Musing

I have a lot of ideas for blog posts that I never seem to make time to write. There is an urgency to write for a few hours, or even a couple of days, after I stumble upon an idea. And then, somehow, the urgency disappears. The idea gets pushed aside, life takes over, and I hate knowing that all that potential writing and thinking is slowly getting lost.

In fact, a post about Mother’s Day is still lazily sitting in my drafts. I finally decided that I might as well post it next Mother’s Day!

Somehow, over the years, this blog has slowly become a place where I sincerely record birthday wishes for my babies. Perhaps birthdays are one of those everlasting, important events that make me stop, take a breath, and actually sit down to write.

But it can’t be the only reason.

There are so many little moments, thoughts, observations and stories that deserve to be written down too. Not because they are grand or profound, but simply because they mattered to me at that particular moment.

Today was one such little moment.

While returning home from work, I decided to take the bus. My husband had insisted that I take a cab, travel comfortably and reach home without the hassle. But somehow, I still wanted to take the bus. So I boarded it.

And to my luck, I got a window seat.

And then came the little surprise — the ticket was free!

The bus ride

I was delighted. It felt like the universe was quietly telling me, Yes, you made the right decision. I am with you.

It was such a small thing. A bus ride. A window seat. A free ticket.

But sometimes, joy doesn’t need a grand occasion.

The bus ride also took me back to my high school days, when I would occasionally have to take the regular city bus back home. There was something familiar about that feeling of simply getting on a bus and making my way home.

And then I remembered my college days, travelling from the railway station to college, often in a sleepy, half-awake state. I had somehow trained myself to recognise where I was by smell. There was a very distinct metallic, almost burnt-sugar-like smell that told me I had arrived. Even without fully waking up, I somehow knew.

My college had a distinct smell too.

It amazes me how memory works. Years later, a simple bus ride can bring back not just places and people, but smells, sensations and tiny fragments of a life we thought we had forgotten.

And of course, there was the smile that crossed my face.

I love travelling anonymously.

There is something so freeing about sitting by the window, watching the world go by, and simply being with myself. No one recognised me — not that I am some celebrity who is constantly recognised! But there is a strange relief in being just another person on a bus.

No need to smile because I recognise someone. No need to stop and make small talk. No need to acknowledge anyone or be anyone other than myself.

I can simply sit there, enjoy the ride, look out of the window and be lost in my own thoughts.

It is not that I am anti-social. I love people, conversations and connections. But every once in a while, I really enjoy this little pocket of time where nobody knows me and I don’t have to engage with anyone.

Just me, the window seat, the road ahead — and my thoughts for company.

And that, in its own small way, felt like joy.

Perhaps these are the moments I want to write about.

Not just birthdays and big occasions, but these little flashes of joy and memory that appear in an otherwise ordinary day — and disappear just as quickly if we don’t stop to notice them.

And that’s how I ended up completing this blog post too.

A small moment. A passing thought. A bus ride that brought back a few memories — and, this time, I actually stopped to write it down before the feeling disappeared.

Maybe that’s all I need to do.

Write when something makes me want to write.

Before the urgency fades.

A Student Again

After ten glorious years in one organisation, I am a student again.

It feels strange to write that.

For ten years, I knew where everything was. I knew the people, the systems, the rhythm of the place. I knew whom to call, how things worked and, most of the time, how to get things done.

And now I am back to taking notes, learning new processes, remembering names and occasionally wondering whether everyone else received a handbook that somehow missed my desk.

I am enjoying it.

Perhaps because I know this feeling of being new much better than I did before.

The moment feels surreal when I think about the little Meerschweinchen I once was—the shy girl from India who would think twice before asking a question, disagreeing with someone or saying that she wasn’t comfortable with something.

That girl is still somewhere inside me.

But Germany introduced me to a version of myself I hadn’t met before.

A version who asks.

Who questions.

Who doesn’t automatically say yes.

Who can walk into a room and say, “I don’t think this is right,” without spending the next three hours wondering whether she should have kept quiet.

