Granny (Part - I)

The ice in Samarth’s glass rattled softly, a small, rhythmic sound that seemed to anchor him as the heavy bass from the corporate DJ party thrummed through the soles of his Italian leather shoes. It was New Year’s Eve, the transition point between what has been and what is yet to come, and he found himself standing by the window of the high-rise rooftop Aer lounge at Four Seasons, Worli, looking past the neon skyline, the high-rises of south Bombay aka Sobo. He wasn’t exactly lonely, but he was elsewhere. His mind had slipped away from the global buffet and the sterile chill of the air conditioning, wandering back to a time when luxury was a ride on the back of his father’s Bajaj Chetak and the world was measured in the dusty golden hue of a winter afternoon.

As the party guests clinked champagne flutes, Samarth could almost feel the rough bark of mango trees as he scrambled up their branches, his laughter lost in the rustle of leaves. Life then was the tension of a kite string against a calloused thumb and the weight of a cork ball hitting a bat held together by hope and rusted nails. When the heat became a physical weight, he and his friends would sprint to the pond, the water a shocking, muddy embrace.

He remembered emerging with wrinkled skin, knowing a scolding was waiting. He could still hear his Granny’s voice, sharp as a whip yet warm as the sun, chiding him for his "water-clogged brain" as he dripped onto the porch. But the scolding was always a façade.

It was an open secret in the household: Granny was shamelessly partial to Samarth.

He recalled the mornings in the kitchen, the air thick with steam. While his cousins received their standard measures of milk, Granny would check over her shoulder, her eyes twinkling with conspiracy, and heap a towering, extra spoon of Horlicks into Samarth’s glass. "Shh," she would whisper, stirring it vigorously so the evidence would dissolve. "You run more than them; you need strength. Don't tell your mother."

If Samarth’s mother or uncles ever raised their voices at him; perhaps for a broken window or a lost textbook, or at times hitting some other kid; Granny became his iron shield. She would stand between the trembling boy and the angry folks, her small frame suddenly formidable. "Let him be," she would snap, waving a dismissal at her own grown sons. "He is a boy, not a soldier. If you want discipline, go join the army. Here, he breathes."

Talking about the Army, Samarth finds himself smiling at the memory of a battle he never realized he was losing: the tug-of-war between his soldier’s ambition and a grandmother’s fierce, protective devotion. He remembers the sharp crease of his dreams as he stood twice on the precipice of the Indian Army’s gates, a Gentleman Cadet in spirit, only to be undone by the subtle treachery of his own vision, or perhaps, as he now suspects, by the relentless "bribes" of coconut and prasadam she offered at Radhamadhav ji; lord of their ancestral temple. While he navigated the grueling rigors of the SSB, she was waging a celestial campaign of her own, bartering with the Divine to keep her boy grounded safely within her reach. When the medical disqualification finally came, it wasn't a failure in her eyes, but a miraculous victory; he can still hear the exuberant lilt of her voice thanking the Lord for his "poor eyesight" as she turned his heartbreak into a community feast, celebrating his return as if he had won a war by never leaving. It was a beautiful, chaotic kind of madness; an unconditional love so vast it dared to defy his destiny just to keep his heart close to home. 

And then there was the food. Even on days when her knees ached and a fever made her hands tremble, if Samarth merely whispered a craving, the kitchen would come alive. He could almost smell it now, the nutty, rich aroma of desi ghee tempering the spices. She would make his favorite Dalma, that quintessential Odia delicacy of lentils and vegetables, slow-cooked until it melted on the tongue, paired with hot Khichdi. "Granny, you’re sick, you shouldn’t be cooking," he would say, feeling a pang of guilt even as his mouth watered. "My sickness is in my body, Somu, not in my hands," she would retort, ladling a generous amount of ghee over his plate. "Eat. The doctor gives me medicine, but feeding you gives me life."

But the memory that hit him hardest, standing in the cold air-conditioning of the lounge, was the heat of the Odisha summers.

When the power would cut out, plunging the village into a suffocating, humid darkness, the heat would radiate off the walls like an oven. Everyone would toss and turn, slick with sweat. Everyone except Samarth. He remembered lying on his cot, drifting into dreams, feeling a steady, cool breeze washing over him. He would open one sleepy eye to see Granny sitting beside him, her saree pallu tucked in at her waist, rhythmically moving a palm-leaf hand fan back and forth. "Go to sleep, Granny," he would mumble, half-conscious. "Your hand will hurt." "I am sleeping with my eyes open," she would lie softly, never breaking the rhythm. She would fan him the entire night, sacrificing her own rest so her "Somu" could sleep peacefully.

Fifteen years since that fan stopped moving, since the Dalma tasted right, since anyone looked at him with that unconditional, fierce devotion.

