25. When Rain Changed a Destiny: Suyash’s Engineering Admission

     It was raining heavily. I sat by the window, watching the sheets of rain blur everything outside, and felt a quiet ache within. Such a beautiful opportunity… gone. And yet, I told myself, let it be their way. Perhaps it is better when children take their own decisions and live life on their own terms. Maybe this was also a way for me to step back — to no longer feel responsible for shaping Suyash’s life.

2.      We were then living at Napean Sea Road in Mumbai, while my sister Preeti and her son Suyash were in Kharghar, Navi Mumbai. I had spent nearly 25 years of my life travelling from Kharghar in Mumbai’s local trains, and not a single day passed without me feeling that precious time was being lost in travel. That thought had stayed with me so strongly that when it came to my own children’s education after their HSC, I was very clear — I did not want them to spend their youthful years commuting. I wanted them to study in a residential college, away from home. In my mind, it solved everything. I would not have to rush every morning preparing lunch boxes, I could focus better on my work which had become quite demanding after my promotion as an Officer, and most importantly, the children would learn to live independently — managing themselves, their time, their responsibilities, and slowly growing into confident individuals.

3.      But with Suyash, life had unfolded very differently. He lost his father at the tender age of 11, after years of watching him battle brain cancer. His childhood was not filled with carefree outings or vacations but with hospital visits and uncertainty. Growing up as an only child with his mother, he became her companion in every sense. Surrounded mostly by elders, including my father, he turned into a gentle, helpful boy — running errands, assisting with technology, helping others with mobile phones and smart TVs. Then came the COVID years — two crucial academic years spent entirely at home through online classes. His world had been small, protected, and deeply intertwined with his mother’s.

And yet, somewhere within him, there was clarity. He wanted to pursue Computer Engineering.

4.      May 2023 brought with it the results — and with it, a quiet disappointment. JEE Mains did not open the door to Advanced. BITSAT was not encouraging. A few private universities had given admissions — Manipal, Amrita, VIT — but the fees were high, hostel costs even higher, and still there was no assurance of getting Computer Engineering. I suggested SASTRA University at Thanjavur, a place we knew well because our own son had studied there. I had seen how transparent their admission process was, how reasonable the fees were, and how the peer group consisted of students who were sincere and grounded — not necessarily toppers, but not weak either. It felt like the right place.

5.      When Suyash got Computer Engineering (AI & DS) at SASTRA, my heart was filled with joy. Silently, I offered my gratitude to Siddhivinayak Temple, Prabhadevi, because somewhere deep within, I had wished for exactly this for him — his desired stream, a good college, a path that could secure his future.

But life is never just about opportunities. It is about emotions — deep, binding, sometimes overwhelming emotions.

6.      For Preeti, this was not just about sending her son to college. It was about letting go of the one person who had been her constant through years of struggle. From the time her husband fell ill, it had always been just the two of them, holding on to each other. The thought of sending him far away, all the way to Thanjavur, felt unbearable. And Suyash, sensitive to his mother’s feelings and aware of her financial situation, began to step back from his own desire. He said he would study in Mumbai, in whatever stream he got through MHT-CET.

7.      They eventually secured admission in EXTC at a college in Chembur. When they told me, I accepted it outwardly. But within, there was unrest. I could already see the life ahead — long, exhausting train journeys from Kharghar, the daily uncertainty, the anxious waiting of a mother if he got delayed or unreachable, the limitations on his growth, his exposure, his independence. And yet, I questioned myself — who was I to insist? What if he could not adjust away from his mother? What if she could not stay alone? What if, in the end, everything worked out anyway?

8.      That rainy morning, as I sat by the window, these thoughts weighed heavily on me. I expressed my sadness to my husband. He listened quietly and said he wanted to speak to Suyash just once — to understand his reasoning. I messaged Preeti accordingly.

9.      And then, something unusual happened. My daughter called from the US — something she rarely does so early in the morning. Almost instinctively, I poured out everything to her. Her husband, who had studied EXTC himself and later moved into the IT field, listened carefully and said something so simple, yet so powerful: “If he wants Computers, he must study Computers. Otherwise, he will have to come back to it later anyway.”

That one sentence shifted something.

10.    Soon, all of us were on a conference call — my daughter, my son-in-law, Preeti, and Suyash. Questions were asked gently, but there was no strong reason, no convincing explanation for why he should let go of Computer Engineering. And then, my husband stepped in with quiet assurance — he said he would personally take them to Thanjavur and settle everything.

What happened next still feels unbelievable.

Between 6:30 am and 8:00 am, a decision that seemed final… changed completely.

Flight tickets were booked.
Hotel arrangements were made.
And just like that, they were ready to leave for Thanjavur.

