Melodies, Memories, and the Life I’m Learning to Live

 Some days, I wake before the world stirs, long before the sun remembers to rise.

I cook, I pack, I prepare, I send my children into their day — and for a moment, it feels like my entire life is woven from threads meant for others.

I tell myself I am living for my family. And I am. They are my world, my breath, my purpose.
But somewhere deep inside, a small voice whispers, “Where are you in all this?”

It’s not parties I long for, nor bright lights or loud rooms.
My friends are few, scattered like gentle stars I meet only once a year.
Shopping brings a little spark, yes — a new dress, a soft color, a fleeting joy —
but still, my heart searches for something quieter, deeper, older.

There is a longing in me that does not speak the language of crowds.
It speaks of the universe, of creation, of the unseen hand that shaped the first star.
Some nights, when the house finally hushes, my mind drifts toward that mystery —
a quest for something beyond the ordinary rhythm of days.

And in the middle of all this searching,
there is one companion that never leaves me — music.

My lifeline.
My heartbeat.
My secret refuge.

A single song can lift me from a tired morning into a sky full of color.
Another can pull me back to memories so dear they ache —
childhood rains, old dreams, forgotten laughter, the scent of a moment long gone.
Music carries me gently from the weight of today to a world where my spirit feels light,
reminding me that joy still lives quietly inside me.

And yet…
every morning, I rise again.
I continue.
Not just existing — though some days feel that way —
but learning that living for myself does not always mean doing something grand.
Sometimes it means one song that heals me.
Sometimes it means a cup of tea in silence.
Sometimes it means letting my heart wander toward the unknown.

I am still searching.
But I am learning that even the search is a kind of life —
a slow, tender journey toward the “something more” my soul keeps whispering for.

From the Balcony of Bata: A Childhood Memory Etched in Vizag

 I’ve always been a nostalgic person. Not because I’m running from the present—but because the past 

has shaped me in quiet, lasting ways. Some memories come back not with pain or joy, but with a 

strange, lingering feeling I can’t quite place. This is one of them.

I grew up in a major town area of Vizag—right in the heart of the hustle. Our home was perched above 

the old Bata showroom, and from our balcony, we could see the whole town stretch out before us. 

Shops, crowds, honking autos, festival lights, street vendors—all of it unfolded like a living movie 

from our window.

Just across from our building was a small, well-known fancy store named Mallika. A few shops down 

from there was Baba Embroidery—my father’s shop. It wasn’t just embroidery; it was part fancy store, 

part art corner, part community space. It was ours, and it stood proudly on that buzzing street.

But not everyone saw it that way.

The man who owned Mallika had an odd bitterness towards us. Even as a small child, I could feel it. 

Every time I looked out from the balcony and he noticed me, his expression would change—his face 

would twist into something meant to scare. Sometimes he’d make strange gestures. I was young, 

innocent, and yes—I got scared.

But what stayed with me most wasn’t his daytime behavior. It was something else—something stranger.

Every single night, after he closed his shop, he would stand outside and begin chanting. Not loudly, not 

dramatically—just this quiet, rhythmic mumbling of a mantra I couldn’t understand. Then, as if part of 

some secret ritual, he would take an egg and throw it in the direction of our shop. Always towards Baba 

Embroidery. Always after dark.

At that age, I didn’t know what to make of it. Was it superstition? Malice? Some old belief he held 

onto? I never asked. I just watched—sometimes hiding behind the curtain, heart thudding in my chest.

Looking back now, I don’t feel fear. I feel curiosity. Maybe a little pity. That small stretch of road in 

Vizag held so many lives, dreams, rivalries, and routines. His was just one of them.

But what stands out to me most—above the tension, above the rituals—is the view from our home.

 That balcony above Bata was my window to the world. It gave me stories, characters, and colors that 

shaped the person I am today.

And in a strange way, even the unsettling parts—like the man from Mallika—are part of that cherished 

tapestry.

With Love,

Greeshma.

Today’s Moments, Tomorrow’s Memories

 

Life has a way of pulling me back into the golden folds of the past. Nostalgia has always been 

my companion—the laughter of childhood, the smell of rain, the warmth of family evenings—they

 linger in my heart like music that never fades.

Yet, that does not mean I fail to see the beauty of the present. I do. I cherish it. Especially 

now, as a mother, each day gifts me something new to hold close: a smile, a question,

 a tiny hand reaching for mine. Motherhood has taught me to pause, to live, and to find 

joy in the simplest of moments.

Yes, my thoughts often drift back, but I also know this truth—today’s moments will 

one day be my nostalgia too. These ordinary days, the busy routines, the laughter, even

 the weariness—one day, I will look back and long for them with the same tenderness 

I hold for my childhood memories.

