Of cricket scores and sacred chants

Ajji was the heartbeat of my childhood—my first friend, my constant companion, and the quiet architect of who I became. Her love for mathematics was extraordinary; she never needed a calculator, and learning from her was both intense and unforgettable. With my twin beside me, I remember how we had only a second or two to answer her questions, or else we would be writing out entire tables again. Mathematics was her music, and she taught us to move to its rhythm.

Cricket was her other great passion. From listening to commentaries of matches on the radio to watching them on black-and-white and later colour television, she lived every moment of the game. She would carefully record scores to ensure the totals and run rates were accurate, all while giving her own commentary – passionate, witty, and often hilarious. When the Indian team faltered, she felt it deeply. Even after I moved to Australia, she stayed connected, glued to the TV whenever I attended a match in Melbourne, trying to spot me in the crowd. No matter how much time passed, cricket remained a thread in every conversation we shared.

Her cooking was unmatched, each dish an expression of love. We would eagerly wait for her kai thuthu, and to this day I still miss her herekayi hulsoppu—a flavour I have never been able to recreate. She made the best rave unde, and our home was always filled with the comforting rhythm of her 'Lalitha Sahasranama'.

Ajji was a woman of immense strength and discipline. She worked tirelessly her entire life, moving forward with quiet resilience. Long before it became widely known, she practised intermittent fasting, eating just once or twice a day. She was deeply devoted to her faith, observing Ekadashi and other rituals with sincerity, often in her madi attire, gently reminding us not to touch her.

Everything I know about Hindu mythology comes from her. Night after night, she would patiently tell us stories of the Ramayana and the Mahabharata—no matter how many times we asked—never once showing fatigue, only love. She was always in motion, never walking but almost running through life, her energy unmatched and inspiring to all who knew her.

I feel incredibly fortunate that so many of my childhood memories are intertwined with hers. Losing her feels like losing a piece of my childhood itself—something no one can truly prepare for. Ajji, you will be deeply missed, but your love, your lessons, and your spirit will always live on in my heart.