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."

WEIGHT OF EXPECTATIONS- A woman's journey through roles, rules and resilience

 

Once upon a time, she was just a girl.

Born in a normal house, raised with simple joys — the smell of hot rice, the sound of bicycles, the 

safety of a mother’s lap. She made mistakes. She laughed too loudly. She forgot things. She dreamed of 

becoming many things, but never “perfect.”

And yet, somewhere along the way —

after marriage, after stepping into a new life —

the world began whispering:

"Now you must be perfect."

Perfect wife.

Perfect daughter-in-law.

Perfect mother.

Perfect cook, perfect host, perfect smile

My question is — what does “perfect” mean?

Does it mean hiding her tiredness behind a smile?

Does it mean erasing all flaws so she can fit into someone else’s mould?

No one is perfect.

Not the person pointing fingers.

Not the one comparing her to someone else.

Not even the world that demands it.

We are all growing.

All learning.

All fumbling toward grace.

So here she is —

A woman, not a statue.

With a full heart, a weary back, and dreams still alive.

Not perfect, but real.

Not flawless, but whole.

If you, too, feel the weight of expectations, remember this:

🌷 You were never meant to be perfect.

You were meant to be true.

With Love,

Greeshma.

Sheebodhi: A Sacred Ritual of Karkkidakam

 

During the sacred month of Karkkidakam, when rains pour and hearts turn inward in devotion, 

Malayali households follow the ancient Sheebodhi ritual. A traditional brass vessel (kindi or uruli) is 

lovingly placed at the entrance of the home, filled with water, tulsi leaves, and often adorned with 

flowers and oil lamps.

This symbolic act is more than a ritual—it’s a prayerful offering, invoking protection, abundance, and 

peace. In a month marked by austerity and devotion, Sheebodhi reminds us to honour the divine, 

welcome good energy, and ward off the chaos of nature through faith and tradition.

Just a Little Thought Today

 Some days, all we need is a quiet corner, a cup of tea, and a small memory to warm the heart.

This morning, I remembered the warmth of Amma’s sambar simmering on the stove. The way she’d feed 

me soft rice soaked in that golden comfort, her hands always gentle, always full of love.

Me and my twin brother would take turns, riding our bicycles around the verandah, rushing in for our 

“rice ball” turns — mouths open, hearts content.

Such small moments, yet they hold the weight of joy that lasts a lifetime.

Not all days are grand — but even the simplest ones can carry a world of comfort.

Until next time,

Greeshma

WHERE IT ALL BEGAN--"MY SCHOOLING DAYS AT FORT CATHOLIC GIRLS SCHOOL, VISAKHAPATNAM"

 Some places are more than just buildings—they are the beginning of a journey, the quiet witnesses of 

our  growing years. For me, that sacred place was Fort Catholic Girls School in Visakhapatnam.

I feel truly blessed to have studied there. It wasn't just a school; it was a garden of goodness where kind-

hearted teachers sowed seeds of knowledge, discipline, and grace. I still remember day one—the 

hesitant little girl I was, sobbing and clinging to familiar hands, not ready to let go. But life had its 

plans. And so began a beautiful chapter that would last till my 10th standard.

The school stood strong and serene, right next to St. Aloysius Boys School, where my siblings studied. 

There was something comforting in knowing they were just across the wall, learning and growing too.

Our uniform was simple—a crisp white shirt paired with a neat blue frock, and oh, how proud we felt 

wearing it! The corridors echoed with laughter, prayers, and the ringing of bells that marked both 

endings and beginnings.

The teachers, ah! They were like second mothers—firm, gentle, and ever-patient. So many names still 

linger in my heart, etched forever like chalk on a blackboard. Every lesson they taught, every story they 

told, shaped the person I am today.

Those school days were more than just a routine—they were memories stitched together like a beautiful

 quilt. Morning assemblies, lunch breaks , exam days, rainy mornings..

.. all still feel just a blink away.

As I look back now, I realize how deeply those walls shaped me—not just academically, but in values, 

faith, and character.

Thank you, Fort Catholic Girls School, for being a home of learning, love, and lasting friendships.

A part of me will always walk those corridors, wearing that blue frock, heart full of dreams.

Until next time,

Greeshma.

"TO SCHOOL IN A CYCLE RICKSHAW"

Back in those tender school days, my journey to school wasn’t in a bus or by car—it was in a humble

 cycle rickshaw, along with many other chattering, giggling children. All of us squeezed together, our

 school bags bumping, our ribbons flying in the breeze, our mornings filled with laughter and mischief.

The one who made this daily ride so special was Appa Rao, our beloved rickshaw puller. I still

 remember him vividly—his weathered face, kind eyes, and the gentle warmth in his voice. He wasn’t 

just someone who pedalled us to school; he was a constant presence, almost like family.

On days when I didn’t feel like going to school, when little tears welled up in my eyes for reasons even 

I couldn't explain, he would climb the stairs to our house. 

With quiet patience, he’d console me, offer a gentle word or two, and somehow make everything feel 

better. He never forced or scolded—just reassured with a fatherly grace. 

And then, hand in hand, he’d take me down to the waiting rickshaw, where the others would welcome me with smiles and cheers.

Looking back now, it feels like a scene from an old movie—so simple, so full of heart. The creaking of 

the rickshaw, the murmur of school songs, the dusty morning roads, and Appa Rao’s steady rhythm at t

he pedals—all of it forms a beautiful mosaic of my childhood.

It wasn’t just a ride to school. It was a ride into life, carried on the wheels of kindness.

Greeshma.

MY TOWN IN MONSOON

 There’s something deeply poetic about the monsoons in my town.

It wasn’t just about the rain. It was about how the whole town responded to it — slowly, gently, like a sigh after a long summer.