Samarth swirled his drink, a lump forming in his throat. As a child, he had taken it for granted; the extra Horlicks, the midnight fanning, the defence against many. He had thought it was just how grandmothers were. Only now, amidst the transactional relationships of the modern era, did he realize how rare that attachment was. He wished, with a desperate, silent ache, that he could go back. Not to change anything, but just to hold her hand one more time, to stop the clock and sit in that kitchen while she cooked.

The transition from those domestic comforts to the sacred discipline of the month of Kartik was the true heartbeat of his youth. As the grandson of the head priests of the Radhamadhav Temple, Samarth’s childhood was governed by a higher rhythm. For the entire month of Kartik, he was strictly prohibited from eating non-vegetarian food, a discipline that felt heavy for a small boy but connected him to a lineage centuries old. The small town would begin to glow, illuminated with music and light, peaking at the grand festival of Kartik Purnima. He remembered the awe of seeing the 300-year-old idols of Radhamadhav being moved from the inner sanctum to the massive wooden chariot outside. Despite his age, Samarth had to perform specific rituals alongside his uncles, his small hands trembling as he held the heavy brass lamps amidst a sea of 5,000+ devotees.

The festival was a three-night marathon of storytelling. One night would be a soulful Kirtan, the next a contemporary social drama, but the crown jewel was the mythological play on the first night. Samarth remembered the sheer weight of the peacock-feather crown and the silk dhoti when he was chosen to play the role of young Krishna. Standing in the wings, paralyzed by the sight of thousands of expectant faces in the audience, he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Granny.

She leaned in, her eyes reflecting the flickering oil lamps. "Granny, I’ve forgotten my lines. The crown is too heavy," he had whispered, his voice cracking. She didn't offer empty praise; she simply adjusted his sash and looked him in the eye, the same fierce love in her gaze as when she defended him from others. "The crown isn't heavy, Somu, your ego is. Forget you are a boy. Today, you are the one who holds the universe. Do you think the Lord worries about lines? Just speak with your heart, and the drums will do the rest."

When Samarth finally stepped onto the stage, the reality was far from divine. The glare of the spotlights blinded him, and the silence of the massive crowd felt like a physical weight. He began his opening monologue, but his voice was a thin, tremulous reed. He stumbled over a word, paused, and the silence stretched a second too long. He could hear a faint murmur of disappointment from the elders in the front row. He was failing. The boy who was supposed to be the Lord of the Universe looked, in that moment, like a very frightened child in a cheap costume.

Then, breaking the oppressive silence of the elite rows, a sudden, sharp sound erupted from the back of the pavilion.

Cont...

Granny (Part - II)

 Clap. Clap. Clap.

It was rhythmic, loud, and utterly defiant. It was Granny. She was standing up in the section reserved for the women, her small frame upright, her hands coming together with a force that seemed to echo off the temple walls. She didn't care about the decorum of the priest’s family or the hushed sanctity of the performance. She was cheering for her Somu.

The sound acted like a lightning strike. Samarth looked toward the back, and though he couldn't see her face clearly, he felt her presence, the same woman who would stay up all night with a hand fan just so he could sleep, the woman who was always, unapologetically, on his side. A sudden warmth flooded his chest, a surge of "water-clogged brain" confidence. He took a deep breath, adjusted the peacock feather, and let out a laugh that wasn't the laugh of a nervous boy, but the playful, cosmic chime of Krishna himself.

The lines returned to him not as memorized text, but as a living language. He moved with a grace he didn't know he possessed, his small hands gesturing toward the heavens as the temple drums finally caught his rhythm, thundering in synchronization with his heartbeat. By the time the scene ended, the initial murmurs had been replaced by a deafening roar of "Hari Bol!" from the five thousand plus devotees. He had enacted the role perfectly, not because he was a great actor, but because he was loved by a great woman.

That night, as he stepped onto the stage, the missing buttons and stained pants of his daily life were replaced by divine light. He had felt entirely connected to the world, a small part of a 300-year-old story.

Standing in the lounge now, in a tailored suit with a world of technology at his fingertips, Samarth realized he didn't yearn to go back to stay. He understood that the fast-track life had its own merits and achievements. He felt no tragedy that the Bajaj Chetak had been replaced by a high-end car or the temple drums by a digital playlist. Instead, he felt a quiet, sturdy sense of gratitude. These memories weren't a weight dragging him backward; they were a treasure he carried with him.

As the countdown to midnight began...Ten, nine, eight...the crowd grew louder. Samarth took one last moment to cherish the memory of the boy with the peacock feather, the taste of extra Horlicks, and the rhythmic swish-swish of a hand fan in the summer dark. He wasn't lost in the past; he was simply visiting home to make sure he remembered the way. He set his glass down, turned away from the window, and walked back into the party, feeling a little more grounded, a little more whole, and ready for whatever the new year had to say.