It took years to get here.

And perhaps that is why starting over feels different this time.

This Independence Day, I have been thinking about freedom in a slightly different way.

We usually speak about the freedom of a country—the freedom that was fought for and won. But as we grow older, we discover smaller freedoms too.

The freedom to find our voice.

To disagree.

To change our minds.

To leave what no longer fits.

To begin again.

Ten years in my previous job gave me experience.

Germany gave me a voice.

And this new job has given me the chance to become a student again.

I think I am going to enjoy this chapter.

The student is new.

The woman walking into the classroom isn’t.

.

Thank you

If your future self could send you one sentence, what do you hope it would say?

Thank you for being strong, resilient and not quitting when things didn’t go your way.

You were never as alone, as late, or as lost as you believed you were.

Still side by side

Some friendships don’t stay frozen in the place where they began. They grow quietly alongside us.

Today I attended my children’s annual day.

Beside me sat Saranya, who had also come to watch her daughter perform on stage.

As the lights dimmed and the children waited behind the curtains, I suddenly became aware of how extraordinary that moment was.

We were no longer two girls sharing a hostel room in 2006.

We were two mothers sitting side by side, waiting for our children to walk onto a stage.

What made the evening feel even more special was that it came only a few days after another moment that had quietly reminded me what this friendship means.

Earlier that week, I was stepping into a new professional milestone, feeling nervous in the way one does before entering an unfamiliar space.

That morning, Saranya called me before I left.

She wished me luck and then, in her usual matter-of-fact way, said,

“Anything you need, I’m just a call away.”

“Don’t sit there worrying.”

“If you feel awkward during the break, if you don’t know anyone yet, call me.”

“I’ve even rescheduled my meetings for you.”

“You’ll definitely do well.”

I remember smiling after the call ended.

It was such a simple conversation, yet it carried the same reassurance that had existed in our hostel days — the feeling that someone was standing quietly in your corner, ready to show up without being asked.

And then, at the annual day, she did it again in another small way.

She had thoughtfully brought a brownie for my five-year-old, knowing that sitting through a long school program could be difficult for a child. He sat beside me happily nibbling it while watching the performances, and I found myself smiling at the familiarity of the gesture.

Some friendships change their form, but not their instinct.

In 2006, we shared snacks in a hostel room.

Today, we share encouragement before important meetings and brownies for each other’s children while sitting side by side in a school auditorium.

There was another small moment that made me smile.

That day happened to be Saranya’s birthday.

I had carefully packed a few chocolates to give her at the annual day function.

Typically, I took a short nap before leaving for the event.

And equally typically, I forgot the chocolates at home.

The moment I met her, I confessed my crime.

She looked at me for barely a second and laughed.

“You forgot them, didn’t you?“

I stared at her.

She had guessed it immediately.

Then came the familiar calm response that has remained unchanged for years.

“That’s okay.”

No disappointment.

No teasing.

Just that easy, unhurried understanding that exists only in old friendships.

As I sat beside her in the auditorium later that evening, watching our children perform on stage, I realised how comforting it is to have someone who knows your habits so well that even your forgetfulness no longer requires an explanation.

From forgotten chocolates to rescheduled meetings, from hostel-room conversations in 2006 to annual-day photographs with our children, the friendship has travelled through many versions of our lives.

And somehow, it still feels wonderfully effortless.

That, perhaps, is what growing older with a friend truly looks like.

Friendship, I realised, had quietly expanded to include each other’s children too.

When the program ended and I went to pick up my twins, I caught a glimpse of her daughter. We exchanged a quick smile, managed a hurried photograph, and for a few seconds the four of us stood together—two generations connected by a friendship that had begun long before they were born.

Before we could talk any longer, the teacher gently interrupted and guided the children back to their places. The meeting lasted barely a minute.

Later, I shared the photograph with Saranya on WhatsApp.

She replied with a smile.

And somehow that tiny exchange stayed with me for the rest of the day.

Hostel life feels like another lifetime now.