11.    Looking back at the events of the previous day, I cannot help but feel that something beyond us was at work. The heavy rains, the long queues, the technical issues during document upload, the sudden requirement of an HSC hall ticket which was never asked before, the system not accepting uploads, the counters closing — all of it felt like invisible obstacles. And then, something even rarer — a pre-announced government holiday due to heavy rains, preventing them from completing the process the next day.

It was as if every attempt to finalize the Mumbai admission was gently being stopped.

12.    When I called Preeti that morning, she said she was just about to continue the process — upload documents and pay fees. But within those ninety minutes, everything changed. There was nothing left to upload, nothing left to pay. The direction itself had changed.

13.    For me, this was nothing short of divine intervention. The Almighty had worked through circumstances, through delays, through people — even through us — to guide Suyash towards a path that was meant for him.

14.    Today, Suyash is in his third year at SASTRA, doing well, growing, becoming more confident with each passing day. Recently, he secured an internship at a prestigious Government Institue in Mumbai for May 2026. And when I look back at that rainy morning, I no longer feel a sense of loss. Instead, I feel gratitude.

Because sometimes, what we think we are losing is actually what we are being protected from.

Sometimes, when paths close, it is not rejection — it is redirection.

And sometimes, faith quietly works in the background, arranging things in ways we cannot even imagine.

All we need to do… is TRUST.

 

24. 50th Wedding Anniversary Celebrations that I attended.

 

I feel truly happy and grateful that I got this opportunity to say a few words today for Uncle and Aunty’s golden wedding anniversary.

I met the Bagaria family a few years ago as next-door neighbours, at a phase in my life when both my children had gone away to college and my husband was mostly a weekend husband because of work postings. Even though I was busy with my own work during the day, evenings in an empty house had started feeling difficult.

And that is when this family quietly became such a beautiful support system for me.

The children — especially Shourya and Shristi — would come running to greet me. Aunty would often keep aside some special dish or snack for me and lovingly say, “Come, eat with us.” Those simple words carried so much warmth and comfort.

I stayed near them only for a short period, but the affection and bond have continued for years.

One thing I always admired about Aunty was how proudly and lovingly she spoke about her family — her children and daughters-in-law. I remember when she had kept an Ekadashi fast and wanted to do the udyapan pooja. She was so happy talking about how everyone supported her wholeheartedly. Listening to her always felt so lovely because you could genuinely see the love and respect in this family.

Recently, when I was posted in Goa and staying in a rented apartment, some people there openly told us they didn’t want to become friends because we were “just tenants” and would leave someday.

And I remember thinking — what a contrast.

Because families like the Bagarias make people feel included, welcomed and cared for, no matter how temporary life may be.

And on a lighter note… aren’t we all tenants in this world anyway?

Maybe we can all learn something from Uncle and Aunty — to be a little more affectionate, a little more accommodating, and a little more inclusive.

So today, here at the Jio Convention Centre, we have all been enjoying a truly rich and memorable experience of hospitality—from the moment we handed over our vehicles to the valet at the entrance, to the lavish and delicious spread that has been so thoughtfully arranged for all of us. And as we receive the prasad of the Satyanarayan pooja and this beautiful Lord Ganesha memento, I feel that these are not merely gifts; they are reflections of the generosity, warmth and thoughtfulness that Uncle and Aunty have shared with family, friends and well-wishers throughout their lives.

From the bottom of my heart, I wish Uncle and Aunty a very happy Golden Wedding Anniversary. May God bless them with good health, happiness, peace and many more years of togetherness. May their love, kindness and ability to make everyone feel like family continue to inspire all of us for years to come.

Thank you.

23.When Faith Overruled Fear: The Night That Saved Shashank

 

The year was 2012. Shashank, my nephew, was about six-and-a-half years old. He had cough, cold, and fever — something so common, especially when viral infections are around. Normally, with a few days of medication, children bounce back. So initially, there was no great cause for worry.

2.      But Pooja being Pooja, she never treated anything casually. She would personally take charge — balancing allopathic medicines with home remedies, carefully managing side effects, and ensuring that symptoms did not aggravate. She had, over the years, become deeply knowledgeable about the human body and its responses. After all, this was the same woman who had tirelessly managed her husband’s chemotherapy and all its painful side effects with remarkable strength and precision.

3.      Pooja and her husband were both banking professionals posted in Gujarat. Back in 1991, when their first son was born, they had relied on Jyoti’s parents to care for the child while she resumed work after maternity leave. Everything seemed perfect — after all, what could go wrong when a child is under the loving care of his own grandparents? But life had other plans. When the time came to admit him to school in Vapi, they arranged for a babysitter to take care of him after school hours. One day, the child fell sick. What began as a simple illness soon turned mysterious. Communication gaps, unfamiliar surroundings, and a growing dependence on beliefs and practices that Pooja was not entirely aligned with — all of it created a situation where, despite trying various treatments in well-known hospitals, they could not save their son. He passed away at just five-and-a-half years old.

That loss was not something that could ever fade.

