A month into the new academic year, the 10-year-old came back with his school bag wide open, as if it were in a silent scream.

As I saw him enter the house, I wondered if he had lost half its contents.

"Mamma, it broke!" he declared.

That night, on seeing the broken zipper, his father made another declaration.

"I need to make you bags from iron!"

Since an iron bag is, thankfully, not possible, and because the bag was still practically new, I decided to seek out a craftsman who is becoming very much extinct nowadays—the cheruppukuthi—the mochi. Also known as the Indian cobbler.

Once upon a time, they were readily seen as part of the Indian scenery. They sat in tiny spaces at street corners, surrounded by bags, shoes, belts, and purses, with an anvil held tightly between their feet, which met face to face in what modern yoga calls the butterfly pose. The Indian cobbler had perfected this yogasana long before it found its way into yoga studios.

Now they are a rare species. Changing fashions and the convenience of buying new accessories have made us replace rather than repair.

But, as I said, the bag was practically new. So I picked up that bag and another that had a small tear but was otherwise perfectly usable. For good measure, I added two pairs of footwear. I might as well make the trip worthwhile, I thought.

I went to the old market. The place still had its old peedikas (shops). Decades ago, it had been a thriving marketplace. As a child, my father used to bring handmade kaithola paayas (woven grass mats) here to sell. Now the whole place had changed.

Outside stood supermarkets and beautiful new buildings. Inside, the old market was made up of the last of the limestone-and-clay-brick buildings — weather-beaten, battered amd crumbling.

I found my cheruppukuthi tucked away among piles of old bags and shoes in a quiet corner, sitting in the cobbler's pose with an anvil between his feet, bent over his work.

I was on my two-wheeler. I parked it in front of his workspace. The road was hardly wide enough for two two-wheelers to pass each other.

He didn't lift his head.

I watched him deftly insert a needle, lock in a thread, and pull it through the slipper he was repairing.

Then he looked up.

"Hmm?"

He peered at me over the top of his glasses. He must have been in his sixties. His face looked tired, and his expression leaned more towards a scowl than a smile.

"Chetta, can this zipper be replaced?" I asked, showing him the bag.

"Yes. You can take it now itself. Move your scooter. Autos have to pass through."

He said it all in one breath.

I took out the other bag and the footwear. I began rattling off what needed to be done.

At this, he got annoyed.

"So many! I thought it was only this bag!"

Aren't many repairs good for business? I wondered.

"Take this bag."

He quickly replaced the zipper.

I took it and pushed the other items towards him again.

"I don't have time," he replied gruffly.

Then he picked up the footwear.

"I'll give this on Monday."

I tried to get him to look at the other bag again.

He flatly refused.

"Look at all these."

He gestured around him.

His tiny workspace was brimming with old footwear and bags.

"People bring them to be repaired. They never come back," he barked.

I paid for the repaired bag and left my footwear with him. He told me to come back the following Monday.

I went home and had a laugh recounting my encounter with the cobbler to my mother-in-law.

"I won't blame him," I said. "Imagine spending your time mending things, only to wait... and no one comes back for them."

Monday came.

But my six-year-old fell sick.

My mind went back to the cobbler.

Would he look at my footwear and think, "Sneaky woman. I knew she wouldn't come back"?

The next day, I had to go out for a few things. So I went to the cheruppukuthi.

"Which were your footwear?"

We rummaged through the pile and found them.

He hadn't touched them.

"I'll do them for you now. Wait five minutes."

His voice was a little different.

The gruffness was gone.

I stood there for a while, then slowly wandered into the dilapidated peedika next door, drawn by a few things that caught my eye.

A completely unnecessary pink mop, wallpaper for a sudden DIY whim, and a velvet doormat later, I was back.

A three-year-old was screaming at the top of his lungs while his father scolded him.

I found the cobbler chuckling.

The father asked, "Do you want a beating?"

"Yes!" the child replied.

The cobbler was roaring with laughter as he repeated the exchange to me, his eyes twinkling.

I laughed with him.

My heels were looking as good as new.

He picked up my other pair—a pair of wedges. One side had come apart. He stitched it back together, and then, for good measure, he stitched up it’s twin too.

"Seventy rupees," he said.

I paid and left.

The skies were gathering dark clouds like a woman collecting ripe mangoes in the thala of her saree—the loose end draped over her shoulder.

Then, as though the thala had slipped from her hands and all the mangoes had tumbled to the ground, the clouds burst open.

I smiled to myself.

The other day, the cheruppukuthi must have been having a bad day.

I didn't judge him.

And perhaps...

I was right.

We were on our way back from our baby’s choru kodukkal—the beginning of his weaning journey. His first morsel of solid food, blessed by Lord Guruvayurappan at the Guruvayur temple.