The late-night conversations, shared snacks, borrowed clothes, exam stress, dreams about the future—we had no idea where life would take us. We only knew that we were young and that the world seemed impossibly large.

Twenty years later, the world feels smaller.

Not because life became easier, but because certain people continue walking through its different seasons with us.

Today, while watching our children perform, I realised that friendship has changed its shape.

It is no longer measured by how many hours we spend together.

It lives in small moments.

A seat saved next to each other in an auditorium.

A quick photograph with our children.

A smile sent through WhatsApp that carries years of shared history.

From hostel roommates in 2006 to parents cheering for our children from the audience, life has travelled a long way.

Yet some friendships still feel wonderfully familiar — thoughtful in the smallest ways, present in the moments that matter, and quietly sitting beside us through every stage of life.

And perhaps that is what makes old friendships so precious.

They quietly witness every version of us.

The girl we were.

The woman we became.

And the mother who now watches another little life step onto the stage with pride.

Kuku

Kuku is not a word.

It is a country.

Population: three.

Kuku wasn’t a place anyone else could see. It didn’t appear on maps or in family photographs. It existed in the quiet space between my mother and me.

To everyone else, Kuku was simply my mother’s nickname.

To me, it became home.

It wasn’t built with bricks or walls.

It was built one ordinary day at a time.

In the little bargains children make without saying them aloud.

I learned to tie my own shoelaces, however crooked they looked, because if I could manage one small thing on my own, my mother would have one less thing to worry about. I packed my school bag the night before. I learned not to ask for help unless I truly needed it. Somewhere along the way, I stopped being just a child and quietly became her teammate.

It was built in train journeys instead of flights.

In birthday dresses that appeared without us ever knowing what had been given up to buy them.

In shopping trips that made us feel like the luckiest children in the world.

In evenings when she came home exhausted but still wanted to hear about our day before speaking about hers.

In music that drifted through the house.

In birthdays that always felt magical.

In mother-daughter dates.

The world looked at us and saw a single-parent family.

Inside Kuku, we were simply a family.

People often reacted with sympathy when they learned my mother had raised us alone.

I never understood why.

Sympathy belongs where something is missing.

I never felt that.

Whenever friends spoke about their fathers, I never thought, I wish I had that.

I simply thought, My mother does that too.

Not because she was trying to become someone else.

Because love simply showed up wherever it was needed.

There was no ceremony when we became a team.

No announcement.

Just thousands of ordinary days in which she carried more than anyone should have to, while making sure I never felt the weight of it.

Children don’t notice sacrifice.

They notice safety.

Mine looked like seeing my mother waiting outside my classes so I never had to wait alone.

It looked like birthday dresses, train journeys, warm meals, and the certainty that someone would always come for me.

I thought that was ordinary.

Only much later did I understand that someone had worked very hard to make it feel that way.

She never let her burdens become my inheritance.

She never tried to give us a perfect childhood.

She gave us something far more enduring—a childhood in which love was always louder than loss.

A country built by one mother who quietly did her best to ensure its only citizens grew up measuring their childhood by love, never by what was missing.

The older I grow, the more I discover how much of her lives in me.

My love for travel began with hers.

My curiosity came from watching her keep learning, year after year.

My appreciation for beautiful things came from the way she noticed them first.

Even my kitchen carries her fingerprints in a recipe I still make almost every day.

She taught me that strength doesn’t have to be loud.

That generosity asks for nothing in return.

That laughter is always better when you can’t finish the story because you’re laughing too hard.

She taught me how to welcome people.

How to love deeply.

How to believe in someone before they believe in themselves.

She welcomed my husband as though he had always belonged.

She loved my children long before they knew how to love her back.

She was there when they entered this world, just as she had been there for every important moment in mine.

And somehow, despite the passing years, I am still her baby girl.

The older I grow, the more I realize she wasn’t trying to be extraordinary.

She was simply trying to make sure her daughters never felt that life had been unfair to them.

Today, the country looks different.

Its citizens have grown up.

They tie their own shoelaces.