4.      So when Shashank fell ill at the age of six in 2012, those painful memories came rushing back. Fear took over logic. This time, Pooja and her husband placed complete faith in the doctors.

5.      They were living near us in Kharghar then. When Pooja called me and said that Dr. Moralwar had diagnosed Shashank with a disease called “Kawasaki” and that an injection costing ₹40,000 in cash was urgently required, I was taken aback. I could not believe it. I rushed to the hospital immediately.

6.      There I saw Shashank — my little nephew — lying on the hospital bed with an IV drip. He looked alert, his face did not reflect any severe distress, and yet he had been admitted and was being given glucose intravenously. I was shocked. I questioned — why an IV when the child could eat normally? But Pooja and her husband were in a different state of mind. They looked defeated, almost resigned, as if history was about to repeat itself.

But something within me refused to accept that.

7.      I immediately thought of Dr. Shenoy, an MBBS general practitioner based in Goregaon East, about 43 kilometers away from Kharghar. He was known to see nearly 300 children a day and was regarded by many as nothing less than a God’s messenger for the poor in the Goregaon-Malad area. I had trusted him completely with my own children throughout their growing years. Based on my own experience and understanding of his treatment approach, I felt strongly that we must seek his opinion before proceeding with such a serious diagnosis and expensive treatment for a disease we had barely even heard of.

8.      At around 5:30 pm, I called his clinic and explained that we would be travelling from Kharghar and might reach by 8 pm. Then I turned to Pooja and told her to inform the hospital that we were taking Shashank out. But she hesitated. Her fears were valid. What if the hospital refused to take him back later? What if something went wrong? What if this was destiny, and no doctor could change it? She was caught between fear and faith — and fear was winning.

9.      At such moments, my husband has always been my pillar of strength. When I told him that I wanted to take Shashank to Dr. Shenoy, he did not question me. He simply said yes and got ready to drive.

10.    Time was slipping. I urged Pooja to sign the hospital form — “Discharged Against Doctor’s Advice.” With a heavy heart, she did. We carried Shashank, still with the IV port in his tiny hand, and began our journey to Goregaon. Traffic was terrible. Reaching by 8 pm seemed impossible. I called the clinic again and informed them we would be late — around 9 pm. To our relief, they assured us they would wait.

11.    When we finally reached, Dr. Shenoy saw us immediately. He examined Shashank calmly and then said something that changed everything in that moment — “There is nothing to worry. It’s a viral flu. The child is hungry. Feed him.”

12.    He gave a simple dose of medicine, packed a few more, removed the IV port, and said, “Free the child. He will be alright.”

That was it.

No panic. No complicated diagnosis. No expensive injection.

Just clarity. Just experience.

We stepped out of the clinic around 10:30 pm. All of us were hungry. We stopped at our sister’s house in Powai and had a simple meal of curd rice. But that night, that simple meal felt like a celebration. There was relief, there was gratitude, there was quiet joy.

We returned home — and we never went back to that hospital again.

13.    That was in 2012. Today, in 2026, Shashank is a healthy 21-year-old young man. And not once did we face any such health scare again.

14.    Later, out of curiosity, we looked up what “Kawasaki disease” actually was. It turned out to be a rare but serious condition affecting children, involving inflammation of blood vessels, often requiring prompt treatment. It is part of a broader category called vasculitis — disorders involving inflammation of blood vessels, which can affect various organs. The disease was first described in detail by a Japanese pediatrician, Tomisaku Kawasaki, in 1967, after observing several such cases.

Reading about it on the internet could easily make any parent panic.

15.    But our experience taught us something invaluable.

No matter what we read or hear, nothing replaces the reassurance, judgment, and experience of a trusted doctor whom we can meet in person.

Sometimes, fear magnifies situations beyond reality.
And sometimes, faith — combined with the right guidance — brings us back to truth.

That night, it was not just a doctor who treated Shashank.
It was faith, courage, and timely action that saved us from making a decision we might have regretted forever.

 

22. The AIBE Exam I Went to Write, and the Lesson in Humanity I Brought Back.

 

AIBE XXI – My Story

I got my AIBE examination centre at a school in Nallasopara, a good 70 kilometres away from where I stay. Given my physical health, limited stamina, and recurring acidity issues, I was genuinely concerned. How would I manage a journey of nearly three hours, write a three-hour examination, and then undertake another three-hour journey back home?

The examination was scheduled from 1 p.m. to 4 p.m.—exactly in the middle of the day, neither before nor after lunch. Even planning meals required careful thought.

The immediate solution seemed obvious: check into a hotel near the examination centre the previous evening.

It was a practical and feasible idea. There were innumerable hotels in the area, though not very close to the centre, most being about 20–30 minutes away by road. That sounded reasonable enough.

Meanwhile, my husband spoke to a few friends because Nallasopara was a place we had only heard about and never actually visited. It always sounded like a far-off suburban residential area. The most economical and practical connection with Mumbai was through the Western Railway local trains, which run frequently.

