My dearest Krish,

Eighteen years ago, on 18 October 2008, amidst the festivities of Diwali, you made your entrance into our lives. While the world celebrated the festival of lights, our lives were about to change in ways we could never have imagined.

Your arrival was far from the beautiful, peaceful beginning I had envisioned. An emergency delivery, unexpected complications, moments of fear, uncertainty and countless prayers marked our first journey together. The years that followed brought challenges of their own, testing our strength, patience and resilience.

But through every difficult moment, we held on to each other. Even before we truly knew one another, we had begun fighting our battles together. Somewhere along the way, we made an unspoken promise — we would never give up on each other.

Perhaps that is what makes our bond so special. We didn’t merely grow together; we learnt to be strong together.

And today, that little boy turns eighteen!

I find myself caught between two beautiful emotions — the overwhelming pride of watching you step into adulthood and the quiet ache of wondering where those eighteen years disappeared.

The tiny fingers that once wrapped around mine have grown stronger, the little boy who needed me for everything now has his own opinions, ambitions and dreams. And how beautifully you have grown, Krish!

Not merely in age or achievements, but in character, confidence and the way you carry yourself. Watching you evolve into a thoughtful, intelligent, determined and independent young man has been one of the greatest joys of our lives. You have developed a personality that is distinctly your own, and I couldn’t be happier with the person you are becoming.

Of course, raising a Gen Z teenager has been quite an adventure! We have had our share of disagreements, passionate debates, occasional eye rolls and moments when you are convinced that Mamma belongs to a completely different era. Sometimes our conversations feel less like mother-son discussions and more like courtroom arguments, with both sides absolutely certain they are right!

But that’s part of growing up, isn’t it? Learning to understand one another despite our differences, knowing that love remains unchanged even when opinions don’t match.

And then there is Sia!

The endless sibling banter, the teasing, the arguments over the most trivial things and the remarkable ability you both possess to irritate each other within seconds! One moment, you are debating something as though world peace depends on the outcome, and the next, you are laughing together as though nothing happened.

Yet, beneath all that delightful chaos lies a beautiful bond. Sia looks up to you more than you probably realise. You are her big brother, someone she admires, learns from and, of course, reserves the right to annoy! I hope the two of you always retain this friendship, laughter and sense of belonging, long after you have grown into your own lives.

Your journey through school, your academic accomplishments, your discipline and your determination to pursue your goals have brought us immense happiness. As you now embark on your professional journey, we look forward to watching you discover your potential and build a future of your own.

But there is one particular feeling Papa and I have treasured throughout these years.

We have changed quite a few schools along the way, met different teachers and begun new chapters in unfamiliar surroundings. Yet, every time we walked into a school and someone said, “Oh, you’re Krish’s mum!” or “You’re Krish’s dad!”, our hearts filled with a pride that is difficult to put into words.

Those simple words have always meant so much to us. Not merely because of your academic achievements, but because of the impression you left behind.

Of all the identities we have acquired in life, being recognised as Krish’s parents has been, and will always remain, one of our most priceless privileges.

As you step into adulthood, I want you to remember something I have always told you and Sia.

Your achievements are yours to celebrate, but your setbacks are ours to face together.

We are a unit. Four individuals with different personalities, opinions and imperfections, but united by a love that rises above everything else.

Life will not always go according to plan. There will be disappointments, difficult choices and moments when you question yourself. But never feel that you must carry those burdens alone. We may not always have the answers, but we will always stand beside one another.

I wish you success, certainly, but more importantly, I wish you wisdom, kindness, humility and contentment.

May you have the courage to pursue your ambitions without losing sight of your values. May success make you grateful rather than arrogant, and setbacks make you wiser rather than bitter. Choose your relationships carefully, respect people, honour your commitments and never compromise your integrity.

Be ambitious enough to chase your dreams, but grounded enough to remember what truly matters.

There is something profoundly emotional about a child’s eighteenth birthday.

For the world, it marks adulthood, independence and new beginnings. For a mother, it feels like standing between two chapters — one filled with memories she wishes she could revisit and another filled with possibilities she cannot wait to witness.