Carry their own worries.

Find their own way home.

Your country is safe.

Not because life became easier.

But because of everything you quietly placed inside its citizens.

Your courage.

Your kindness.

Your resilience.

Your unwavering belief that no setback is ever bigger than the person facing it.

Whenever life places an obstacle in our path, we don’t just ask ourselves what to do.

We remind ourselves that we are citizens of KUKU.

We don’t give up easily.

We don’t let disappointment make us bitter.

We don’t stop showing up for the people we love.

The crown you placed on our heads was never made of gold.

It was made of courage, dignity, kindness, compassion, and quiet confidence.

Life will shake us from time to time.

But it will never take that crown away.

That is your legacy.

Your country is safe.

Its citizens will always find their way.

So perhaps, for the first time in a very long time, you can choose yourself.

Travel because you want to.

Buy the dress.

Take the longer route.

Learn something new.

Laugh until you can’t finish the story.

Wake up some mornings with nowhere to rush.

Simply live.

Happy Birthday, KUKU.

May this next chapter belong a little more to you than to everyone else.

With all my love,

Your favourite citizens.

Finding Courage in the Water

My 5-year-old loved water, but he was terrified of one thing — the big pool.

He was perfectly happy splashing around in the kids’ pool, but the moment we mentioned moving to the larger pool for swimming lessons, he would immediately say no. The depth, the bigger space, the sight of older kids swimming confidently — it all felt intimidating to him.

Around the same time, we started reading Be Brave Little Penguin at bedtime. It’s about a little penguin named Pip-Pip who is afraid to swim while everyone around him dives right in.

My son instantly connected with him.

One night he looked at me and quietly said, “He’s scared like me.”

That simple moment changed something.

After that, he became more open to the idea of swimming. Not suddenly brave, but curious enough to try.

Instead of saying, “I don’t want to go swimming,” he started asking questions:

“Will my teacher hold my hand?”

“Can I wear goggles?”

“What if I kick like Pip-Pip?”

When we finally signed him up for classes, the first two sessions were honestly hard. He didn’t get into the big pool at all. He sat near the edge fully dressed in his swimwear, goggles on, cap on, just watching the other kids. Sometimes he would splash the water a little with his foot and then quickly pull back.

A part of me wondered if we were pushing too soon. But we decided to give him time.

By the fifth session, things started changing. He slowly stepped into the pool, held onto the instructor, and tried a few kicks. There were still nervous moments, but there were smiles too. Real ones.

Now, he genuinely enjoys swimming. He looks forward to class, talks about his instructor all the way home, and proudly shows us every new thing he learns.

Looking back, I don’t think the book magically removed his fear. But it helped him feel understood. It showed him that being scared is okay, and that courage doesn’t have to happen all at once.

Sometimes kids just need a story that feels a little like their own.

And honestly, watching him taught me something too.

As adults, we often think courage means diving straight in — starting the new job, moving cities, speaking up, taking the risk. We admire people who seem fearless.

But most of us are more like my son sitting at the edge of the pool.

We show up nervous. We observe first. We test the water carefully. Sometimes all we can do in the beginning is sit there with our “goggles on,” trying to gather enough courage for one small step.

And maybe that still counts as progress.

What I loved most about this whole experience was realizing that bravery rarely arrives all at once — for children or adults. Confidence is usually built quietly, in small moments nobody notices.

A little penguin reminded my son that it was okay to be scared.

And somewhere along the way, it reminded me too — that positivity, patience, and belief can slowly turn fear into confidence, one small step at a time.

I Understand You Better Now, Ma

Some mothers are expressive with their love. Others show it through the way life keeps moving around you.

It shows up in ordinary things — lunch packed before sunrise, uniforms ironed the previous night, reminders to eat on time, the front door checked twice before leaving for work.

As Mother’s Day approaches, I keep thinking about how much of motherhood is really endurance.

Not the kind that asks to be admired.
The kind that keeps going quietly.

