O'Rodha - Life and Letters

Relationships may strain for reasons we may never fully know. But when we pause to understand the other person’s feelings and choose to forgive without reopening old wounds, nothing feels more liberating. There is a rare freshness in beginning again—free of bitterness and filled only with love and joy. This is what I admired most in Arundhati Roy’s memoir Mother Mary Comes to Me : the journey from a strained relationship with her mother to one marked by warmth and understanding.

 “ Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world .” Sitting in the back of an autorickshaw, my eyes were glued to these lines in a thin booklet—a “guide” I had just bought from a roadside bookstall. At that moment, the poem felt literal. I felt I had lost control; everything was falling apart, and my life was descending into a kind of anarchy. Between frantic glances at the page, I urged the driver to hurry. When I arrived, the security guards were already closing the main gates. "We're closed," they insisted. I begged them, my voice on the verge of breaking: "Please, sir, I have to go in." Perhaps seeing the sheer desperation on my face, he relented. I dashed towards the exam hall, the lines of W.B. Yeats looping in my brain like a mantra. I reached the room just as a man was closing the heavy door. "It’s over," he said. "E...

On December 1st, I started my ILT session with a client. The very same day, the model exams for my son's Plus 2 started. But let’s be clear: the priority is me. I issued a strict decree to my family—and even the pets—not to make a noise nor come anywhere near my "room" when the session started. As for my son’s exams? Look, I knew they were happening. That’s enough, right? I am not the type of mother who memorizes the date sheet. I don't know if he’s writing Economics or Accountancy. I just know he has "papers." It was day two of the training. Except for me and the dogs, nobody was home. Everyone had been instructed on where to find the spare keys, because I wasn't going to be the doorman if they rang the bell. After an hour and a half of the session, it was finally time for a short break. I rushed down to the kitchen to munch on something, and lo and behold, my son was there on the sofa, browsing through his phone. I looked at him, grumbling in...

  It’s still hard to believe—and unbearably painful—that 21 years have passed since you left us. If you were here, yesterday we would have celebrated your 78th birthday. Happy birthday, Papa. I can still picture myself walking into the Archies store, carefully choosing the perfect “Happy Birthday Papa” card for you. To me, you weren’t just my father—you were the best human being who ever happened to me. Your passing taught me something profound: death is never the end. If anything, I began to feel your presence even more after you were gone. You were missed deeply at my wedding, yet you made sure to visit my married home in our dreams. During my pregnancy, when I went through some of the hardest moments, there you were again—protecting me, guiding me, holding me even in my dreams. How can I ever thank you enough for never truly leaving me? I treasure every conversation we shared when I came home on vacations. I never belonged to the kitchen, but I belonged with you—in the pla...

I was pursuing my journalism course when Arundhati Roy’s  The God of Small Things  was published. A Booker Prize-winning novel, it quickly became the talk of the town, and, as was the trend, I too wanted to own a personal copy. However, as a student surviving on a minimal allowance from my parents, I couldn’t afford to buy the book. Luckily, a hostel mate had purchased it, and I managed to book a few hours with it. The time slot I got was from 12 a.m. to 4 a.m. Our hostel was run by nuns, who had a habit of switching off the power at night. So, I ended up reading the book by candlelight, determined to finish it in time, as there was a queue of others waiting to read it after me. Months later, I was traveling with my dad on a train to Thiruvananthapuram. Sitting opposite us was a couple who had traveled from Europe to Kerala. They had a copy of  The God of Small Things  in their hands. Seeing the book, I began narrating to my dad how I had read it in the hostel un...

I’ve consciously kept away from two things my entire life — religion and sports (especially football and cricket). The unnecessary hype, the mass hysteria, the blind fanaticism — it just never made sense to me. When I was pregnant with my eldest, I was told I’d become a mother by August. Like any typical mother (fathers usually aren’t as invested in this part), I set off on an excited, determined hunt for a unique name — something rooted in Sanskrit, something that reflected my values, my philosophy, and the kind of person I hoped my child would grow to be. But life had other plans. In July — much earlier than expected — I was rushed to the emergency room, and my son was born almost a month ahead of schedule. By the time I fully regained my senses, my son had already been named — after St. Thomas. Why St. Thomas? How was this connected to my pregnancy, my delivery, or anything I stood for? I had never known the significance of July 3rd for Indian Christians until my son was b...