My grandmother's home

My grandmother's house has always felt like a vacation spot. While I never felt deeply connected to the place, each year that I didn’t visit, it felt as if I had left behind something important.

Listening to my friends share stories of their close bonds with their grandmothers bedtime tales, long chats, and shared secrets I realized that my experience was different. Perhaps it was because I was never given the chance to stay with her for long. My visits were brief, only once a year.

As I grew older, my feelings just like the house itself began to change. Nestled among trees on a hilltop, it wasn't just any house anymore; it was my grandmother’s home. The aroma of her cooking would reach us even before we stepped through the door. She always prepared a feast, filled with love. One of my favorite dishes was a cucumber curry she made, its taste still lingers on my tongue, although I haven’t had it in years. Somehow, nothing has ever matched that childhood flavor.

Though I return to the same house every year, I still miss how it used to be. In my memories, the home had a large kitchen where we’d sit and chat while my mother and grandmother cooked together, sharing stories from the past year. There were no modern appliances like no fridge, no mixer grinder. Instead, there was a large grinding stone for making pastes or batter for idli and dosa. Food was slow-cooked in earthen pots over a smoky fire, taking hours but the result was always worth the wait.

My grandmother never owned a television, and still doesn’t. But she had a radio that played songs and narrated stories. With no smartphones back then, we spent our time fully with each other. I vividly remember lying on a wooden cot after lunch, eyes closed, listening to melodies float through the air. Those were the longest, slowest days I've ever experienced beautifully unhurried, unlike today.

There was a waterfall higher up from her house. We spent many evenings there, letting nature’s music soothe us. It's now a tourist spot, drawing visitors from distant places just to witness its beauty. As a child, I never understood why people would travel so far to relax here but now I do.

Even though I return to the same place year after year, it always feels as refreshing as the very first visit.

My grandmother’s home continues to be a special place. And though my bond with her may not mirror the stories others tell, I’ve grown to cherish the time I did spend with her, with my cousins, and within that warm, timeless space we all shared.