But with a bag full of books, advancing age, health concerns, and a life that had gradually moved from middle-class train journeys to travelling by car, train travel was simply out of the question.

One of our friends then offered us the use of their earlier residence, which happened to be much closer to the examination centre.

Little did I know that I was about to experience a royal welcome and what felt like VIP treatment.

We left our home in Kharghar at around 5.30 p.m. and reached our friend's place by 8.30 p.m. During the journey itself, our friend Suraj called several times to check on our progress and informed us that their maid was waiting to show us the flat.

I remember wondering what there was really to see. I had carried food for ourselves and was mentally planning my last-minute revision for the examination.

The first warm feeling greeted us even before we entered the building.

The security guard at the gate showed us where to park our car. The moment we mentioned Suraj's name, everyone became noticeably courteous and hospitable. It may sound like a small thing, but it was a rare experience.

Over the years, whenever we visited someone, security personnel would usually ask us to make entries in registers, instruct us not to park in certain places, or direct us to leave the car outside the society premises. Here, however, we felt welcomed even before entering the building.

When we entered the house, another surprise awaited us.

The refrigerator was stocked with vegetables, coconut water, curd, buttermilk, eggs, milk and bread. The house was spotless, fully functional, and ready for comfortable living.

A little later, Lakshmi, the maid, came to explain where everything was kept. I told her there had been far too much trouble taken for us. After all, we were only going to stay for a single night and would leave immediately after the examination.

She replied, "Madam has told me to keep everything ready for your stay—new towels, new bedsheets, and even the air-conditioners have been serviced."

At that very moment, Suraj's mother called on Lakshmi's phone. I took the opportunity to speak with her.

All I heard was:

"Geeta, you can stay for two or three days. Cook, eat, rest. Everything has been kept for you."

Those words brought tears to my eyes.

That night, one question kept ringing in my mind:

What is true richness?

People may possess immense wealth and money, yet may not know how to spend it. People may interact with hundreds of others every day, yet may not know what words need to be spoken at the right moment.

Those words—"You can stay for two or three days"—were not merely words.

They felt like affection.

They felt like belonging.

They reflected a largeness of heart, generosity of spirit, and a magnanimity that cannot be measured in material terms.

Even the best words fail to describe the sense of gratitude and overwhelm that I have felt since arriving here.

I kept wondering how I could express my happiness and gratitude to Suraj and his family.

The next morning, I woke up and made coffee for us. I cooked rice and tomato chutney, along with cucumber salad and curd for lunch. My husband prepared omelettes and bread for breakfast.

We did all this partly to make use of the fresh provisions thoughtfully kept for us and partly as our small way of acknowledging the care that had been extended to us.

The AIBE examination brought me to Nallasopara.

But the greater lesson I learned was not from any law book.

It was a lesson in hospitality.

A lesson in kindness.

A lesson in how genuine affection can transform an ordinary act into an unforgettable memory.

Thank you, Aunty.

My deepest regards and namaskarams to you.

My heartfelt wishes to Suraj and his entire family for a long, healthy, prosperous, happy and blessed life. May good fortune, good health, and happiness remain with your family for generations to come.

Sometimes, the most important examinations in life are not the ones we write in examination halls.

They are the ones where people quietly demonstrate the values of humanity, generosity, and love.

And in that examination, your family scored full marks.

I had gone to Nallasopara carrying law books for an examination. I returned carrying something much more valuable—a reminder of the goodness that still exists in people. 

 

21. What Is Life? A Reflection from Meera’s Journey

 

Life does not come to us as a single story. It arrives in chapters, each shaped by time, circumstance, and the quiet turning of the heart. Some chapters are tender. Some arrive like storms. Some change the course of who we are without warning. And yet, through each one, life keeps asking us the same question: What is your purpose in this moment?

Perhaps life is not a search for answers, but a willingness to live each role with sincerity—as daughter, provider, friend, wife, mother. Not all roles come through blood or tradition; some are chosen through feeling, through responsibility, through love. And when one role is complete, life leads us onward to the next.

Meera’s life is a testament to this truth.

—confident, steady, unbroken. She began her adulthood in responsibility. When her father passed away, she became the steady pillar of her family. She worked diligently, protected her mother and sister, and built a life defined by perseverance rather than privilege. Yet her heart desired something simple—warmth, affection, a home shaped not by walls, but by love.

When Meera met Rajan and held in her arms his four-month-old daughter Anya, who had just lost her mother, something deep within her moved. She did not become a mother through birth, but through choice. She loved with instinct, sincerity, and silent depth. And when doctors advised that carrying a child at forty-three could endanger both her and the child, Meera again chose love over desire. She refused to create the conditions for another child to grow up motherless. Her love was mindful—never grasping, never blind.