Lately, I have found myself returning to small memories that did not seem important at the time. A mother returning home from work with migraines still sitting behind her eyes, and cooking dinner anyway.

We rarely describe these moments as extraordinary. But maybe we should.

Growing up, I thought courage looked dramatic.
I thought strength belonged to people who spoke loudly, who fought visibly, who never appeared tired.

Instead, I watched a quieter kind of courage unfold inside an ordinary home.

I think many daughters spend years understanding their mothers backward.

As children, we notice rules.
We notice delays.
We notice the moments our mothers could not protect us from discomfort.
We notice when they seem tired, distracted, impatient, or silent.

Only much later do we begin to understand the architecture beneath those ordinary days.

We understand the calculations.
The compromises.
The exhaustion.
The fear they swallowed before entering the house.
The dignity they protected quietly, even when life gave them very little room to stand.

Motherhood is often described very beautifully. But for many women, a lot of it is practical. They are constantly adjusting — time, money, energy, worry — trying to make everything stretch a little further.

And yet, children still experience their love.
Sometimes not through softness.
But through consistency.

Through meals appearing on time. Through school fees somehow getting paid. Through books being covered neatly before the school year begins. Through a mother continuing even when she is exhausted.

One of the hardest things about writing personal history is realizing how much of love looked ordinary while you were living inside it.

As children, we rarely recognize sacrifice in real time.
We recognize routine.
Only later do we understand what those routines cost.

And sometimes, only after becoming mothers ourselves, do we begin to understand the emotional weather our mothers lived inside every day.

I think now about all the moments I treated as harmless playfulness.
The times I disappeared quietly under a cot just to be mischievous.
To me, it was a game — five amusing minutes of silence.

But to a mother?
Those same five minutes might have held panic, fear, helplessness, anger, relief — every emotion arriving at once while searching room after room for her child.

As children, we experience our own feelings completely.
As parents, we begin to understand the invisible feelings we created in someone else.

And with that realization comes a different kind of tenderness.

I understand you better now, Ma.

Mother’s Day often celebrates grand gestures.
Flowers.
Messages.
Photographs.

When my children were born, I remember thinking for the first time about my own mother differently. During childbirth, in the middle of fear and pain, I told her quietly that if something happened to me, she should take care of my babies.

Years later, I understand that labour does not really end in the delivery room. It simply becomes invisible.

A mother continues carrying her children in ways the world rarely notices. The physical pain passes, but labour continues quietly for years — in worry, responsibility, vigilance, sacrifice, planning, remembering, holding everything together while making it appear effortless from the outside.

The mothers who do not speak about what they endured because there was dinner to make.
The mothers who become both comfort and stability.
The mothers who survive first and grieve later.

Or sometimes never fully.

Writing these memories taught me something unexpected: children inherit much more than stories from their mothers.

They inherit methods of survival.
Ways of standing.
Ways of continuing.
The ability to create order inside uncertainty.
The instinct to protect dignity even when life becomes small.

And sometimes, without realizing it, daughters spend their adult lives trying to understand the women who quietly carried them through childhood.

This Mother’s Day, I am thinking about the mothers who quietly kept going, no matter what life placed in front of them.

The ones who kept holding everything together without ever making it look dramatic.

To my mother, and to everyone who carries a motherly heart — Happy Mother’s Day.

My Prayer… Delivered Double

April 24 is not just another date on the calendar. It is our day.

My dear Shashank and Saathvika,

You’re turning 9 today… and I still can’t believe how fast that happened. I keep going back to the beginning — all those quiet prayers, all those conversations with God… and then you both came into my life together, almost like He was saying, “I heard you… here, take double.”

Every single day with you reminds me that I am not just someone who once prayed — I am someone who is living with a prayer fulfilled.

Shashank, your curiosity, your quiet strength, and the way you observe the world make me so proud. You carry a calm wisdom that often surprises me.

Saathvika, your warmth, your sparkle, and your boundless energy light up every corner of our lives. You bring a kind of joy that is impossible to put into words.