The skies turned soft grey. The red earth smelled alive.

And everything — the rooftops, the verandahs, even the old street dogs — seemed to settle into the rhythm of the rain.

I remember standing by the verandah, watching the  raindrops .

The lanes outside would flood slightly, and children splashed barefoot without a care.

There was laughter, lightning, the smell of wet clothes and warm tea.

Umbrellas bloomed like flowers

on the street.

Vendors covered their stalls in plastic sheets.

Our house felt smaller in the rain — cozier.

The sound of thunder made us huddle closer.

Amma’s evening snacks tasted better when the power went out.

Sometimes, I feel like the rain taught me to feel.

To sit still, to listen deeply, to remember everything — even the smallest puddle or the way my slippers squeaked on the wet floor.

My town in monsoon was so  perfect. 

 

That’s what made it beautiful.

-from Greeshma.

LITTLE SPARROW

Little sparrows often came to our verandah — hopping along the ledges, chirping near the windows, as if they belonged to us.

One day, one of them flew in by accident.

It hit the ceiling fan and fell down, injured.

We were shocked. It was such a small thing — so delicate — and it lay there, silent. It broke our hearts.

We wrapped it carefully and placed it in a tiny box, making a home of warmth and softness. We fed it gently, watched over it, and hoped.

Days passed like that — us quietly nursing the little life in our home.

And then one day… it flew.

Not far, just a flutter inside the room. But that flutter was everything.

Then without warning — it flew out.

Gone. Just like that.

 It felt like something inside me left too.

I stood there, torn between joy and sadness.

It had healed.

It had found its wings.

It had returned to its world.

And even though it left, I still felt its presence — in the quiet, in the breeze, in every small thing that comes and goes from our lives without warning.

Some moments leave us.

But they don’t disappear.

They settle inside us — soft, light, unforgettable.

— from Greeshma🌿

"FRIDAYS FROM THE VERANDAH"

 Back in the 1980s and 90s, Fridays in our little town had a magic of their own.

From our upstairs verandah, we’d watch the streets outside the local police station come alive — 

especially when the foreigners arrived. It became a quiet little event for us. Me, my siblings, and my 

mother would gather and just watch.

They always seemed so different — calm, curious, and dressed in clothes that were unfamiliar yet 

fascinating. Many of them visited the embroidery shops that lined the street. Looking back, I think they 

had a special love for thread work, maybe even knitting. They seemed to move slowly, soaking in every 

detail.

We didn’t have phones. No cameras. No way to capture it except with our eyes and hearts.

But somehow, I remember it all — the way they looked, the way they smiled, the colors of their clothes, 

the shop signs, even the sound of the street.

I truly believe I was born with camera eyes — the kind that quietly record the world around, storing 

memories in soft focus and warm light. That stored not just images, but smells, textures, moments. 

These aren’t just pictures in my mind… they’re feelings. And they’ve stayed with me all these years 

framed not in an album, but deep within me.

Some people scroll to find memories. I just close my eyes.

Some views stay forever — right where they belong.

OLD BATA TALES

Some houses aren’t just made of bricks and paint—they’re made of smells, sounds, and scenes that stay with us long after we’ve moved on.

I grew up in one such house, balanced right above a Bata showroom. While others saw a simple shoe store, for me, it was the stage where my childhood quietly unfolded. 

"We never really had to go shopping for footwear anywhere else—because we lived right above a Bata showroom! Honestly, who didn’t love Bata back then? I'm not sure about the newer generation, but those who grew up in my time were definitely proud Bata fans." But it wasn’t just about the shoes. Our home was in the heart of the old town, right beside the iconic One Town Police Station in Visakhapatnam. A place full of stories, hustle, and history.

Upstairs, our house had a long verandah that opened up to the entire town—our own little balcony to the world. From there, we could see everything: the crowded buses, honking cars, lazy dogs, wandering pigs, and a whole lot of life unfolding every day. It was chaotic, noisy, and absolutely beautiful.

“I’ll be sharing a collection of memories from that upstairs world—where the smell of new shoes, the buzz of customers, and the creaky wooden floors became the soundtrack to my growing-up years.”

Until then,

Greeshma.

The Little Things That Heal Me

 Not every wound needs a grand solution.

Some begin to heal with the smallest things — the kind we often overlook.

Like the sound of early morning silence.

Like a warm cup of tea held with both hands.

Like the smell of an old book or a favorite pillow.

It’s not always a person who saves me.

Sometimes it’s a quiet moment when I’m finally honest with myself.

Sometimes it’s the soft sun through my window or the way rain taps on the glass.

Healing hasn’t been loud or fast.

It’s been soft, slow, and made up of tiny pieces —

pieces like forgiveness, stillness, sleep, surrender.

I used to search for something big to fix me.

Now I just let the little things hold me — gently, patiently.

And maybe, that’s enough.

"Why I decided to Start Writing About My life"

 Life has a quiet way of teaching us things — sometimes through joy, sometimes through pain, and often through the smallest, ordinary moments we overlook.

For a long time, I carried stories within me. Little memories, thoughts, and emotions that made me pause… but never made it to paper. Until now.

This blog is my way of giving those moments a voice.

It’s not about perfection.

It’s not about being wise.

It’s simply about being real.

Here, I’ll share my reflections — pieces of my past, lessons I’ve learned, things I still struggle with, and the thoughts that visit me in silence. Some posts might be raw. Some may be simple. But all of them will be honest.

Maybe you’ll see a part of your own story in mine.

Maybe you’ll feel less alone.

Or maybe you’ll just sit with a cup of tea and quietly nod along.

Whatever brings you here, I’m grateful.

This is the start of something soft, personal, and true.

Welcome to my world — one day, one thought at a time.

With Love

Greeshma