I know my role will gradually change. I will have to learn when to advise, when to listen, when to step aside and when to trust you to make your own decisions.

And while a small part of me wishes I could hold on to your childhood just a little longer, a much bigger part of me is excited about the wonderful young man standing before me.

Eighteen years ago, I held you in my arms, frightened of what tomorrow might bring. Today, I look at you with immense pride and excitement for everything your tomorrows hold.

You have given me eighteen years of laughter, lessons, memories, occasional frustration and immeasurable happiness. You made me a mother, but in so many ways, you have also helped me grow as a person.

And if I could return to that uncertain day in October 2008, knowing every challenge, every sleepless night and every emotion that awaited us, I would choose this journey with you all over again, without a moment’s hesitation.

Happy 18th birthday, our darling Krish! ❤️

Papa, Sia and I couldn’t be prouder of how beautifully you have turned out. You have grown into a young man with dreams worth pursuing, values worth preserving and a future filled with possibilities.

Go ahead and embrace this exciting chapter. Make your own choices, create beautiful memories, learn from your mistakes and build a life that brings you genuine happiness.

And through it all, never forget that you have three people who will celebrate your victories, share your disappointments, laugh at your jokes, occasionally disagree with you and love you beyond measure.

The world sees an eighteen-year-old ready to embrace adulthood. I see eighteen beautiful years of learning, growing and discovering the extraordinary joy of being your mother.

And perhaps that is the greatest gift you have given me, Krish — not just the privilege of raising you, but the happiness of watching you become someone I genuinely admire.

I once held your little hand to help you find your feet. Today, I am ready to let that hand go, knowing how beautifully you have learnt to stand on your own.

With all our love, pride, happiness and blessings,

Mamma, Papa & Sia ❤️

P.S. You may officially be an adult now, but don’t expect your Mamma to stop worrying, your Papa to stop advising or Sia to stop annoying you. Some things are simply lifelong privileges! ❤️

It cannot always be “I did this for you, so now you do this for me.” Love is not a transaction. But care, concern and effort need to flow both ways.

Sometimes, do something without being asked.

If your partner silently prays for your health, happiness and success, remember to pray for theirs too. If they take care of the little things that make your life easier, occasionally do the same for them. If they are caught in an endless routine, step in and give them a break.

Not everything meaningful has a price tag. Sometimes the most valuable thing you can give someone is attention, consideration and the feeling that they matter.

Never let familiarity become an excuse to take someone for granted. Years together do not automatically mean closeness. Sometimes years of unspoken hurt and feeling unseen can create a distance that becomes harder to bridge with time.

Gratitude matters too. We are often quick to notice what someone failed to do and strangely forgetful of everything they quietly do every day.

If something is bothering you, talk to your partner. Don’t discuss every disagreement with other people or involve your children. Some problems need conversation, not an audience.

And when you are angry, especially over something small, remember the bigger picture. Think of the vulnerable moments when that same person stood beside you when perhaps no one else did.

Before listing someone’s mistakes, occasionally ask yourself an uncomfortable question: Could I have contributed to what went wrong?

Those carrying the pressures of work should remember something too—home cannot always become the dumping ground for outside stress. It is easy to snap at the person closest to you because you know they will still be there. You may forget your words ten minutes later, but the person who heard them may carry them for days.

Being closest to someone should never make them the easiest person to hurt.

At the same time, understanding cannot remain one-sided forever.

There comes a point when constantly giving, adjusting, forgiving and waiting begins to exhaust you. If you have spent years putting everyone else first and your efforts are repeatedly taken for granted, it is perfectly alright to turn some of that care towards yourself.

Do things that bring you peace. Rediscover what makes you happy. Stop waiting for someone else to create your happiness for you.

And if someone is constantly unkind, remember—you do not have to absorb every harsh word, every mood and every disappointment until it becomes your sadness.

You cannot control another person’s behaviour, but you can control how much space you allow it to occupy within you.