Together, you both are balance. You are laughter, mischief, comfort, and love — all wrapped into one beautiful blessing.

And then, there is your little brother — my gentle reminder that God doesn’t just answer prayers… He also loves to surprise us.

Srikar has been preparing for your birthday for a whole week now… and right on time today, he proudly played the “Happy Birthday” song on Alexa! That little excitement of his made the day even more special.

My third child, my unexpected blessing, came into my life like a sweet whisper — unplanned, yet perfectly timed. He is my little surprise gift, a reminder that life doesn’t always follow our plans, but it always brings what we need. Through him, I’ve been gifted the chance to relive and cherish every stage of pregnancy and motherhood all over again — with more awareness, more gratitude, and even deeper love.

If you three are anything, you are proof that life is both a prayer… and a surprise.

As you turn 9 today, my dear twins, I don’t just celebrate your birthday — I celebrate the journey of becoming your mother. Thank you for choosing us. Thank you for filling our lives with meaning, chaos, laughter, and endless love.

From day one, you both trusted me — even when I didn’t know what I was doing. You trained me more than I raised you, honestly. Diapers, feeding, sleepless nights, random stories… everything had to be done twice, and properly! That was my real training.

And clearly, that training never ended.

Even now, with two different sections, different homework, and what feels like 100 things to keep track of every day… I’m still trying to keep up with you both. Managing both your schedules sometimes feels like handling two parallel universes at once! It is exhausting… but I want you to know, I am doing my very best to keep up with you — and I wouldn’t trade this beautiful chaos for anything in the world.

Shashank… there is something very special about you. The way you understand people, the way you care about others’ feelings — it amazes me. You don’t even try, it just comes naturally.

And the way you do things — when you sit to study, you’re fully into it. When you play, you’re fully into that too. That sincerity… I just sit and think, “Awww… this boy is so sweet.”

And when you play the tabla… so effortlessly… I just watch you quietly. There’s so much calm in that.

Yes, we argue! And as usual, I end it with “I am the mother!” — but then you smile… and that’s it, I lose.

Sometimes I feel like hugging you tight like before… but I can see you growing, becoming a little shy. I totally respect it, my boy. But in my heart, nothing has changed.

Saathvika, my “chakkara” — my little sugar darling and truly my best buddy. Your fashion sense is impeccable, and I genuinely enjoy every moment we spend shopping together. I’m always amazed at how clearly you know what you want and how confidently you express it — something even many adults are still learning!

And the way you handle your brothers is too cute. They tease you so much, but the second we say something to you, they’re right there defending you. That little team you three have… I just love watching it.

And when you dance… your Bharatanatyam… your sincerity… the confidence… it just lights up everything. Many times, when I watch you on stage, my eyes fill up. Not because I’m worried — just pure pride and happiness.

I also love your expressions — those eye rolls, those looks, the way you come and tell me your stories. Those are my favorite moments.

One thing I’ve really loved this year — the way you both help without being told. Going down to buy vegetables, fruits, doing small things on your own…

And the smiles you come back with! Honestly, sometimes I give you a list just to see that excitement again.

That poor (or lucky!) veggie vendor 😄

We are a team — always have been.

Both of you — always remember this. You are unique. Each of you. You have your own place, your own purpose. Never, ever think less of yourselves.

*“Nenu” (నేను) is a Telugu word that means “me” – in this context “What about me”

I may try to be fair with my words… but my heart doesn’t work like that. It reacts, it feels, it jumps — sometimes anxious, sometimes excited — for all three of you, all the time.

My love doesn’t split. It only grows.

From the day you were born, I kept talking to you — telling you about the world, about ice creams, chocolates, stories, places I wanted to take you. I kept telling you to grow strong and come home soon… because I was waiting.

Those days were not easy. There were tough days, long travels, tiring moments. But I stayed strong. For you. We stayed strong. Together.

And now… seeing you both grow — music, dance, studies, performances, and slowly getting better in Carnatic music — it just makes me so proud.

And like I’ve always told you, from the very beginning…

Life is beautiful, darlings.