N.B : In the quiet intervals between the city’s relentless demands, Samarth finds himself reaching for a frequency that no longer broadcasts; the silent, sturdy language of a love that asked for nothing and offered everything. It was a grace found in the simple geometry of a silver plate and the way his grandmother’s eyes held him, a gaze that functioned as a mirror where he was always enough, long before he had anything to show for it. Now, as he navigates a world that measures worth by the height of one’s shadow, he realizes that his truest identity isn't something to be manufactured or fought for in the streets, but something to be remembered. He carries that unconditional warmth like a coal held deep within his palms, a soft, ancestral glow that keeps the modern chill at bay. The path ahead is crowded and the air is thin, yet he walks with the quiet optimism of a man who knows that no matter how far the world pulls him from that kitchen table, he is never truly lost; he is simply the living breath of a story that began with a devotion so pure, it became the very foundation of his soul.

In the velvet hush of the evening, when the modern world finally tires of its own clamor, Samarth feels the sudden, shimmering weight of a ghost-hand upon his shoulder, pulling him back to the creaking wooden floorboards of a childhood stage. He remembers the paralyzing fear of the spotlight and how it was her voice; a low, rhythmic anchor of unconditional belief that gave him the courage to lift the flute and step into the skin of Krishna, teaching him even then that his identity was not found, but summoned.  As he navigates the high-stakes maneuvers of this modern corporate landscape, he realizes that the grit he once reserved for the parade grounds has found a different, more quiet purpose. He isn't charging into battle with a rifle, but with the unshakable identity of a man who was loved enough to be "saved" from his own plans, understanding finally that his grandmother’s community feast wasn't just a celebration of a failed medical exam, but an investment in the person he was yet to become. Every time he faces a closed door or a blurry path in this crowded world, he hears the faint, mischievous clinking of her prayer beads and feels the warmth of that ancient prasadam, a divine reminder that some rejections are merely redirections orchestrated by a love that refuses to let him be anything less than his truest self. He steps forward not as a soldier of the state, but as a soldier of her legacy, building a life that is his own victory—one where the vision may be imperfect, but the heart sees with absolute, golden clarity.

Now, looking up at the stars where her soul surely keeps watch, he realizes that while he never wore the uniform, he was always guarded by the highest rank of all: a woman whose prayers were powerful enough to change the course of a life, leaving him not with a medal, but with the enduring, golden warmth of belonging. Though Granny's chair sits empty and her kitchen has fallen silent, she has not left him; she has simply expanded, her love diffusing into the very atmosphere he breathes, watching from a height where the stars seem like mere pinpricks in the fabric of her protective shawl. He looks up at the vast, indigo reaches of the sky and senses her there, a celestial architect still whispering cues to his soul, ensuring that even in this crowded, nameless city, he never forgets the divine spark she first recognized in a trembling boy. It is a breathtaking realization that he is never truly walking alone; he is a living prayer being answered in real-time, moving forward with the quiet, triumphant grace of someone who knows that the greatest love in the universe is still, and always will be, wishing him home...

Nightingale

The glow of the dual monitors cast a spectral blue tint over Samanwita’s face, making the office around her feel like an underwater tomb. It was mid-December, and the world outside was frantic with holiday cheer, yet inside the fifth-floor glass box, time was measured only in the rhythmic blinking of a cursor. Samanwita, once the "Nightingale" of her university, was now the "AI Algorithm Architect" of a premier consulting firm. Her life was a flawless lattice of complex analytical models and predictive spreadsheets, but as she sat there clearing her year-end backlog, she felt less like an architect and more like a ghost haunting her own life.

Deep in her inbox, nestled between a project extension and multiple versions of an MNC client pitch deck, an email from the regional talent team caught her eye: Join The Music Club – Our First Corporate Music Collective. Her heart did a strange, syncopated skip. For a moment, the sterile smell of the office vanished, replaced by the scent of old wooden stages and the ozone of a warming amplifier. She closed her eyes and could almost hear the roar of the crowd from the National Festival, a sound that used to vibrate in her very marrow. Back then, she was a perfectionist of the soul. She wouldn't just sing; she would dissect a song, rehearsing a single node or a difficult pitch shift for hours until it was as precise as a surgeon’s cut…

But as her mouse hovered over the invitation, a cold, sharp wave of apprehension washed over her. It’s been seven years, Sam, she thought, her fingers trembling slightly. Your voice isn't a masterclass anymore; it’s a dusty relic. She worried that the "Nightingale" had been strangled by years of corporate jargon and silence. She imagined walking into the first rehearsal and opening her mouth, only for a dry, croaking sound to emerge, the sound of someone who had traded her vibrato for a paycheck. Could a voice that spent its days saying "let’s circle back" and "optimize the workflow" still carry the weight of a soaring ballad?