No relationship will ever be fifty-fifty every day. Sometimes one person will give more because the other is struggling. That is what companionship is.

But it cannot always be the same person understanding, giving, forgiving and reaching out.

Love is not about keeping score.

It is about noticing the things that have become so routine that you stopped appreciating them.

It is about remembering who stood beside you when life wasn’t easy.

And every once in a while, without being reminded or asked, making the person beside you feel—

“I see you. I value you. You matter too.”

When Ganesha comes home, we prepare a place for him in our house. Over the next five days, without quite realising it, we make a place for him in our hearts.

Perhaps that is why the Ganesha we welcome on the first day somehow feels different from the one we bid farewell to on the fifth. He hasn’t changed. Maybe we have.

For those five days, our lives gently revolve around him. Aarti twice a day, bhog three times a day, flowers, prayers and seva offered with love and purity. In our otherwise busy lives, these are days when we give him something precious — our undivided time.

And devotion seems to fill not just the heart, but every sense.

The fragrance of freshly steamed modaks — the soft rice flour covering filled with warm jaggery and coconut — drifts through the house. It is a fragrance so divine that I often wonder how Bappa could possibly resist being drawn towards it. His favourite modak for his taste, incense and flowers for their fragrance, aarti and bhajans for those large ears that seem ready to hear every prayer, beautiful decorations for his eyes, and the loving hands that dress, adorn and serve him.

Perhaps that is the beauty of these five days. We try to reach Bappa through every sense, while somehow feeling that he is sensing every little expression of our devotion too.

Somewhere along the way, Sukhkarta Dukhharta settles on our lips. We hum it while cooking, tidying up or simply going about our day. We don’t consciously begin singing it; it just stays with us, as though Bappa’s presence has quietly become the rhythm of the home.

And when we stand before that majestic face, it often feels as though he is looking straight into our eyes and listening. Some conversations are spoken, others remain within the heart, yet somehow, we feel heard.

How such a deep bond develops in just five days is difficult to explain.

Then comes visarjan.

As we sing the final Morya and ask for his forgiveness before bidding him farewell, the joy of the past few days turns into an emotion that is difficult to contain.

Niroop gheto aata aamha aadnya asavi,
aamha aadnya asavi.
Chukale amuche kahi,
tyachi kshama asavi.

We seek his permission to bid him farewell and ask forgiveness for anything we may have unknowingly done wrong during his stay. Somehow, on that final day, those words bring tears to the eyes.

They say Ganesha feels heavier when he is carried for visarjan. I like to believe he becomes heavier because he is taking away some of the weight from our shoulders — our worries, fears, obstacles and even those burdens we could never put into words.

He leaves heavier so that we may feel lighter.

This year, my mother suggested something beautiful. Before visarjan, we packed food in a banana leaf, tied it carefully and placed it on Ganesha’s arm for his journey home.

That simple gesture touched me deeply.

Isn’t that exactly what we do when someone we love is travelling? We make sure they carry something to eat on the way.

In that moment, it didn’t feel like another ritual. It felt like sending someone we love on a journey. And I knew immediately that this was one tradition I wanted to continue every year.

Perhaps that is what devotion really is.

The aroma of a freshly steamed modak. The fragrance of incense. The sound of an aarti that refuses to leave your lips. The beauty we create around him. A silent conversation before his majestic face. Tears while saying goodbye. And a little food lovingly packed for his journey home.

For five days, we believe we are doing seva for Ganesha.

But when it is finally time for him to leave, we realise something beautiful.

We thought we were taking care of him.
Perhaps, all along, he had come home to take care of us.

Ganpati Bappa Morya. 🙏❤️
Pudhchya varshi lavkar ya.

7 September 2026
27 years of separation

Dear Papa,

Twenty-seven years.

Twenty-seven years since 7 September 1999.

I have written about you so many times over the years. About the memories, the loss, the man you were, and the things I wish I could still tell you.

But this year, I don’t want to write only about losing you.

I want to write about the life you missed.

Because this has truly been a milestone year for our family.

Mom turned 70 this year.

And when I look at her now, I can’t help wondering how different these years might have been if you had been beside her.

