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Showing posts from February, 2026

Temporarily Lost Forever

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Once, we walked to a friend’s door. Now, we hesitate to call. Two months ago, I called a friend I have known for twenty years. He didn’t answer. We still haven’t spoken. I don’t know why he hasn’t called back. But I know the hesitation myself: seeing an old friend’s name on the phone, wanting to talk, and somehow not feeling ready for what should be a simple conversation. I remember a time when visiting a friend meant going to his house without knowing whether he would be there. Mobile phones weren’t part of our lives, and even a landline wasn’t something every household had. You went, knocked, and found out. There was anticipation on the way, disappointment if he was absent, excitement if he was home. If you missed him, you might try again the next day. None of this felt like too much trouble. Now, the same friend is an instant message away. Yet we can go months without speaking. ...
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The House in Pudukkottai That Woke Up at 5AM

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By 5AM, the house in Pudukkottai was already awake. The old tape recorder would be blaring Pithukuli Murugados songs somewhere inside, and above everything else you could hear the steady creak of the wooden swing moving back and forth. My athai paati — my grandfather’s sister — would often be on that swing, singing “Gopala Krishna Swamy Gokulathiley,” a soft Krishna lullaby . She had been widowed young and lived the rest of her life in that house, and to me she always felt like someone straight out of an RK Narayan story. For us, summer meant Pudukkottai and Gobichettipalayam. A couple of days after the final exam, we would take the overnight Trichy Express from Bangalore, then a bus onward, and by the next morning we would be inside that long, bustling house full of cousins, relatives, and noise. Athai Paati with the kids on the swing The house itself stretched from one street to another, a lon...
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Why Malleswaram Railway Station Still Feels Like Home

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Malleswaram Railway Station — a place that never felt like “just” a station. A few months ago, someone forwarded me a video of an elderly lady speaking about the charm of Malleswaram Railway Station. She mentioned how, whenever her children visit Bangalore from Canada, one ritual remains unchanged. Her son insists on visiting the station, picking up idly from Raghavendra Stores, and eating it right there on the platform. I smiled when I heard that, because for many of us who grew up in Malleswaram, the railway station was never just a transit point. It was a quiet witness to our growing up. Even now, if I close my eyes, I can hear the metallic rhythm of trains slowing into the platform, the echo of announcements bouncing off the tiled roof, the smoky sweetness of roasted maize drifting from the bridge, and the soft warmth of idlies wrapped in paper from Raghavendra Stores. The station was never silent — but it always felt peaceful. For nearly a decade, ...
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