For years, she built her home with patience and care. But the man she married could not sustain the stability she offered. Rajan slipped slowly into self-importance, then dissatisfaction, then withdrawal, and finally into addictions that hollowed their marriage from the inside. Through humiliation, uncertainty, and loneliness, Meera continued to protect her daughter’s emotional world, shielding what innocence could still bloom.

She endured until she knew Anya could stand on her own

Then, she released the marriage.

Without anger.
Without demands.
Without bitterness.
No alimony.
No accusations.
Only the quiet freedom to walk forward with dignity.

Within a week of their separation, Rajan remarried. The new wife, too, was a mother—but estranged from her own grown daughter. Two women, two mothers—one who held motherhood as sacred, and one who let it slip away. Life, in its quiet irony, often writes parallels that speak more than any conclusion could.

Where did Meera go from there?

Not into loneliness.
Not into emptiness.
But into purpose.

She now lives away from the noise of the city, among a gentle differently abled community, caring for her nephew with patience, attention, and love. She is building a retirement home there—not a house meant to impress, but a sanctuary shaped by peace. Her days are not loud. They are meaningful.

Her journey is not one of abandonment or defeat.
It is one of conscious love and quiet strength.

And so we return to the question:

What is life?

Life is not ownership.
Not permanence.
Not the lifelong gripping of roles or relationships.

Life is participation—to enter each chapter wholeheartedly, and to leave when the lesson has been honored.

Most people measure life by what they manage to keep.

But Meera teaches us to measure life by what we have the courage to give.

Love without expectation.
Duty without pride.
Motherhood without biology.
Acceptance without resentment.

She did not cling to the symbol of marriage, but she held on to meaning.
She may no longer be a wife, but she remains a mother in the purest sense.
She may not have received emotional shelter, but she became a shelter for others.

Life did not reward her with applause or recognition.

It gave her something quieter—and perhaps greater:

Purpose. Clarity. Peace.

And sometimes, that is the highest form of fulfillment a human soul can receive.

20. Black Beauty

Boston, MA

18.11.2021

BLACK BEAUTY

 It was the third time that morning that I’d opened the refrigerator. Nowadays, I tend to forget easily the reasons of my actions. My movements are fast between the fridge and the kitchen, but I have to tread carefully, lest I stamp the 4-legged black beauty watching me open and close the fridge.

Danny expects that every time I open the fridge, it is for him. To feed him something. Even if I don’t give him anything from the fridge, he would continue to sit and watch me earnestly. He never loses hope. No sounds come from him, but his eyes say it all. His eagerness to find out what is in the fridge for him and just by his looks, he sees to it that something or the other does come into my hand and straight into his mouth.

At last, I say pointing my finger toward his bed, “enough Danny. You are done. Now go away and sit”.  He quietly walks away.

Danny doesn’t like the sound of the mixer grinder. Only once I saw him run when I switched the mixer on. From the next time I made it a point to announce, “Danny, I am going to start mixer”. He would run inside to his room, away from the sound of the mixer. I was surprised at his understanding.

Danny came into my life on January 20^th, 2020. I used to and still fear dogs. When Danny arrived, I assumed that the house would be ransacked. He would run here and there, mess up the sofa and spread eatables all over.

I was wrong. When Danny came home, I stopped him at the entrance, did aarti and asked him to come in.  A furry dark black, 45 kgs, huge Labrador. He stepped in slowly and made himself comfortable in a corner. He neither barked nor growled. He walked around tiredly after 25 hours of being on the road from Chennai to Mumbai. I was surprised at his silence.

I went about my work and didn’t try to get to know him or his habits. He was Rahul’s pet and hence his responsibility. Neither was it my cup of tea. So, I carried on with my work over the weekdays and coming home to Kharghar on weekends.

Danny arrived home on Monday night. I left for work the next morning and returned Friday evening to see Danny by the lift lobby. He jumped to show his happiness at my arrival.  I smiled to myself but didn’t even touch him. I kept myself aloof. I was never used to a pet and had never had such an idea of getting close to an animal. It was Rahul’s pet, and my concern was minimalistic.  

Weekends passed like this. Weekdays, I stayed away from Danny and weekends, I watched Danny from far.

In March 2020, while the lockdown was in place, one evening, I was forced to be at home alone with Danny while Rahul was away. I was little scared. Maybe he sensed the fear in me? He glanced at me occasionally and took deep breaths, opening his mouth as if he was trying to smile at me. He wanted to make me comfortable.

It was almost dinner time and Rahul was not back. I got panicky, thinking Danny may bark if he gets hungry. Rahul called and said, “Amma can you please put his formula food 2-1/2 cups in his bowl?”

That was the first time, I fed Danny and looked into his eyes. His eyes conveyed his happiness at the timely food that I served him.

When I think back, I now know that, that was the moment when  our eyes met and our communication lines got synchronised.