Perhaps she wouldn’t have grown old quite so soon.

Perhaps she wouldn’t have had to become so strong, because you would have been there to share the weight of life with her.

Perhaps some of the weakness and weariness I see in her today would have been lighter if she would had you beside her.

You should have grown old together.

You should have had each other through the ordinary days, the difficult days and all the little moments that make up a lifetime.

I wish you had been here to see her turn 70, to sit beside her, celebrate with her, fuss over her, and simply be her person.

Sometimes I feel your absence didn’t only take you away from us.

It asked Mom to carry a life that was meant to be carried by two.

And I wish she hadn’t had to do so much of it alone.

Then there is Sia.

Your granddaughter has stepped into her teenage years.

And Krish will soon become an adult.

You never got to meet them, Papa.

They never had the opportunity to know their grandfather, hear your voice, sit beside you, or make even one memory with you.

They know you through photographs, through my stories, and through the little pieces of you that have remained woven into our family.

I often wonder what kind of grandfather you would have been.

Would you have spoilt them?

Would you have teased them?

Would they have climbed all over you?

Would you have secretly given them everything we said they couldn’t have?

I wish I knew.

I wish they knew you.

And then there is Manoj.

You never got to meet him either.

You never got to know the man I chose to spend my life with, or see the family we built together.

This year, Manoj and I will soon celebrate our Silver Jubilee—25 years together.

Twenty-five years, Papa.

And I know how proud you would have been of him.

You would have admired his achievements, but even more than that, I know you would have admired his intellect—the way his mind works, the way he thinks, the depth of his understanding.

I have always felt that about you.

You have always admired people with intellect, substance and a sharp mind. You valued those qualities in the people around you.

And I often tell Manoj that.

I tell him, “I know Papa would have really admired you.”

And he agrees.

He often says that not having met you was a big miss for him.

That always stays with me.

Because I wish you had met.

I wish I could have watched the two of you talk.

I wish I could have sat quietly somewhere and listened to the conversations you would have had.

I wonder what you would have thought of him.

And I wonder what Manoj would have thought of you.

There are so many relationships that were meant to exist but never got the chance.

A father and a son-in-law who never met.

A grandfather and grandchildren who never knew each other.

A husband who never got to grow old with his wife.

A father who never got to see the woman his little girl became.

That is perhaps the hardest part of loss.

It isn’t only losing the person.

It is losing everything that was supposed to happen afterwards.

The conversations.

The celebrations.

The introductions.

The photographs.

The ordinary family moments.

The milestones.

The years.

This year, our family has so much to celebrate.

Mom at 70.

Sia stepped into her teens.

Krish standing at the threshold of adulthood.

Manoj and me reaching 25 years of marriage.

So much life has happened.

And yet, in the middle of every celebration, there is still that little ache.

That familiar thought.

“I wish Papa were here.”

I wish you could see Mom.

I wish you could meet Manoj.

I wish you could know Krish and Sia.

I wish you could see the life we built.

I wish you could sit with us at our little celebrations and achievements.

I wish you could be in the photographs.

I wish you could laugh with us.

I wish you could simply be here.

And more than anything, I wish you could see how far all of us have come.

I wonder what you would think of us today.

Would you recognise me?

Would you be proud of the woman I became?

Would you be proud of your grandchildren?

Would you look at Manoj and think, “Yes, she chose well”?

I hope so.

I hope, wherever you are, you have somehow seen us.

Seen Mom.

Seen me.

Seen Manoj.

Seen Sia.

Seen Krish.

Seen the family that grew after you left.

Because 27 years is a long time.

A lifetime of moments you never got to witness.

And still, you have never stopped being part of ours.

You live in the stories I tell.

In the memories I protect.

In the questions I still ask.

In the values I carry.

And now, in the stories your grandchildren hear about a grandfather they never got the chance to meet.

Perhaps that is what love does.

People leave this world, but they don’t leave our lives.

They remain in our stories, in our memories, in the things we say, in the people we become, and in the generations that come after them.

