Life is Beautiful

Richest Girl I Know      On my first day of college, my father dropped me at the hostel, said, “Be good,” and left. I was eighteen, joining RVS College of Engineering — chosen not for its reputation or course, but for one reason alone: I got to stay in a hostel far from home.      For the first time, I could breathe, speak, and exist without fear or judgment. It felt less like moving out and more like being born again.      Most kids form a sense of self when they’re two — that’s why it’s called the terrible twos.  For me, it happened at eighteen — that age when you think you know everything about the world, love, people, society, and yourself. Why, you ask?  Let me introduce you to my father. He was called the Hitler of our area — not just by me and my brothers, but by everyone within shouting distance. And no, this isn’t a Santhosh Subramaniam kind of strictness; this was Emdan Magan level tyranny.      Mental ...

Muran 4: Not My Granny I have a small request for you, dear reader. Take a moment—close your eyes if you can—and think of your grandmother, especially your mother’s mother. What comes to mind? Let me help you paint the picture. A gentle smile on a yellow-tinged face adorned with a big red குங்குமப் பொட்டு. Warm, loving eyes that light up with excitement. The faint scent of incense from the pooja room lingers around her. She’s draped in Madurai’s signature sungudi cotton saree, wearing big studs, a tiny nose pin, and heavy gold chains pinned with safety pins. She blesses you every time you sneeze, feeds you your favorite treats, pulls you onto her lap, and smothers you with kisses. She calls you — “என் தங்கம், என் ராஜா, ராஜாதி, என் சாமி, என் தங்கமயில், என்னப் பெற்றாரு” — each word soaked in affection and rhythm. She defends you when your parents scold you: “அவன் சமத்து, பொறுமையா எடுத்துச் சொன்னா புரிஞ்சுப்பான்.” She shares stories of how mischievous your mom or dad once was,...

    Angels don’t always wear wings    My mother was born into a large, wealthy family with seven siblings, but married into a modest one because she had a hearing and speech impairment. Her father believed a man from a humble background would value her more and not judge her for her condition—and he was right. My father cherished her deeply. Sadly, her dad passed away shortly after their marriage.      My parents moved to Chennai for work, and over the years, their family grew to three children. Yet my mother longed for the comfort of her hometown, believing life would be easier near her family. After much discussion, my parents decided my father would stay in Chennai for work while my mother moved to Madurai with us. He would visit every couple of weeks and eventually join us there.      She was all happy and excited. Little did she know that the very family she trusted would turn her into unpaid help. They didn’t see her as an equ...

Light and Shadow      When I was between two and four years old, my chithi Santhi raised me. She wasn’t married yet, and my mother already had my elder brother to care for, so I was left with her. My father used to tease me, saying, “Chithi valatha la unku apdiye un chithi buddhi” —that I had inherited her ways. I always took it as a compliment, because I adored her.      One of those traits was her fear of the dark, which she unknowingly passed on to me. She would wake me at night just to accompany her to the restroom, and I followed, half-asleep but dutiful. Now, I see the same fear mirrored in my daughter.      Some of my sweetest memories with Chithi are from our visits to the Thirupparamkundram Murugan temple. The temple itself was part light, part shadow, carved into the mountain. We carried a pooja basket filled with lemons, oil, wicks, flowers, kolapodi, and kunkum. She would cut the lemon in half, clean a circle on the stone floor wi...