Things hadn’t gone quite as we had imagined. You can read about my anticipation here, and what actually unfolded here.

There was one more stop before heading home—a housewarming function of a neighbour. Coincidentally, their new house was near Guruvayur, so it made sense to go straight there. We arrived a little late, but the hosts were genuinely happy that we had come.

After the usual greetings, we made our way to the pandal where lunch was being served.

It. Was. Hot.

I asked my husband to eat first while I sat with the boys. Afterwards, we would switch, and he would hold the baby while I ate. The boys happily wandered off to get ice cream from a teenage boy serving cones in one corner.

By the time my husband took over the baby and I sat down to eat, he was already drenched in sweat.

He didn’t realize the baby was too.

When we finished our meal, we walked over for ice cream. Since we were among the last guests, only a little remained.

A couple, slightly older than us, were already waiting.

The moment they saw my boys, they warmly told the boy serving,

“Give the children first.”

I smiled and told them it was alright. The boys had already enjoyed one cone.

They insisted.

“They’re children,” they said.

From the way they spoke to the young man, I realized he was their son. They were relatives of our neighbours.

There was something instantly warm about them.

The kind of people who somehow feel familiar even when you’ve just met.

A moment later, I saw them walk towards my husband.

They smiled at the baby, gently lifted him from my husband’s arms, and carried him into the shade of a nearby tree.

“Ayyo... he’s sweating so much.”

The lady unbuttoned his tiny shirt.

Her husband found a piece of cardboard and began fanning him.

Only then did we realize just how soaked he was.

We stood there talking.

About the weather.

About children.

About life.

At one point, they laughingly mentioned that God had blessed them with only one son. They said it with humour, but I could hear a quiet tenderness behind those words.

They cared for our baby as though he were their own.

When it was time to leave, they waved us goodbye as we climbed into our car.

As we drove home, I turned to my husband.

“They were so kind.”

He nodded.

“I didn’t even notice how much he was sweating until they pointed it out,” he said. “I was sweating just as much myself.”

The children slowly drifted off to sleep in the back seat.

Outside, the trees drifted past the window.

And I kept thinking about those people.

We never asked their names.

They never asked ours.

No one blamed two tired parents for not noticing a sweaty baby.

They simply stepped in.

For a few minutes, they carried a little of our world. No grand gestures. Just kindness.

This week, I’ve been thinking a lot about grace.

Perhaps it isn’t always something dramatic.

Grace sometimes arrives in the form of an old man offering water to a tired six-year-old.

Or a couple giving children their turn for ice cream.

Or hands that instinctively reach for a hot, sweaty baby.

Some things arrive at exactly the right time, in exactly the right place.

We may never know the names of the people through whom grace reaches us.

But somehow... We remember them.

.

June is the peak of the monsoon season in India. It first arrives in Kerala, my home state in the country's south.

I love the rain as it pours down, almost mercilessly. But is it really?

The whole landscape turns green with gratitude. The sweet aroma of wet earth rises gently, reminding me what new beginnings smell like.

Yet there are brief respites when you can dare to venture outdoors without being completely drenched.

That day gave us two such windows.

One in the morning, after the boys and my husband had left for school and work.

And another later in the afternoon, after the boys returned home.

The nine-year-old had an appointment to get his ear checked. The doctor is an extremely busy one, and getting an appointment itself is difficult. Even then, you're usually prepared to wait over an hour before your turn.

Since it was the rainy season, common sense dictated that we carry raincoats whenever we rode our motor scooter.

But we couldn't find my son's.

It had been safely put away during the summer.

And yes... like all things safely put away, it had now become... safe.

Time was running out. There wasn't a grey cloud in sight, so we decided to risk it and hurried off.

We reached the clinic.

The waiting room was as full as expected.

Usually, I don't give my children my phone. But whenever the nine-year-old sees another child watching something on a phone, he immediately wants mine.

But that day, my phone battery was dangerously low, so we'd already declared ourselves officially off screens.

Then my phone pinged.

I'd published an article earlier that day, and I was desperately curious.

Was it a like?

A comment?

I couldn't resist the urge and fished out my phone.

7%.

"Your phone will switch off!" my son reminded me urgently.

"Just one second..." I pleaded.

Exactly the way they plead for "five more minutes" when I ask them to switch off the television.

This happened a few times.

Then I stopped.

"Wait a minute..." I said, as realisation dawned.

"You're not worried about my battery, you're jealous because you can't use the phone while I'm looking at it!"

"Yes!" he grinned.

I laughed.

He had a point.

The phone went away for good.

Instead, we began inventing games with our hands.

No toys.

No books.

Nothing.