So today, Papa, I don’t want to say goodbye.

I have said goodbye for 27 years.

Instead, I want to say—

Look how far we have come.

We are still here.

We are growing.

We are celebrating.

We are loving.

We are carrying forward.

And you are still quietly woven into all of it.

This year, when we celebrate these milestones, I will think of you.

I will imagine you sitting among us.

Watching Mom at 70.

Smiling at Sia stepping into her teens.

Looking at Krish and wondering when that little boy grew up.

Meeting Manoj and admiring the man he has become.

Watching your grandchildren.

Looking at all of us.

And perhaps, in that moment, I will imagine hearing the words I have wished for all these years:

“I’m proud of you.”

Papa, there are so many things I wish you could have seen.

So many people I wish you could have known.

So many memories I wish we could have made.

But if there is one thing I hope you somehow know, it is this—

you were never forgotten.

Not in 27 years.

Not for a single milestone.

Not in a single celebration.

You may have missed our milestones,

but you have never missed a place in our hearts.

27 years of separation.

And yet, not a single year without you.

You are still part of every celebration.

Every milestone.

Every story.

Every generation.

And perhaps that is the greatest tribute I can give you—

a family that continues to speak your name, remember your place, and carry your love forward.

I wish you were here, Papa.

To see how far we’ve come.

To see who we’ve become.

To meet the people you never got to meet.

To celebrate the milestones you should have been here for.

And most of all…

to know that after all these years,
your daughter still looks for you.

Always.

Twenty-five years ago, we got engaged today.

We had known each other for six days.

Yes. SIX. 😅

Those were simpler times.

There were no red flags and green flags to analyse.
There was no Social Media University teaching us compatibility, attachment theories or telling us, “If he does these five things… RUN!” 😂

Thank God. At this rate, I might still have been analysing.

Instead, like they show in cartoons, a bulb lit over his head… and I just knew — this is the one. 💡

No research.
No reviews.
No trial period.

Just instinct… followed by a lifetime subscription with no cancellation policy. 😂

And just like that, Anita and Manoj began.

Then life took over.

I chose to stay back, build our home and raise our children.
He took on the responsibility of providing for us.

Different roles.
Same team.

There was never a scorecard of who did more, because while he kept one part of our world running, I kept another part running.

And between us, we somehow kept the entire show going.

Somewhere along the way, Anita and Manoj became Mamma and Papa.

Our two-member partnership became a full-fledged family organisation…

No fixed working hours.
No weekends.
No resignation policy.
And unfortunately, no HR department to complain to about each other. 😂

We built homes, raised children, handled families, finances, school, responsibilities, celebrations, festivals, decisions, emergencies… and approximately seventeen thousand conversations beginning with:

“But I thought YOU were doing it!” 😂

And then came the tides we never expected.

Losses that changed us.
Uncertainty that tested us.
Responsibilities that sometimes felt heavier than we were prepared for.
Plans that collapsed and had to be rebuilt.

Sometimes I carried him.
Sometimes he carried me.

Sometimes we carried each other beautifully.

And sometimes we had a proper argument first and then remembered we were actually on the same team. 😅

Because when the real battles came, there was never really your problem or my problem.

It was ours.

We may have fought with each other plenty 😂, but whenever life fought against us, we knew exactly which side we were on.

Ours.

Maybe that’s what 25 years have taught me.

Marriage isn’t two people living happily ever after.

It’s two people repeatedly looking at the latest situation life has dumped in their laps and saying:

“Okay. How are WE getting out of this one?”

And somehow… we always did.

We chose US when life was beautiful.

More importantly, we chose US when it wasn’t.

Today, Mamma and Papa sit discussing our children’s dreams, choices and futures.

And sometimes I wonder —

When did those two people who barely knew each other become this team that has handled an entire life together?

Twenty-five years.
So many versions of us.
So many tides crossed.
So many battles fought.
So much life lived.

And the show is still running. ❤️

Happy 25th Engagement Anniversary to us, Manoj.

