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 9, 2025 | Musings, Today's Katha
I wrote this blog post in June 2019. Growing up as a single child, I looked forward to summer vacations where I could meet my cousins. We had such fun; indeed, they were golden days. Don’t you all have cherished memories of holidays with cousins?
Those Golden Days
Cousins are often our first friends, and I was blessed with a truckload of the very best. Born into a sprawling family on both my maternal and paternal sides, I have a lifetime of memories etched into my ever-fading memory bank. As an only child, my summers were a season of joy, spent soaking up the essence of siblinghood with my cousins.
Growing up in the city, everything felt like it belonged to someone: mine, yours, his, hers. But stepping into our ancestral home, or tharavad, was a different story. There, everything was ours. The extensive landscape, the food on the table, the toys, the books, nothing had a single owner, and that’s what made it magical. With my Achan being one of 12 siblings and Amma one of 7, I had no shortage of cousins to bond with.
Summer vacations were split evenly, half spent in my mom’s tharavad, where only my grandparents lived, and the other half at my dad’s tharavad, where cousins from Bangalore would descend. My mom’s side of the family lived in Chennai, and we often met there. In the first half of my vacation, I read books, played with the neighbours and engaged in conversations with old people. There was a respected older man of our family who encouraged my outspokenness and chuckled at my stories. Although I enjoyed the quietness here, it was the second half of my vacation that I genuinely looked forward to. Achan’s home was always overflowing with aunts, uncles, cousins, and the gentle contrast between my tall, stoic grandfather and my petite, ever-smiling grandmother. Yet somehow, there was always room for everyone.
This tharavad sat in splendid isolation, overlooking an endless expanse of paddy fields. After harvest, the brown sun-baked fields would turn into our playground. If harvest was delayed, we pranced around the green paddy fields, taking care not to fall and damage the crops. Nature was our constant companion, with the whir of crickets, the croaking of frogs, shiny beetles buzzing toward tube lights, and even the occasional snake.
Mornings began with open-air chatter as we brushed our teeth under coconut trees, painting the ground white with foam. We’d collect fallen mangoes in the backyard, though grandma never stopped feeding us plate after plate of sliced mangoes. We watched cows being milked, giggled at the odd sensation of their warm, velvety necks, and ran wild under the canopy of trees. Our private pond, overgrown granite steps, and all were a favorite haunt. We’d link hands and wade in together, always under the watchful eyes of an adult. Sometimes we’d venture to the river, a grand expedition involving soaps, clothes, bundles, and a lot of splashing. I still remember the delight of learning to float in the arms of an aunt, even as my delicate skin broke into rashes from the muddy water.
Mealtimes were chaotic. The dining space rang with laughter, noisy banter, and the occasional special treat from a loving aunt, usually shared with a favorite cousin. Everyone had their “person”, an uncle who brought treats from work, an aunt who’d sneak you an extra laddu. My favorite was an uncle who’d ask each of us what we wanted, patiently collecting our long lists and returning with goodies by evening. We’d watch for him from afar, racing down the winding path through the fields to greet him and carry his bags.
Evenings slowly faded into nights filled with long shadows and eerie sounds. I’d cling to my dad, terrified of flying toads and ghost stories. My countryside cousins were braver, unfazed by snakes or frogs, and I admired them immensely. Long walks through the fields were a delight, plucking husked rice grains and gobbling them up as my cousin peeled them one by one. Even today, I can’t resist touching “touch-me-nots” when I spot them, no matter who’s watching.
We explored every nook and cranny of the tharavad, climbing into the attic to stare at the stuffed bull’s heads (some forefathers’ hunting prowess or a beloved pet), sift through dusty books, or admire the wall of wedding photos. We imagined our own wedding pictures joining the ranks one day.
Of course, we had our mischief too. When our unmarried uncles stepped out, we’d sneak into their bachelor quarters to ogle at Debonair, Playboy, and a few local Malayalam magazines, one of us always keeping watch across the fields.
Hide-and-seek was an adventure with so many secret spots to vanish into, sometimes so good we’d fall asleep unnoticed. We played “house,” fashioned bowls from teak leaves, and married each other with flower garlands. Rosary pea,(coral and black beads), “kunnikuru,” were our precious jewels. And oh, the countless trips to “Sajna Musicals” to record our selection of songs onto cassettes. I even befriended a shopkeeper near the bus stop, Chandran, who waited eagerly every summer to hear my wild stories. Even after I started working, I made time to visit him until he passed away a few years ago.
We had a local thatched-roof movie theatre that would restart the film just for us when we arrived late, thanks to my uncle’s popularity! A dozen of us would pile into an auto with snacks packed by grandma….Kerala banana chips and sweet halwa, and giggle our way through the ride. Didn’t we giggle and whisper too much with cousins and friends in our younger days? One cousin, fresh from Bangalore, once wailed for Gold Spot when all the theatre offered was Kappilandi (peanuts) and chaya.
Weddings were frequent and fun in the tharavad. With limited washrooms, a makeshift shed was built near the well. Bathing in pairs to save time often meant more laughter and less bathing. We have photos of all the women wearing the same red lipstick (courtesy of our Bangalore cousin), striking poses with the newlyweds while we expertly photobombed them. I secretly wished my wedding reception would be held right there, in the courtyard, with a paper plate of mixture and a cupcake balanced with a banana.