Just finger wrestling and trying to catch each other's fingers while waiting for our number to be called.

In between, I looked around the waiting room.

Every single person was bent over a phone.

And if they didn't have one, they were leaning towards the person next to them who did—usually a relative, of course.

That gave us five excellent minutes of judging everybody. The nine-year-old lawyer had opinions. I had more.

Then we moved on to weightier matters. Were the walls tiled or wallpapered? Was that little table plastic, wood or engineered wood? Would a knock test reveal more?

And how, exactly, did the electronic bell know whose turn it was? What an efficient little secretary!

At last, our number was called.

After the check-up, we bought the medicines and headed to a stationery shop.

I wanted a beautiful notebook.

Naturally, that turned into shopping for lovely pens, a funky notebook, stickers, and every completely unnecessary thing that suddenly felt absolutely essential.

The shopkeeper wasn't helping.

He kept showing us multicoloured pencils, scratch-art paper, pencils with the tiniest sharpeners in the world...

And then... crackers.

The kind that burst when you throw them on the floor.

No fire needed.

Well...

We bought the whole box.

Because who doesn't want to burst crackers during the rains?

(For the record, not one of them burst. Now I need to go back and complain.)

As we stepped out of the shop, the rain began.

Proper rain.

I decided to give my son my raincoat.

The shopkeeper immediately stepped outside.

Rows of colourful raincoats hung behind him.

Not so fast, mister.

I know exactly what you're trying to do.

Well...

Honestly...

By then my purse was empty anyway.

So off we went.

My son tucked safely inside the raincoat.

Me getting gloriously drenched.

We laughed all the way home.

By the time we reached, I was soaked through and shivering.

"I feel cold too," my son announced as we hurried inside.

I rushed to change into dry clothes.

A few minutes later, he came bouncing into the room, talking excitedly about the scooter ride, his new pens and pencils, the stickers...

Then, without warning, he wrapped his little arms tightly around me.

"Thank you, Mamma... for everything you do for me."

He asked me to bend down.

Then planted a kiss on my cheek.

Standing there, warm in my dry clothes yet somehow still carrying the rain with me...

I smiled.

I don't think I had mentioned it all day.

But it was my birthday.

And I couldn't have asked for a better one.

❓Over to You

What is one simple thing that made you smile this week?

A conversation?

A flower?

A familiar smell?

I'd love to hear it.

✨ A Small Invitation

Today, choose one ordinary thing.

The steam rising from your tea.

The sound of rain.

A child's laughter from another room.

Pause for just one minute. You may discover that an ordinary moment was simply waiting to be noticed.

We moved to a different city when I was in eighth grade.
New state, new city, a completely different life.

Everything was unfamiliar, and I was entering my teens — already such a volatile age.

It was a difficult transition for me. The move did not go well. I felt like a complete outsider at my new school. The language was different. The culture was different.

At my old school, I had been one of the most popular girls… an overachiever. Almost overnight, I had become a nobody.

I had no friends. The girls I was seated with disliked me because, apparently, I had invaded their friendship space. I was struggling academically too, because I couldn’t fully understand the language I was being taught in.

But one simple thing, which had become our daily ritual, held my teenage sanity together.

Every night after dinner, my mother, father, and I would take rolled-up grass mats and head to the open terrace upstairs of the house we had rented.

Until then, we had lived in a flat in a metropolitan city. Open terraces under star-filled skies were not part of life there. But now, suddenly, that luxury had opened up to us and it felt magical.

The three of us would lie there watching clouds drift by, imagining animals and strange shapes in them. The stars seemed arranged in meaningful cosmic patterns. We noticed, pointed and talked about them.

Sometimes my parents shared stories from their childhood. Sometimes they spoke about the struggles they faced building a life after marriage. Sometimes we talked about village life and the relatives who still lived there.

One day, my father said that someday we too would have a house like this in our own village. And I held hopes of my own room overlooking greenery and a small puppy who would be mine.

Those nights became an anchor for the teenage me. Those little pockets of time shaped the relationship we would continue to share for years afterward.

Today, once in a while, I take my boys up to the terrace to lie under the open sky.

I tell them how, as a child, I once lay beside my own parents watching these same stars.

Life doesn’t need grand celebrations to become beautiful memories. It is often the gentler, serene, peaceful moments that get filed away as the closest memories when we look back.

Today, my father is no longer with us. But the stars — they are still there, twinkling in the same constellations.

And have you seen those three stars in a line — Orion’s Belt — from where you live?

Those are my favourites. I pointed them out to my sons… Alnitak, Alnilam and Mintaka.

PS : Eventually I did do well at school and make great friends. I had really great memories to take back, when we shifted from there to the village I now live in. So there is a happy ending😊