In the next 6 months, the 4 of us; Rahul and Danny on one side, my husband and I on the other side of the house. We lived like 2 families sharing an apartment. Danny and I would exchange glances and slowly he drew me into playing with him with his toys. Even so, I couldn’t muster the courage to feed him or take him for a walk.  Rahul and my husband did all of it.

In September, my husband had to go away for an assignment for 3 weeks and it fell upon me to feed Danny and even take him for walks within our society premises. I don’t know when Danny crept into my mind, made a place for himself, and then spread himself in such a way to occupy the whole of space for himself. Not a word. Not a sound. Only the voice of his eyes.

By October 2020, we had to take a decision to move back to our Napean Sea Road residence, as I had to physically be present in office. We mutually agreed that Rahul would visit us at Napean Sea Road twice a week and Danny would live with us, as my husband would be at home all day.

Initially, I wondered whether Danny would miss Rahul’s presence. But he was matured, calm and composed being. He adapted himself to the newer ways of life, the ways his life was taking him. From a big family house in Chennai, to a bachelor pad and then an apartment in Mumbai after a 25-hour road journey with strangers and Rahul with whom he had a short acquaintance. In Kharghar, a high rise bldg. on the 13^th floor, facing strange times of lockdown, stray dogs and new people around and then to be with us in a newer surrounding at Napean sea road away from Rahul too.

Observing Danny had become my new past time. Very soon, I started to realise how by his calm and composed nature, he can bring tranquillity within his surroundings and spread affection, not by words or any sound, but by just being quiet and observing. Just by looking at his eyes, we could understand what he wanted, and he would be behind us unless and until his needs were fulfilled.

In due course of time, we realised that the park opposite our house had separate hours for pet dogs to socialise. We were making new friends with pets. Wherever we went, Danny accompanied. Our lifestyle had changed.  More than that, my mind changed forever. Danny taught me what is unconditional affection. He taught me that by being silent and observing, one can keep oneself calm and composed.  The let go spirit is easier to put in practice with him around.  He brought about tranquility within the chaos that I get into with all the thoughts and fears in my mind.

He shows his excitement and happiness by wagging his tail at the prospect of walks. He waits at the door and ensures that I join him and my husband in the night walks. He treads between us like a happy baby.  

It’s been a week of being away from Danny but not a single day has passed by without speaking or thinking of him. I call all the dogs Danny, whomever I see on the road and all of them respond affectionately.

Between January 2020 and today, I am a changed person forever. The feeling of being loved and showering love, is an altogether different experience, which I would never have had, if I hadn’t reciprocated Danny’s efforts to come closer to me and adapted myself to Danny. May be in human relations too, we could try and open our minds to accept the people in our lives as they are and make it simple and easy to live with each other.

A big Thank you and best wishes to my dearest Son Rahul, on this 25^th birthday for bringing Danny into our lives. Though, I keep pointing out that in every plan now, we must put Danny on the top and then decide around it, still at this point of time, in the difficult situation of being under lockdown for a long time and having stressful events to face, Danny has been around to help us remain sane. Long and healthy life wishes to Danny and of course to the Dog father Rahul dearest. 

19. A Letter from Danny to Me

 A Letter from Danny to me

My Dearest Amma,

I’ve never had the words — but I’ve always had the heart.

I remember when my world changed… when I lost the person who first raised me. I didn’t understand where I was, or who would come next. Then one day, your son found me — and even though I didn’t know it at the time, my forever family had already started finding me.

When Appa drove all the way to Chennai to bring me home… I knew. I wasn’t just being taken somewhere. I was being brought into someone’s heart.

And then, I met you.

I remember the first time I saw you — calm, observing me quietly, as if wondering what kind of dog I was. You didn’t rush to smother me with affection, and I didn’t rush to bark. But there was a silence between us that felt safe.

Amma, you are my safe space.

I watched you during those months when the world outside shut down. I saw how much you missed your daughter. I saw how strong you tried to be for everyone — for the house, for the food, for the moods that shifted like winds.

You never asked me to fix anything. And that’s what made our bond so special — we just sat beside each other and breathed.

I don’t care for big things. I care for the sounds of your footsteps. I care for the way you call my name gently, the way you look at me before you go to sleep. The way you whisper “good boy” even on the days I haven’t done anything at all.

Amma, I know I’m getting old.

My legs are slower. My naps are longer. My energy doesn’t bounce the way it used to. But every time I see your face, I still feel like a puppy. You make me feel young — because you love me as if I were new to your heart every day.

When my time comes — and it will, someday — I just want you to know: I’ll never really leave. I will sleep in the corners of your room. I will walk beside you on your quiet days. I will wait for you in the wind that brushes your cheek gently.

You didn’t give birth to me. But you became my Amma.

Thank you for giving me my home, my purpose, and my peace.

I love you, forever and ever.