And to that girl who saw an imaginary bulb over his head after six days and thought, “He’s the one”…

Your research methodology was terrible, Anita. 😂
But 25 years later, I’d say your instincts deserve a five-star review. 💡❤️

I have written about so many people.

People I love.
People I miss.
People who stayed.
People who left.
People who became stories.

Funny, isn’t it?

For someone who writes so much, I have rarely written about me.

Maybe because I have always been busy being something to someone.

A daughter. A wife. A mother. A friend.

And quite often, the person people call when life gets messy.

I have listened patiently to heartbreaks, fears, anger and agony — sometimes on repeat. 😄

I have kept secrets, dried tears, given shoulders, offered advice and, when there were simply no words, just stayed.

I have said “I’m here” more times than I can remember.

And I meant it every single time.

But somewhere in all that showing up, I forgot to show up for one person.

Me.

Even my prayers had a waiting list.

My children first.
My husband.
My mother.
My family.
My friends.

I would stand before God carrying everyone’s names…

except my own.

Until recently.

These days, I have started slipping my name into my prayers too.

Keep me healthy.
Keep me peaceful.
Keep me happy.
Let me become the best version of myself.

It felt strange at first.

Almost selfish.

And then I wondered—

Why should loving myself be the only kind of love I need to feel guilty about?

So this birthday, I don’t want anything that can be wrapped.

I want me.

A healthier me.
A happier me.
A peaceful me.
A me who still loves fiercely, but doesn’t disappear while doing it.

I will still answer the calls.

Still offer the shoulder.

Still worry after saying, “Don’t worry.”

Still pray for everyone I love.

That’s who I am.

But there is one small difference now.

My name stays on the list.

And sometimes, it will even come first.

Not because I love anyone less.

But because I finally understand that I cannot endlessly pour from myself and expect never to run dry.

I need to be filled with love to pour love.

So today, without guilt and without apology…

I choose myself.
Sometimes even over others.
And that isn’t selfish.

It is self-love.

It is self-preservation.

Perhaps, it is finally growing up.

Because I have spent years becoming the person so many others could lean on.

Now I want to become someone I can lean on too.

And if there is one gift I want from this birthday, it is this—

to meet, love and live the best version of me.

For once, this Abstract isn’t about anyone else.

This one has my name on it.

And today, I say something I usually wait for everyone else to say to me…

Happy Birthday to me. ❤️

May this be the year I love the woman I have become as fiercely as she has always loved everyone else.

Sometimes loneliness isn’t about having no one around you.

It is about being surrounded by people and still wondering where your people are.

Every time a family moves to a new city or country, everyone starts again—but not everyone starts with the same opportunities.

A spouse joins a new workplace. From the very first day there are colleagues, meetings, lunch breaks and everyday conversations. Slowly, familiar faces become acquaintances and sometimes friends.

Children enter a new school. They sit beside someone in class, join a sports team, attend an activity, share a lunch table—and before you know it, names start appearing in their conversations at home.

But for the homemaker, there is no first day somewhere.

No desk next to someone.
No lunch break with colleagues.
No classroom or playground that brings the same people together every day.

Her ecosystem has to be created from scratch.

Yes, there are building WhatsApp groups, community circles and parents of the children’s friends and your husbands friends.But exchanging messages or living in the same building doesn’t automatically create friendship.

You make an effort to meet.

Sometimes you connect. Sometimes you don’t.

Because we come from different parts of the country, different cultures and very different ways of living.

Some comfortably outsource much of the everyday running of a home. Some of us are still a little old-school—we like being personally involved in our children’s studies, their food, activities, routines and the little details of home.

Neither way is better.

But when your family is your first priority, your day is often planned around their lives. So when someone says, “You need to step out more and make friends,” you know it comes from a good place—but friendship isn’t an appointment you can simply put into the calendar.

And somewhere along the way, you may even get judged.

Too involved with the children.
Too particular about home.
Not social enough.
Not making enough effort.

Perhaps what we need is not judgement, advice or sympathy.

Just an understanding that different people build different lives.