She looked at her reflection in the darkened window. She saw a woman who made notes of songs to practice every weekend, only to let those weekends dissolve into exhaustion. She felt the weight of those "never-happened" rehearsals like a physical burden. What if I’m just an admirer of music now, rather than a creator of it? she wondered. The fear of being "average" was almost worse than the fear of not singing at all. In college, she was the benchmark; here, she would be just another employee with a hobby.

Yet, as she read about the debut performance scheduled for the last week of January, a flicker of defiance rose within her. She remembered the feeling of a perfect C-sharp vibrating in her chest—a sensation of being truly, undeniably alive. The spreadsheets would always be there, but the music was a flame that was currently down to its last ember. If she didn't fan it now, it might go out forever.

The internal tug-of-war lasted for minutes, the pragmatic consultant versus the dormant rockstar. Finally, the Nightingale won. With a sharp intake of breath, she clicked "Reply." Her pulse hammered against her wrists as she typed, “Yes… I will be willing to join the group.”

NMMT AC-123

 The sweltering Mumbai heat hung heavy in the air at the Powai bus stop, a tangible reminder of the city’s relentless pace and the daily grind it demanded of its inhabitants. Life in Mumbai was a constant hustle, a relentless race against time and resources, where every rupee counted and every moment was precious. Rajan, waiting for his usual 123 (Tata hospital to Borivali) NMMT AC bus, found his attention drawn to a family nearby. A man and woman, both seemingly in their mid thirties, stood with two children – a girl around twelve and a boisterous boy of eight or nine. Their simple clothes and weary expressions spoke of a life of hard work and limited means. The lines etched on the father’s face spoke of countless nights spent worrying about providing for his family, of the silent battles fought against rising prices and shrinking opportunities.

The little boy, perched on his father’s lap, was fixated on the gleaming AC buses that pulled up. 

“Baba, AC bus! AC bus!” he’d chant, his eyes wide with wonder. 

The father, his face etched with a mixture of love and helplessness, would gently try to distract him. “Beta, these buses are for office babus,” he’d say, or “Look, there’s a red bus! Let’s go on that one!” But the boy was insistent, his small voice echoing in the humid air. The father’s love for his children wasn’t expressed in grand gestures or flowery words; it was woven into the fabric of his everyday actions – the way he held his son close, the gentle touch of his hand on his daughter’s hair, the quiet determination in his eyes to provide for them, no matter the cost.

Rajan, usually oblivious to his surroundings during his commute, found himself captivated by this quiet drama unfolding before him. He even missed his own bus, so engrossed was he. He overheard the father hesitantly ask a fellow passenger about the AC bus fare for a 14-15-km journey. The man’s face fell as he listened to the reply. Probably 3x a normal bus. He pulled out a handful of crumpled notes and counted them, a flicker of disappointment crossing his features. He turned to his wife and quietly explained that they couldn’t all afford the AC bus. He suggested she take the next one with their son, while he and their daughter would take a regular bus.

The boy, sensing a change in plans, began to wail. “No! I want to go with Baba!” 

The father knelt down, his eyes brimming with affection. “Beta,” he said softly, his voice laced with a gentle lie, “Baba has an allergy to AC. It makes me sneeze a lot. I’ll be much better in the normal bus. We’ll meet you there, okay?” 

The boy, though still a little hesitant, finally nodded, his desire for the cool comfort of the AC outweighing his reluctance to leave his father.

As the next AC bus arrived, the father carefully handed most of his remaining money to his wife, his eyes meeting hers in a silent exchange of love and shared hardship. “See you soon,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. As the mother and son boarded, the father stood on the pavement, waving until the bus pulled away. A single tear escaped his eye, tracing a path down his weathered cheek. He quickly wiped it away, hoping no one had noticed. It was a tear not just of sacrifice, but of the deep, unspoken love a father carries in his heart, a love that often goes unsaid but is always felt.

Rajan, witnessing this poignant scene, felt a lump form in his throat. The raw, selfless love of a father, willing to sacrifice his own comfort and endure the scorching heat for his child’s happiness, was a powerful sight. He murmured to himself, “One truly understands the worth of a father only when one becomes one.”

Years later, Rajan, now a father himself, often recalled that day at the Powai bus stop. He remembered the father’s quiet dignity, his gentle lies, and the single tear that spoke volumes of his love. And he understood, with a depth he hadn’t before, the immeasurable sacrifices a father makes, often unseen and unspoken, for the well-being of his children. He often wondered about that family, hoping that life had been kind to them. He imagined the boy, now a young man, perhaps remembering that day, understanding the depth of his father’s love, and feeling a surge of gratitude. The memory, though tinged with sadness, ultimately brought a warm, nostalgic feeling, a reminder of the enduring power of a father’s love, a love that transcended heat, fares, and even fabricated allergies...