As we grew older, innocence slowly faded into caution. No more shared baths or hand-holding walks. But the bond only deepened as we whispered our secrets, first crushes, ambitions, and heartbreaks, late into the night.
Time flew. Cousins married, moved, and became parents. The old tharavad eventually crumbled, no more communal ownership, no more central hub. But the love we cousins shared never left.
Now, no matter where we are in the world, when we reunite, we slip right back into those golden days. A glass in hand, smile on our lips, we relive every moment, every prank, every silly fight and secret. We are still that same crazy bunch, just a little older.
P.S. Just got back from a road trip with my cousins, no spouses allowed. And what a riot it was!
Picture Courtesy – Unsplash- Jordan Whitt
by Sangeetha Vallat | Jul 7, 2025 | Musings, Today's Katha
A short version of this was the first write-up, I typed on my mobile phone, lying on the middle berth of the Alleppey Express in January 2018. I have added a few more lines now. It was published in my blog on May 1, 2018.
AMIDST STRANGERS
( A journey to my Achan’s tharavad without him)
Amma and I were packed and ready, waiting for the cab. This trip to Palghat without Achan felt heavy on the heart. We were travelling to his tharavad to do the special rites ceremony at Ivar Madom near his village. Sujith was back in Dubai, and my maternal uncle and cousin would join us at Palakkad later. Perhaps Amma and I should have travelled with them instead of taking this journey. It helped to have people to talk to, so we didn’t dwell on our grief.
Achan was the one who made sure we reached the railway station two hours early, no matter what. It was his thing. So, even though he wasn’t with us this time, we kept the tradition alive and left home well in advance. We reached the station with 90 minutes to spare. The train was already on the platform, but the AC and lights weren’t on yet. Amma and I found a spot on the platform and just sat, taking in the quiet chaos around us: families, vendors, and announcements echoing overhead. It was oddly comforting.
Once we boarded, the coach attendant stepped in and got things going. He deposited bedsheets and blankets on the upper berth. A little later, a tall man arrived with an elderly lady, his mother it seemed, and a little girl, about five years old, trailing behind. They had plenty of luggage and settled into our bay. I couldn’t help but feel a bit anxious; I always get a bit uneasy seeing small kids on overnight trains, fearing a sleepless night. Mostly, I find infants and toddlers neighbouring me during travels or in theatres, which annoys me. When Amma began conversing with them, I stayed aloof but gradually started chatting.
The man was dropping his mother and daughter off at their hometown for the holidays. He was Malayali, born and raised in Kanpur, where his father had served in the Air Force. He spoke fluent Hindi, English, and Malayalam. His daughter, Ruth, was the sweetest, calmest child, a complete relief.
A young couple joined our bay. Ruth’s dad, a friendly man, requested that they swap the upper berth so his daughter could sleep with him in the middle berth, and they happily accepted. There was something easy and unforced about the whole group; we all started talking as if we had known each other for years. Work, life, cities, languages… everything flowed naturally.
As I watched Ruth’s dad fuss over his little girl, a wave of longing washed over me. I missed my Achan. He had always pampered me in his own quiet, wholehearted way. Amma would often recount this one incident that, in her words, summed up just how much he adored me.
I must have been around four years old. The milkman had just delivered fresh milk, and Amma placed the vessel on the table before stepping out to speak with a neighbor. When she returned, the scene horrified her. I was standing on the table, happily tipping the vessel, watching with fascination as the milk spilled over and streamed onto the floor in silky white waves.
What stopped her in her tracks, though, was not just the mess, but the sight of Achan sitting calmly beside me, watching me with a smile on his face and a gleam in his eyes. When Amma shrieked in frustration, he simply said, “Look at her… how happy my Molukutty looks.”
Amma couldn’t see the happiness, only the mess. But Achan… he saw me.
That kind of love, that kind of gentle indulgence, I know I’ll never feel it again. There’s a line from a film that comes back to me often: “Grief is just love with nowhere to go – the leftover love that we don’t get to give….”
And in that moment, it felt painfully true.
Dinner was quiet, each person eating their own packed meal. Then, we all started settling in for the night. The men helped with the berths, and we began winding down. Ruth, all tucked in, softly wished us goodnight. But just as sleep was setting in, she realized her mother wasn’t with her and began to cry.
That sinking feeling hit me, and I braced myself for a long, restless night. But to my surprise, Ruth calmed down quickly and didn’t cause any more trouble. She was a little gem.
At dawn, Amma and I were the first to get off the train. We gathered our luggage quietly while the others were still asleep. It had been a peaceful night, with warm conversations and shared silence.
As we stepped off the train and walked away, we glanced back one last time. There was Ruth’s dad, standing at the door of the coach, smiling and waving goodbye. We waved back, knowing well that we might never cross paths again.
We shared stories, laughter, and kindness. But none of us had exchanged names.
That, perhaps, is the beauty of a train journey: someone who shares a brief, beautiful slice of your life with no strings attached. Just strangers, connected by a train ride, a few stories, and a memory that lingers long after the journey ends. Strangers, now part of your story.
&*&
Picture Courtesy – Unsplash Josh Nezon.
