09Oct25- Wild Gardens are like Joint Families

Someone in the WhatsApp group asked about their Rangoon creeper leaves turning yellow and whether they were overwatering. I took a photo of mine growing among the Hamelia Patens to show them it's a natural process. The plants go through cycles of resting, yellowing, and pushing fresh shoots. I messaged that there's nothing to worry about.

While taking the photo, I understood something deeper about wild gardens like mine. The Rangoon creeper (Quisqualis or Combretum indicum) lives amidst the Patens, their roots far apart. One grows in the ground, the other in a pot. Yet both have leaned on the porch roof tiles, taking support from the roof to grow together. Among them climbs a jasmine, invisible in the picture, leading its own life, unmindful that I cannot pluck a single flower from it.

Unlike manicured gardens where plants are trimmed, maintained, and stand apart in isolation, here they have each other. This is life's natural flow: independent yet together.

03OCT25- Janaki AmmaL

Janaki Ammal

Today marks twenty-five years since my grandmother, Janaki Pati, passed away. She slipped into a coma after an episode of low sugar and never woke up. I have been thinking of her all day, of her talents, her patience, and the way her presence lingers in our memories.

Cooking was her great forte. She had a wonderful sense of balance when planning meals: if one dish had dal, the others would not; if there was thuvayal, there would be rasam; if it was goddu rasam, it was paired with a fried curry; if kootu was served, vatral kuzhambu completed the spread. Her keerai masiyal and sweet tomato chutney are still spoken of with reverence. On ekadasi days, she would make chapati with a special tomato chutney dripping with jaggery, and that was everyone’s favourite.

Evening tiffin at home was unforgettable. I would eat straight from her plate, and somehow the same food never tasted as good in mine. That handful of upma, dosai smeared with chutney powder in oil, or idli with chutney—when she fed it from her hand, it was nothing short of amrutham.

Hospitality came naturally to her. In those days, no one phoned before visiting, yet nobody left her house without being served something. She could put together a simple meal in no time: some rice, rasam, and appalam, all ready within the hour.  My uncles and aunts still recall her “kai manam”, the fragrance of her hand that made her food memorable. This was at a time when none of the groceries came pre-cleaned. She would patiently clean rice, dal, or dhaniya in her spare time. There were no mixers or grinders either. Batter and flour were made using the aatukal and urulikal. My job as a child was to add water to the grinding batter or drop rice grains while she prepared flour. Today I have all the modern gadgets, yet I find myself forever searching for time.

And through it all, her kitchen was always spotless. However busy she was, she kept it shining and orderly, a place where cooking and care went hand in hand.

If cooking showed her skill, handwork revealed her character. She stitched her own blouses and even made a few frocks for me. She did beadwork that was very popular in the 70s and 80s, and her rangolis were works of art in themselves. There was never just one simple kolam for the sake of routine. Every day, rain or shine, four different patterns decorated our front yard.

She carried immense patience and deep involvement in everything she did. I believe I inherited a part of that when I make art today. Remembering her, I realise that my love for creating be it in the kitchen, in the garden, or on canvas—springs from her.

The colours of Skin and Earth

Amma's hand

Rivers and valleys on my mother’s hand.

The river on her middle finger curves back under the skin. And why is it the color of skin resembles the color of soil, I’ve always wondered.