We said it then. We’ll say it always.

No matter what you’ve seen in us — love, anger, tiredness, strictness — we love being your parents.

It’s our responsibility… but more than that, it’s our happiness.

Thank you for loving us and being kind to us.

We believe in you — more than we believe in ourselves.

We are always there for you — no matter what.

Be brave.
Accept failures.
Celebrate success.
And just be yourself.

Happy 9th birthday, my darlings.

May you grow kind.
May you stay curious.
May you always know how deeply you are loved.

And may we always remember — every single day — that we are living the life we once prayed for.

With all our love,
Amma & Nana

Before you go….

Take a moment to wish Shashank and Saathvika a very happy 9th birthday 😊

In the comments or in your mind — just pause, smile, and wish them.
That one second means a lot to us ❤️

Stay connected!

Happy 5th Birthday to Our Srikar — Our Five S’s!

Today, our little boy turns five, and our hearts are overflowing.

Birthdays always bring a rush of memories, but this one feels extra special. As I looked back at your newborn photos today, that old cliché suddenly felt so true — they really do grow up so fast.

It feels like just yesterday you were a tiny bundle in my arms, wrapped in soft blankets, with curious little eyes blinking up at the world. And now, here you are at five — full of energy, questions, laughter, and the brightest smile. Watching you grow has been the most beautiful reminder of how quickly time moves and how precious every moment truly is.

Please bless our “Kuttu” and wish him from your heart. 💛

There are so many little moments that show just how big your heart already is.
So this time, I’ve created something special —
“These Are a Few of My Favorite Things – Srikar Edition.” (inspired by the timeless tune from The Sound of Music*)🎵

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Giggles and cuddles and bright little chatter,
Pulling my glasses — protecting what matters.
Pocketing carrom coins, proud as a king,
These are a few of my favorite things.

Tiny hands folded in prayer so sweetly,
Chanting Lord Narasimha’s name so neatly.
Stories from school that your laughter brings,
These are a few of my favorite things.

Countdowns for birthdays and chocolates you’re sharing,
Dreams of world travels and sweets you’ll be bearing.
Running behind me when dressing-time swings,
These are a few of my favorite things.

Rasam lottu sipping and soup that’s tomato,
French fries in fine dine — your joy’s my bravado.
Dancing before every outing that springs,
These are a few of my favorite things.

When you protect them (your siblings), when you scold me,
When you melt my heart… 💛
I simply remember my Lottu Pattu —
And then I feel all love start. 🎶

Eyes full of wonder and smiles ever glowing,
Keeping us laughing, your love overflowing.
Chaos to cuddles — what magic it brings,
These are a few of my favorite things.

When the fights start, when the tears fall,
When the day feels long…
I think of my Superhero Srikar —
And suddenly, all feels strong. 💪💛

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We love you more than words could ever hold — and that same love echoes from your dad and your siblings too.

To us, you are our little Lilliput — tiny in size but enormous in charm and spirit. And at the same time, you are our Batman, Superman, Ironman and Captain America combined — brave, funny, strong, and always ready to save the day in your own adorable ways.

You make our days lively and full. Life without you is unimaginable.
You are our littlest ladoo, and your siblings are our bigger ones. 🍬

To celebrate your 5th birthday, we picked five special “S” words that remind us of you:

1. Strong
You may be small, but your spirit is mighty. Whether you’re building block towers, climbing everything in sight, completing your homework or standing your ground with that determined little face, you amaze us with your strength every single day.

2. Sweet (like sugar candy!)
Your sweetness is the kind that melts hearts. The way you share your toys, your treats, your hugs — you sprinkle kindness wherever you go. You really are our sugar candy boy.

3. Smart
You notice every detail, remember the tiniest things, and surprise us with your thoughtful questions and clever observations. Your little mind works in ways that make us smile with pride every day.

4. Splendid
There’s something splendid about the way you light up a room. Your laughter, your curiosity, your tiny discoveries — they make every day brighter for us.