So I remind myself to write, to capture, to live fully in the present. Even if words sometimes

 stumble, I will try my best to pen down my present life, because it is precious, and because

 it deserves a place in my heart alongside the past.

"BEFORE THE GLOW OF TINY SCREENS"

 There was a time when life moved at a gentler pace, when mobile phones had not yet found 

their way into every hand. Childhood felt simple, uncluttered — a season of pure moment

I still remember our summer vacations in Kerala. Grandpa resting on the long chair

in the verandah, Grandma busy in the kitchen with Amma by her side,

 the comforting aroma of food filling the house.

 The sound of monsoon rains tapping on the 

tiled roof was music enough. When the electricity would go out, instead of feeling 

inconvenienced, it became a blessing. It drew the whole family together in the 

ancestral verandah, where we would sit, talk, and laugh, while the garden around us 

whispered with tiny night sounds.

Those moments felt whole, complete, unforgettable.

Now, when I look at today’s generation, even childhood seems complicated. 

From the smallest child to the oldest among us, heads bend toward the 

glow of little screens that pull us into another world. Perhaps I too am 

guilty of the same. Yet, often I find myself stepping back, longing for the quiet 

beauty of the old days, when life was slower, conversations were deeper, and 

togetherness was effortless.

Sometimes, I can’t help but feel… those days were better.

With Love,

  Greeshma

A Daughter's Whisper Across the Miles

 

Time is rushing, and my heart often lingers behind.

I live far away, raising my own little world,

But my thoughts always travel home…

To Amma and Appa, growing older with each season.

Some days, like today, just hearing Amma’s voice

Feels like a warm shawl around my shoulders.

How I wish I could be there—

To cook, to serve, to just sit quietly by their side.

But life pulls me here, to the small hands I hold now.

Still, every night, my prayers float upward—

"Dear God, keep them strong.

Wrap them in grace. Let them know I'm always near in spirit."

Because even if miles stretch between us,

A daughter’s love is never far behind.

With Love,

Greeshma.

Today's Thought

 This evening, as I sipped my tea, a little memory tiptoed into my heart.

 I was in 2nd grade. It was a rainy morning—one of those gentle, magical monsoon days. I remember 

feeling unusually happy that school wasn't cancelled. My class teacher, Daisy Teacher, was such a kind 

soul—soft-spoken and warm. Some people… they just nestle into your memory and never quite leave, 

don’t they?

That day, only 3 or 4 of us had come to class. I wore chappals instead of my usual school shoes and still 

remember the relief of feeling the rain-cooled air on my feet. There were no lessons, just laughter and 

the sound of raindrops tapping on the window panes. We played, we chatted… and at one point, Daisy 

Teacher told us to lie down and rest on the benches. I did. And I felt so at peace. So safe. So very happy.

It’s funny how small, forgotten moments bloom suddenly in the quiet of life.

And I wonder sometimes… just like I remember some people so dearly—does someone remember me 

too?

Until next time,

Greeshma

Amma's Rice Balls- The taste of love wrapped in warm handfuls

 Wherever life may take you—whether to foreign lands or polished dining halls—nothing ever truly 

matches the taste of food made by your mother’s hands.

Even now, years later, I can still feel the warmth of Amma’s palm pressing soft rice into little balls, tender 

and simple. No rich masalas, no fancy tempering. Just plain rice with a whisper of tomato. And somehow, 

it was the most delicious thing in the world.

I was just a little girl, cross-legged on the floor, watching her work with quiet care. That food didn’t just 

fill my stomach—it filled my heart.

Those rice balls tasted of home, of comfort, of love that spoke without words. And in some tender corner 

of memory, I still taste them.

With Love,

Greeshma.

The Town That's Always Moving

 

Every morning, like clockwork, two cars roll out from nearly every home in my neighborhood.

Engines start. Gates click open. And soon, the streets are filled—

Not with people, but with movement.

With purpose.

With hurry.

And as I stand by the window, a question quietly stirs within me:

“Is this just how life is now?”

In this town, the majority step out to work—early and eager.

Careers thrive, goals are chased, and homes often stand silent during the day.

The roads swell with traffic. The air thickens with smoke.

Progress, they say. But at what price?

Sometimes, I wonder if my thoughts are misplaced.

“Maybe I’m overthinking,” I tell myself.

Perhaps this is simply how the world works now.

Fast. Functional. Forward.

And yet… the unease remains.

Not as a complaint.

But as a soft ache.

A longing for rhythm in the rush.

When the traffic settles and the sun sinks low, I find myself still sitting with these questions.

Not angry. Not bitter. Just… wondering.

Is there space anymore for stillness?

For presence?

For life that breathes, not just performs?

I don’t know if my way is right.

I don’t even know if there is a right way.

But what I do know is this:

My thoughts, though small, matter.