A homemaker may take longer to find her circle—not because she doesn’t want one, but because unlike the rest of the family, her new life doesn’t arrive with a ready-made place to belong.

And as we grow older, we aren’t looking for a room full of people anyway.

Meeting people is easy.
Finding common ground takes time that is finding your people is rare.

Sometimes we are simply trying to find our own little ecosystem in a life where everyone else already seems to have one.

And then when you find a few with whom you can truly be yourself—
It is not socializing.
But a sense of belonging.

A childhood best friend is a mirror.

Not the kind that shows you only what you want to see, but the one that reflects everything — your strengths, your flaws, your moods, your silences and sometimes even the things you are trying to hide from yourself.

There are no filters between us.

When a friendship has travelled almost four decades, care takes on a different meaning. We become fiercely sensitive and protective of each other. Somewhere along the way, without ever saying it aloud, we began to consider each other our responsibility.

We don’t think twice before giving an opinion, even an uncomfortable one, because we know it comes from a place of genuine concern. We worry about each other. We check. We question. We advise. And sometimes we irritate each other doing it!

But both of us know where it comes from.

Care. Pure, genuine care.

We are each other’s safest secret keepers. We know each other’s likes and dislikes at the back of our hands. We know what makes the other happy and exactly what can irritate her.

Sometimes we already know the answer, yet we still ask the question.

And our telepathy? After all these years, even we are amazed by it. One look, one word, sometimes just a pause — and we know.

Now, in middle age, I realise how rare this is.

Of course we can make new friends. But can we recreate something that has taken almost four decades to build?

Probably not.

Because friendships like ours require something that cannot be hurried — time.

Years of patience, understanding, adjusting, accepting and simply being there. We have watched each other grow through different versions of ourselves. Life changed. We changed. Our worlds became bigger.

But we remained us.

Four decades also means our friendship has passed through its own little tests. We have upset each other at times, but never enough to forget what we mean to one another. Whenever something felt bigger in that moment, it didn’t take long for both of us to realise that nothing was bigger than everything we had built together.

And ours has never been a friendship known only to the two of us.

Our families and friends have been witnesses to this beautiful bond through the years. They have seen us grow from little girls into the women we are today. They have watched our friendship travel through different stages of life, and in some way, they too have become part of its story.

Some have known us from the very beginning. Others came into our lives much later. But they all know one thing — Lochana and Anita come with a history.

A history that doesn’t need explaining.

There is also an invisible circle of loyalty around our friendship.

People may know either of us. They may have their opinions. But neither of us needs to know the other through somebody else’s version.

You don’t need to tell me about her. I know her.

And I know she feels exactly the same about me.

That protectiveness comes from knowing how many years, memories, secrets, tears, laughter and pieces of life sit between two people.

Almost four decades.

And today, on your birthday, Lochu, I realise that I am not merely wishing my best friend.

I am celebrating someone who holds almost an entire lifetime of me.

You knew the little girl I was.
You know the woman I have become.
And somewhere between those two, you have been there through it all.

And today I also want to say something I perhaps don’t say enough.

Thank you for choosing me.

Thank you for choosing me as your friend all those years ago, and for continuing to choose our friendship through every changing season of our lives.

I also know that in recent times, I may not always have been as visible or as present as I could have been. But perhaps birthdays are beautiful reminders not just to look back, but also to look ahead.

So here’s my little promise to you.

I will make the effort to be around more.

Not because almost four decades need proving, but because the years ahead deserve our time too. There are still conversations to be had, laughter to be shared, memories to be created and so much life left for us to witness in each other.

May life always be gentle with you. May you be blessed with health, peace and happiness, and may this beautiful, unspoken bond between us remain exactly what it has always been — protective, honest, unfiltered and ours.

Almost four decades behind us, and somewhere inside us are still those two little girls who chose each other as friends without ever knowing how much of life they would eventually share.

And if life gave me the chance to go back and choose my childhood all over again,

I would still choose you to grow up with.

Thank you for choosing me then.
Thank you for choosing me through all these years.

And my promise is to keep choosing you — and us — in all the years still waiting for us.