Your boy,

Danny 🐾

18. A Journey Still in Progress

I got down from the train at Karmali station today. The platform was quiet, almost indifferent to the emotional storm within me. Monty was already there, waiting patiently. I called him onto the platform to help with my luggage. Without a word, he hoisted the bags into the car and we began our drive home – 420, Gera Astoria, Caranzalem. As I looked out of the window, palm trees swaying gently under the Goan sky, I couldn’t help but wonder – how did I land up here again?

I was so sure, so mentally prepared, that I would be transferred back to Mumbai or perhaps get some faceless posting that would allow me to finally work from Kharghar. That was the plan – or at least the hope. A quiet transition, a gentle exit, maybe even a subtle way of quitting Goa without announcing it. Instead, here I am, back to the same demanding HQ posting under the PCIT, and now poised to move to the Investigation Wing – an entirely new chapter.

The work here is relentless, a 24x7 affair. It keeps me engaged, and truthfully, I find satisfaction in being of service and knowing my work makes a difference. Yet, the cost is heavy – on both body and mind. And still, I carry on.

But I didn’t begin writing this because I dislike work, or because I can’t manage. That’s not it. It’s the weight of a thought that has stayed with me for nearly three decades: that I would quit this job someday. A thought seeded when Jahnavi was born, watered with years of intention, yet never fulfilled. Now, I’ve begun to believe that one cannot leave a job merely because one wants to. A job must let you go. It must release you.

I remember when I was about to be engaged, my would-be mother-in-law had gently warned me: “You must be prepared to quit your job anytime. My son’s career will take him places.” And I was ready. After all, I had a modest government job, earning Rs. 1900 per month, while Krishnan earned four times as much. I imagined a life where I stayed home, raised children, and did not leave them to the care of others as I had once done for my nieces and nephews.

But life had other plans.

Post marriage, we moved to a small flat in CBD Belapur – a name unfamiliar to me then. I had been a western suburban girl, used to fast trains and the hum of Mumbai. The slow trains from Belapur and the long, exhausting two-hour commute to South Mumbai came as a shock. Still, I adapted. We bought a home in Kharghar, and my journey stretched by one more station.

Through all this, I held onto my job. Friends on the train, especially the senior women, were my voice of reason. One said, “Bacche bade ho jayenge, lekin government naukri chodogi to phir se nahi milega.” I heeded their words. Work continued, life continued. And then came the Child Care Leave – a blessing I hadn’t anticipated. Just when I was considering quitting again, the system threw me a lifeline.

Jahnavi and Rahul grew up. Responsibilities changed shape. Parents aged. In-laws passed. Krishnan’s job took him to Nagothane, and mine to deeper corners of Mumbai. I juggled everything – work, family, and health – with a kind of strength I didn’t know I had.

Somewhere along the line, loneliness crept in. When I shifted to Ghatkopar to reduce travel, I realised my childhood home didn’t feel like home anymore. The innocence of memory clashed with the present’s harsh reality. Government quarters were dilapidated, and I missed the cleaner, more peaceful life in Navi Mumbai. Still, I hoped. I hoped Jahnavi would return for her M Pharm. I hoped we’d buy a flat in Chembur. But none of that happened.

When Rahul came home in 2017 and Krishnan secured the Wadala flat for us, I thought – this is it. This is home. I was happy. Healthier. Even more optimistic about a future together under one roof. But life, once again, had different plans. Krishnan needed to quit his job. Rahul moved in new directions. Jahnavi settled in the US. The Wadala chapter closed.

By the grace of the system, I got a quarter at Napean Sea Road. It saved us. Financially, emotionally. That year, I too had thought of quitting but one of my colleagues told me to be a little more patient. He said the bosses will be transferred out sooner or later, but once you quit a government job, you won’t get it back. So, I waited. And continued.

December 2019 brought Rahul back home. He left his job to join a startup and brought Danny along. With Ram, our trusted house help, I hoped we’d finally live together in a central location – all of us under one roof, reducing travel and sharing life. But the dream remained a dream. Rahul had other plans, and Krishnan didn’t share my urgency or vision to buy a flat within city limits.

In September 2023, fate brought me a full circle. My office shifted to Vashi, and I got the chance to live in Kharghar again. I was close to home, close to Rahul. But quitting again didn’t seem practical – Krishnan had retired, and Rahul’s business hadn’t yet taken off. I was the only regular income.

Then, in December 2023, came the promotion – Assistant Commissioner of Income Tax. In February 2024, I was moved to Goa. And within days, the thought to quit returned. But this time, a real estate broker, of all people, stopped me in my tracks. “Madam, be here for a week and you’ll want to settle down. Don’t quit. Yours is a government job. If you leave now, you won’t get it back. What will you do at home, now that the children are grown up?”

His words echoed a truth I knew too well.

2024 brought travel, adventure, and unexpected joy – a seven-week IRS training, a tour through Bangalore, Andamans, Mysore – an experience of a lifetime. But even then, when I discussed retirement with colleagues, they advised me to wait for our promotions to be regularised. Otherwise, pensions would be fixed at lower grades. So I waited. And on 01.01.2025, our batch was regularised. A relief.