5. S… for Superhero Srikar
You do everything with superhero energy — running, jumping, imagining whole new worlds. Your superpowers are your joy, creativity, and boundless enthusiasm. Your name carries our love, dreams, and pride. You make this letter the most special one in our lives.

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Srikar, as you turn five, may your world grow even more colorful and exciting.
May this year bring new adventures, new friends, new dreams, and endless smiles.

Happiest birthday, our Lottu Pattu — our little bundle of joy, mischief, and magic.
Keep shining, keep smiling, and keep being you —
Strong. Sweet. Smart. Splendid. Superhero Srikar. 🎉💛✨

With all our love,
Amma & Nana
Shashank & Saathvika

Shoelace

Some memories live quietly inside us — tucked away like a well-kept secret, surfacing only in the smallest moments. For me, it’s the simple act of tying a shoelace.

October has always been my favourite month. It holds two dates closest to my heart — the 6th, my birthday, and the 24th, my father’s birth anniversary.

My father adored me from the moment I was born. Every recollection I have of him is wrapped in warmth — his laughter, his cheerfulness, his unwavering care. Yet, sometimes I ache for that one last moment I never got to have with him. Maybe it was destiny that I was meant to remember him only in his truest form — smiling, loving, and full of life.

One of my most vivid images of him is from school mornings — crouched beside me, tying my shoes with such precision that the knots never came undone, no matter how much I ran or played. The grip was perfect — snug and reassuring, much like his embrace.

Even now, whenever I try to do it myself, a lump forms in my throat. My knots never seem to stay. They loosen, slip open, and quietly remind me that his hands aren’t there anymore. Maybe that’s why I often avoid shoes with laces.

Though I could spend only nine short years with my dad, his laughter and kindness remain fresh — untouched by time. The little girl inside me still yearns to show him my world today: my children, my life, all that we’ve built in his absence.

Sometimes I wonder how he would’ve been with my kids — the fun-loving, playful grandpa. I can almost picture him teasing them with that mischievous grin, pretending to scold while secretly spoiling them rotten. However he might have been, I’m certain he would have tied their laces too.

Somehow, I always sense his quiet assurance that nothing truly bad will ever happen to us — because the worst thing, his absence, has already happened.

After becoming a mother myself, I realised that speaking only of someone who is no longer here, without acknowledging the pillar who still stands beside me — my mother — would be unfair. She held me together through every untied knot in my life, filling the silence he left behind with her strength and warmth. She has been the invisible thread holding my world in place.

And to those who might feel that nine years are too few to carry such deep emotions — maybe I don’t have as many stories as others do, but the ones I have are treasures. Each one etched in my heart, vivid and whole. Sometimes, even a single knot can hold a lifetime.

And just when I gather the courage, swallow the lump, smile, and bend down to tie my children’s shoes, a pair of hands reaches out — holds mine, lifts me, and finishes the task. That pillar of support is my happily ever after. My partner has become that safe place for me now, restoring the confidence and spirit my mother worked so hard to build.

And in that simple gesture — those hands completing what mine started — I feel everything come full circle. My father’s gentle care, my mother’s quiet strength, and now, my partner’s unwavering love — all tied together in one small, ordinary moment.

Today, if I am able to share this part of my life with all of you, it’s because I have healed. Tears no longer blur my eyes when I think of my dad. It’s calm now — a quiet numbness, a gentle acceptance. Just a stoic, composed if that lingers on… and perhaps always will.

Whenever my child struggles with a lace, I kneel down to help — and in that moment, I know my parents are right there beside me. My father in the way my hands remember, my mother in the strength that keeps me steady, and of course my partner — silently observing, cheering, and stepping in just when I need him most.

I finally understand — love, once tied, never truly comes undone.

So next time you notice my clumsy knots, you’ll know who’s to blame. The credit, of course, goes to my dad — who spoiled me just enough to make sure I’d always land in a wonderful family that keeps me loved, lifted, and laughing.

Happy Birthday, Nana.
I still feel you — every time I tie my shoes.