They are the voice of a life lived gently—

One that still values silence, wonder, and meaning in the midst of noise.

And maybe, just maybe, there are others like me—

watching the world rush by, and quietly asking,

“Where are we all going?”

With Love

  

Greeshma...

Doordarshan- The Window to a Simpler Time

There was a time-not too long ago-when life moved a little slower, and hearts felt a little lighter. 

Evenings weren't complete without the soft, familiar hum of the Doordarshan opening tune filling our 

homes, like a gentle call to gather.

Doordarshan wasn’t just a channel—it was a trusted companion. A window to the world, yes—but also 

a mirror of our culture, values, and shared joys. It didn’t need glossy graphics or celebrity hosts. Its 

strength lay in stories that stirred hearts and brought families together.

The Shows That Shaped a Generation

Ramayan and Mahabharat didn’t just tell us epics—they brought generations together every Sunday 

morning, seated cross-legged, eyes glued to the screen, the scent of agarbatti wafting in the 

background. These weren’t just shows; they were rituals.

Then came Alif Laila, with its tales of enchantment and wisdom. Chandrakanta—mysterious and 

magical—made us dream beyond the mundane. And who could forget the lively laughs of Dekh Bhai 

Dekh? My brothers and I would burst into uncontrollable giggles, forgetting the world around us. That 

joy—so pure, so unfiltered.

And then, there was Malgudi Days. Oh, that haunting flute… It was more than a tune—it was a time 

machine, taking us into a village of wonder, innocence, and childhood charm. Swami and his world 

became ours.

The Unforgettable Gems

Jungle Book—how could I forget Mowgli and his jungle family? It transported us into a lush world of 

adventure and friendship. Samandar, the navy-based drama, brought courage to our little hearts. Surabhi

—a cultural treasure trove—introduced us to the wonders of India with such grace. And then came 

Shaktimaan. He wasn't just a superhero; he was a beacon of hope. We believed in him. 

We truly thought he’d appear and save the world. That’s how innocent we were. That’s how powerful 

the magic of Doordarshan was.

Byomkesh Bakshi—what a thrilling experience! The original detective who made us think, guess, and 

admire. Long before today’s crime thrillers, there was Byomkesh—sharp, quiet, and unforgettable.

There were no remotes, no binge-watching, no YouTube. Just one channel. But it had everything—

stories that made us laugh, think, cry, and dream. That one screen brought the entire family together. 

We waited patiently for our favorite show all week—and oh, the joy when it finally aired!

Today, children have countless channels, endless apps, and more screen time than ever. But do they 

have shows that touch the heart? That make them sit with their siblings, laugh until they cry, or wait 

eagerly all week? Sadly, the answer is a big, aching no.

Doordarshan was more than television—it was an emotion. A slice of our growing-up years. A symbol 

of a time when life was slower, sweeter, and deeply connected.

Yes, life was simple…

When Doordarshan was there.

With Love

Greeshma.

"A Rose for Jones Ma'am- In loving Memory of My Favourite Teacher at Fort Catholic

Some people walk into our lives softly —

Yet they leave behind footprints that last a lifetime.

My beloved Jone's Ma’am was one such soul.

She was my favourite ma’am in Fort Catholic.

What should I say about her?

Words are not enough.

An Anglo-Indian lady with a sweet, warm face…

Chubby cheeks, sparkling eyes, and a presence that felt like sunshine.

In her early days, she wore frocks — charming, cheerful.

Later, she shifted to sarees.

She looked equally beautiful in both, but I still remember how stunning she looked in a red 

saree — like a storybook queen.

She pronounced my name differently —

Greshamma — and oh, how I loved it.

A small thing, perhaps, but to me, it felt like affection wrapped in a name.

I was a quiet girl.

But she always noticed me.

Always spoke to me with kindness and care.

I knew she was fond of me… and I adored her silently in return.

In our primary school days, whenever guests or principals visited,

She would choose me to hand them the welcome roses.

Maybe she saw something in me.

A gentle confidence I didn’t yet know I had.

Later, in Class 10, she was my English teacher.

Even then, she gave more than just lessons.

She shared books, guidance, and gentle encouragement.

She never stopped believing in me.

I never got the chance to meet her again after school.

But strangely, she visited often —

In my dreams.

In my heart.

In memories that feel like blooming flowers, even now.

When I heard that she had passed away…

A quiet ache crept in.

It felt as if a beautiful chapter of my childhood had closed.

But her smile, her voice, the way she called me Greshamma —

They live on.

Dear Jone's Ma’am,

You were not just a teacher.

You were a light in my little world.

You will always be remembered with a smile… and a tear.

🌹 Rest in peace, Ma’am. You were truly loved. 🌹

Note: This is not her real photo- but a gentle tribute created to reflect the warmth and grace she carried in life."