but we called the agency and paid extra to swap it out for something more exciting….The Giraffe Centre and David Sheldrick Elephant Orphanage.
Nairobi surprised us with its green and clean appearance. Sujith was curious about the city’s upscale neighborhoods, so we drove through Arboretum Road and Langata Road, passing the State House and some prominent universities along the way.
We considered visiting Bomas of Kenya (Bomas means homestead or livestock enclosure), a cultural center showcasing tribal dances and traditional homes, but with limited time, we made a mental note to save it for our next visit.
Our route took us to Karen, a leafy suburb named after Karen Blixen, the Danish author of Out of Africa, who lived here for 17 years, running a coffee plantation. Her expansive farmland is now home to universities and posh residences.
Along the way, we were delighted by the quirky, brightly painted Matatus – Kenya’s version of our Chennai “share autos,” only louder, more vibrant, and pulsing with music and energy. Packed to the brim, they truly are the lifeblood of local transport.
At the Giraffe Centre, we got to feed the elegant Rothschild Giraffes. A volunteer could identify each one by name and personality. I eavesdropped (okay, I joined in) on a guide’s talk to a group of British tourists and asked how giraffes eat thorny Acacia leaves. Turns out, giraffes are pros at navigating the thorns, and even if they get pricked, their saliva is antiseptic! Nature really thinks of everything.
I even clicked a picture of the giraffe list, names, ages, and all. What a charming bunch!
Next up was the David Sheldrick Elephant Orphanage, open to the public only between 12:00 and 1:00 pm feeding time! It was crowded, and I initially had to peek between the elbows and hips of two tall men in front of me. Thankfully, a kind woman moved, and I got front-row views of the adorable chaos. The baby elephants were splashing, rolling in the sand, and charging toward their milk bottles like toddlers to candy. They gulped the milk in seconds.
The staff shared stories about how each elephant ended up there, many rescued from poaching or abandonment. They explained the sponsorship process and how the elephants are rewilded once they turn three. We were there for nearly an hour, hearts full.
Lunch was a delightful Indo-Chinese fusion, and then it was time to head to the airport.
We exchanged numbers and email addresses with Moses, our fantastic guide, and thanked him for being such a significant part of this journey.
Kwaheri, Kenya
And just like that, my peregrinations came to an end.
However, not without one last twist….the airport lost our luggage, and we waited nearly two hours for it to arrive. Kenya clearly didn’t want our adventure to end!
This was more than a vacation; it was a memory etched in wildlife, landscapes, laughter, learning, and the warmest people. A trip that left us changed, even in the subtlest ways.
Farewell folks. Until next time.
