From Hostel to Home: Finding Joy in the Little Things

 My life took a positive turn when I transitioned from the confines of the hostel to the freedom of a day scholar. My father, ever the provider, arranged for a pickup bus to stop at Monnamkallu, a kilometer away from our home. This meant a daily walk, a welcome change from the monotony of hostel life. Though my parents restricted my bicycle to within our compound, fearing accidents, I enjoyed the walk. Sometimes, I'd even run, driven by the fear of missing the bus and the dreaded prospect of returning to the hostel.

The walk through Monnamkallu Palam was a delight. The bridge, flanked by towering trees, created a verdant tunnel, offering shade and a sense of tranquility. I'd spend my time throwing pebbles from the bridge into the Kanoli canal, a river flowing beneath, challenging myself to increase the distance with each throw.

Despite the newfound freedom, I still felt a sense of isolation. Being away from home for so long, I was often treated as an outsider by the other children in the neighborhood. They saw me as a "mandhabudhi," someone unfamiliar with the local customs and ways of life.

My only companion at home was a small bicycle, restricted to the confines of our courtyard. Summers were a different story. My father, adhering to tradition, sent me to madrassa. There, I met Ashif, my first friend. However, our friendship remained superficial; we weren't close, and I didn't even know where he lived.

Our ancestral home, "Tharavadu," was a haven of natural beauty. Lush mango trees, each bearing fruit with unique flavors, surrounded the property. My favorite was the "Priyoor" mango, a story I'll share in a later blog.

Life at the Tharavadu was simple. My grandfather, "Vellippa," disliked television, so we didn't own one. Instead, my father gifted me a radio, which became my source of entertainment. The pond behind the house was another source of joy, though Vellippa discouraged swimming. I'd seize every opportunity to sneak in a swim while he was away.

The pond, the mango trees, the radio, and my bicycle – these were my companions. One day, while plucking unripe mangoes ("Perakka") from a nearby tree, I spotted Ashif walking towards our house. I was surprised to learn that he lived just next door, a house I had overlooked countless times.

Overjoyed, I asked my mother if I could visit Ashif. At his house, I discovered a television, further enhancing my excitement. Ashif had a brother, Shihab, who shared my interests. We instantly bonded, forming a strong friendship that continues to this day.

Shihab, a true foodie, introduced me to the joys of good food. Unlike my childhood, where I reluctantly ate, I now looked forward to meals. Shihab's mother was an excellent cook, especially her fish curry. His father, who ran a catering business, often brought home delicious treats like chicken chili.

Sharing meals, watching television, and engaging in playful banter became our routine. Shihab's influence transformed my relationship with food, a significant change from my earlier struggles.

More about our adventures, the playful rivalries with my cousins, and the joys of caring for my sister will be shared in the upcoming blogs. Stay tuned!