I decided to resign on 30.04.2025, retire by 31.07.2025. But once again, a colleague advised patience. “Madam, just wait till January 2026. The 8th Pay Commission is declared. If you’re in service on 1.1.2026, your pension will increase significantly. Just a few more months.”

So now, I wait again. I wait for March 2026, wondering if I’ll finally gather the courage to quit. Or will I convince myself to stay one more year, until AGT 2026, hoping to be posted back to Mumbai, and then take VRS?

It’s been nearly three decades of wanting to quit and never really doing it. At this point, I don’t know whether I’m incredibly patient or simply caught in a loop of duty and hope.

But I do know this – I’ve lived a full life in the margins of decisions not taken. I’ve found strength in staying, and sometimes, quiet grief in not leaving. Sometimes, I think I’ve stayed too long. Sometimes, I feel I’ve stayed just right.

And still, I’m here. Working. Waiting. Wondering.

17. A Piece of My Heart

 

It all began one luminous morning when I was twentyfive, confident in my shoes and determined in my stepping—yet something stayed behind the moment I kissed Jahnavi goodbye and left her at home with her grandmother. I was off to the office, believing I’d built a strong heart—but a little piece of it, fresh and bright, refused to come along.

When she turned one, the day I dropped her at the crèche was another parting—but this time, the weight was different. She hadn’t quite learned to eat by herself, didn’t babble the big words yet—and oh, how my heart thudded as I walked away. I would still discover that morninglight in her smile waiting for me after work, like a little sunbeam just for me.

Year after year, she became my courage, my calm, my cheerfulness incarnate. She was my daily dose of Purpose and Hope and Giggly Fun rolled into one. And when my son followed her into this world, she stepped up so naturally—as if she woke up one day and said, “Don’t worry, Mum, I’ve got him from here.” She took care of him at home, in the crèche, in school—practically the first parent he saw.

Her teachers, time and again, would ask, “But where was Jahnavi yesterday?” — “Why was the class so unruly without her?” I admit I used to chuckle: someone had paid to teach that class, yet they depended on my little girl to sort things out! When I wondered aloud how she kept forty kids in check, teachers simply smiled—as if to say it wasn’t magic, but matteroffact control. I believed it because at home, I needed her laugh to keep me going.

She also became my little schooladministrator: fee payments, diaries, holiday lists, exam rosters, sports day timelines—Jahnavi handled them all. She told me the schedule ahead of time, I just followed—she practically ran a school from the backseat of our car.

After she finished 12th, the farewell ceremony made her classmates tear up (and yes, my son too—when he realized school wouldn’t be the same without his sister). He somehow made it through another year without even buying a school diary—his handmedown of her organisation skills.

When it came time for her to stay as a paying guest at a friend’s parents’ home, I felt another piece of my heart being carried off—but I believed in letting her learn how to stand on her own. She always kept us looped in on her world—her routine, her updates, her triumphs—while growing stronger each day.

I had my dreams mapped out: she would come home after her undergraduate in Mumbai, do postgrad here, find a lovely life—maybe meet someone special when the time was right. But then she announced: “Mom, I’m going to the U.S. for my PG.” Another part of me flew away, but only in the physical sense. I’d loved how school taught her to spread her wings. I couldn’t clip them now—even if my heart ached.

I remember packing for that international trip: I was confident we had three suitcases covered at 23 kg each. Two of them maybe totaled 69 kg in my head—but oh, the airport scale threw them off. She had to buy another suitcase, shuffle everything, and I swear even the conveyor belt was judging us. I stood there and didn’t realize half my heart had slipped into her suitcase.

The next day, I was in my office, screen blinking with live flight status updates. My beloved Jahnavi was soaring above oceans—building a life of her own. Though she wasn’t physically with me, my best wishes circled her like confetti clouds.

In May 2019, we flew out for her convocation. I hugged her tight—felt her presence like sunshine on a chilly morning—and when she left us again outside the Fairfield Marriott, standing for her car pickup, my feet turned to jelly. Another piece of me went with her.

Since then, every airport goodbye, every time zone crossing—my heart still gets slightly numb for days. We visit Boston sometimes; she visits Mumbai a couple times a year. Each reunion fills me with sunlight; each departure leaves me missing.

I whisper to the sky whenever I see her off: “Be safe. Be happy. Be brilliantly independent. And come back soon.” Because my heart knows it's always safer when held in her embrace.

I’m waiting impatiently for the day when it’s just she and I, windchimes and laughter and maybe latenight chai on the balcony—maybe when she becomes a mother herself and relives the magic of being in my arms again. Those few days together will be when I reclaim all those little pieces of my heart I left behind. Until then, I rest in the joy of watching her fly—my toddler turned strong, brave woman—knowing that even above the clouds, our hearts keep beating in tune.