Happy birthday, my dearest Lochu. ❤️

Some of the most powerful lessons in life arrive without saying a single word.

A black-and-white photograph is one such lesson.

The moment colour disappears, so do many of the labels we unconsciously attach to people. There is no fair or dark, no race to identify, no complexion to compare. What remains are faces, emotions, stories, and souls.

It quietly reminds us that the essence of a person was never their colour. It was always their smile, their kindness, the warmth in their eyes, and the love they carried.

Perhaps that is why monochrome images feel timeless.
They don’t erase our differences—they simply stop giving them importance.

Imagine if we looked at people the way a black-and-white photograph does.
The world would still be wonderfully diverse, but far less divided.

Because equality doesn’t begin when everyone looks the same. It begins when we choose to see every human being with the same respect.

The world becomes more beautiful not when colours disappear, but when prejudice does.

There is something beautiful about growing up in a family that treasures its culture.

Traditions aren’t taught through lectures. They are quietly absorbed over the years—by watching your mother light the lamp, your grandmother prepare for festivals, your father perform rituals with reverence, and every celebration becoming a lesson in itself.

You don’t carry those traditions because they are imposed on you.

You carry them because they become a part of who you are.

You grow up feeling proud of your roots.

Then one day, marriage introduces you to another family.

Not every marriage is between two people.

Sometimes, it is between two cultures.
Two languages.
Two families.
Two entirely different ways of living.

One person may have grown up in a home where traditions were woven into everyday life—not through instructions, but through years of watching, participating, and belonging.

The rituals became second nature.

Not because they were imposed.

But because they were lived.

Then comes marriage.

A new home.
A new family.
New customs.
New expectations.

The challenge isn’t learning something new.

Most people are willing to learn.

The challenge begins when learning is expected without anyone willing to teach.

Traditions that took an entire childhood to understand cannot be mastered in a few family gatherings. The same is true for everyday living. Every family has its own way of cooking, celebrating, speaking, hosting guests, and doing the simplest of things.

Language often becomes another silent barrier.

The person entering a new family may spend years trying to understand a new language, unfamiliar expressions, and conversations that flow effortlessly around them. Yet, rarely do we pause to ask whether the family has made even the smallest effort to speak in a language that helps the newcomer feel included.

Learning should never be a one-way expectation.

It should be a bridge built from both ends.

Imagine how beautiful it would be if, instead of saying,

“This is not how we do it,”

someone simply asked,

“How does your family do it?”

Imagine recipes being exchanged instead of rejected.

Imagine traditions being shared instead of compared.

After all, no culture loses its identity by learning something new.

It only becomes richer.

The person entering a new family is often the only one who is new.

Everyone else already knows the rhythm, the customs, the language, the conversations, and the unspoken rules.

How can the only newcomer be expected to know a syllabus they have never studied?

Every mistake is not a lack of respect.

Sometimes, it is simply the first page of a lesson no one has taught.

What every new family member truly hopes for is not perfection.

Just one patient hand.

Someone who doesn’t interrupt halfway through an attempt.

Someone who allows questions without judgement.

Someone who lets mistakes happen without making them feel small.

Because acceptance is not measured by how quickly someone adapts.

It is measured by how safe they feel while learning.

When people are corrected with kindness, they participate with confidence.

When they are corrected with sarcasm, they slowly step back—not because they don’t care, but because they become afraid of never being enough.

Perhaps these conversations deserve to happen long before the wedding day.

Not as conditions.

But as understanding.

Not to decide whose traditions will prevail, but to acknowledge that two worlds are about to become one.

Marriage was never meant to erase one family’s way of living for another’s.

It was meant to create a home where both legacies, both languages, and both cultures are welcomed with equal respect.

Because families don’t become one through ceremonies alone.

They become one when someone stops saying,

“This is our way,”

and starts saying,

“Let’s build our way together.”

Every family hopes to preserve its traditions.

The strongest ones are those that know how to pass them on—with patience, not pressure.

Because belonging is never inherited.

It is gently taught, lovingly nurtured, and wholeheartedly accepted.