A Day in Her Life

After my maternal grandmother passed away, I heard my mother say to a family member, “It is a blessing that we lived during her lifetime.” I have heard people say this when enlightened and beautiful souls leave the earth. What makes a person so special that their very presence becomes a blessing to those around them? That must probably make you curious to know about my grandmother, Smt. Thirumulu Natarajan, how she lived, won the hearts of people, and navigated the vicissitudes of life with righteousness and confidence.

Let me take you through a day in her life.

She was awake before the birds, and the first thing she did was light the lamps at the altar and at the entrance of the house. After brewing the first decoction and having her first cup of coffee, she sat down to cut vegetables for that day's lunch. Every piece was cut to the same size, with a precision that even a machine could not match. The murukkus she made were tasty, flavourful and remarkably uniform in shape. The clothes she had washed by hand hung on the line without a single wrinkle, a quiet showcase of her neat and meticulous nature.

It was beautiful to watch her get ready for the day. She held her hair in place with two hairpins. She applied sandalwood talc to her face, then a dab of wax the size of a 25-paisa coin on her forehead, and finished with kumkum. She was always dressed in a nine-yard saree, and her diamond earrings and nose stud added to her radiance. She looked like Vanadurga herself, walking among us. Her attire and disciplined lifestyle never changed even during her visit to the US.

Before stepping into the kitchen, she removed the old flowers from the altar and set them aside for composting. Nothing was wasted. She also read the panchangam for the day, noting the thithi, nakshatram, varam, karanam and yogam. While her hands were busy cooking lunch, her lips recited shlokas like a tape recorder. Her hospitality was as addictive as her coffee. She made half a dozen cups of coffee for the maid and other regular visitors. People visiting the local Vanadurga temple at Kadiramangalam made it a point to stop by for her coffee, her snacks and, above all, her conversation.

By 8 am, lunch would be ready. She would perform pooja to the Thulasi, offer neivedhyam to the house deity and then feed the crows. Only after completing these rituals would she head to the Vanadurga temple, carrying some ghee for the lamps and a few flowers. Along the way, she struck up conversations effortlessly with vendors, priests and visitors alike. She asked after their families and offered help wherever she could. To her, people were never strangers for long.

While she waited for my grandfather to come home for lunch, she journaled everything that had unfolded since morning. Besides her daily routine, she recorded important news from the immediate family, relatives and acquaintances. She maintained these journals for 65 years. Think about that for a moment. Sixty-five years of recording the little and big events of life, day after day. Relatives, friends and neighbours often came to her to trace the dates of deaths, childbirths, anniversaries and other important events. Her journals had become a living family archive, preserving memories that would otherwise have faded with time.

Once lunch was over, she washed the small dishes in the kitchen next to the well and left the larger ones for the maid, who came in the afternoon. By 11.30 am, the daily Thamizh newspaper would arrive, and she would spend 45 minutes going through the news and solving the crossword puzzle. She was deeply rooted in tradition, but she never stopped engaging with the world around her.

If she was tired, she took a 30-minute nap. If not, she used the time to write letters to us and to her relatives. When that was done, she recited the Durga Saptashati. Shankara TV and TTD were her favourite channels, and she did namaskaram to Kanchi Mahaperiava whenever he appeared on television. Her day moved seamlessly between family, the world and her spiritual pursuits.

By 1 pm, she would prepare snacks to go with the evening coffee, depending on what was available at home: thattai, murukku, mysorepak, rava laddu, coconut burfi or therattipaal. She never consumed anything from outside. Nothing processed, nothing store-bought. The turmeric, the sambar powder, the idli and dosa batter, everything was sun-dried, prepared and ground at home. Quality was never compromised, and self-reliance was a way of life.

She never sat idle for even a minute. No scrolling, unlike our generation! Every minute went into something useful: planning for the next day, tidying up, preparing something for the family or helping someone. She did not need productivity apps or time-management techniques. She had a rhythm to her life, and every activity had its place.

Around 4 pm, when the maid swept the entrance, she would draw a fresh kolam and feed the street dogs rice mixed with milk. Then she would freshen up, change into a six-yard saree and step out to chat with the neighbours, often visiting them with freshly made snacks. Her day was not confined to the four walls of her home. She made time for people, and people made time for her.

By 5.30 pm, she lit the lamps at the entrance and the pooja altar and cleaned up the kitchen. My grandparents had dinner by 6.30 pm, which is exactly what gut specialists advise today. After dinner, she updated her journal for the day and retired by 8 pm. At night, she always kept a Big Ben timepiece and a small torch beside her.

This was a regular day in her life. Imagine what happened on a festival day or when there was a function at home. She woke up even earlier and worked non-stop. For over 40 years, she hosted grand Navarathri celebrations, with more than 40 pandits having lunch at home during those nine days. Apart from this, she observed all the vrathams, including Chaturthi, Rishipanchami and Umamaheshwara Vratham, that were part of the scriptural traditions she followed. Her devotion was not confined to a few auspicious days or convenient moments. It was woven into the fabric of her everyday life.

Despite the hardships she faced in life, she never wavered from the path of dharma. She practised bhoota yagnam (care for other living beings), deva yagnam (reverence and offerings to the divine), pitru yagnam (gratitude and duties towards one's ancestors.) and manushya yagnam (Hospitality, generosity and service towards fellow human beings), all with devotion and love. Her faith was expressed not just through prayers and rituals, but also through the food she shared, the animals she fed, the people she helped and the relationships she nurtured. This spirit of hospitality and care continued even when she visited me in the US. My grandfather was a pillar of support to her in all her endeavours.

The Bhagavad Gita beautifully captures the spirit of such a life in Chapter 3, Verse 19:

तस्मादसक्तः सततं कार्यं कर्म समाचर।

असक्तो ह्याचरन्कर्म परमाप्नोति पूरुषः॥

Tasmād asaktaḥ satataṁ kāryaṁ karma samācara,

Asakto hy ācaran karma param āpnoti pūruṣaḥ.

“Therefore, without attachment, always perform the work that ought to be done. By performing action without attachment, one attains the Supreme.”

My grandmother may never have described her life in these terms, but she lived the essence of this teaching. She performed her duties consistently, without seeking recognition or applause. Whether she was cooking, praying, maintaining her journals, feeding animals or helping a neighbour, she brought the same sincerity to everything she did.

Living a clean and transparent life kept her healthy in body and mind till the end. But what made her truly remarkable was not simply her discipline, longevity or devotion. It was the way she brought all these qualities together with compassion, generosity and an extraordinary ability to connect with people across generations, cultures and communities. She forgave people then and there and never carried ill feelings towards anyone. There was no room for grudges in her heart.

She continues to be an inspiration to many of us. Even after she has left us, the routines she followed, the values she upheld and the relationships she built remain lessons worth remembering.

Looking back, I realise that a meaningful life need not be built around extraordinary achievements or grand gestures. Sometimes, it is built quietly, one day at a time, through the way we treat people, the responsibilities we honour, the traditions we preserve and the kindness we extend to those who cross our path.

We often look to the lives of realised souls to understand how to live and how to make our lives meaningful and purposeful, not just for ourselves but for others too. Perhaps their greatest lessons are not found in extraordinary moments, but in the everyday choices they make and the values they practise consistently.

Perhaps that is why my mother's words have stayed with me: “It is a blessing that we lived during her lifetime.”

And perhaps the greater question is this: Will the people who live during our lifetime feel the same way about us?

As you reflect on your own life, think of someone whose presence has made your world a better place. What did they teach you through their everyday actions? And what is one value or practice you can carry forward in your own life?

If this story reminds you of someone special, share it with your family and friends. Tell their stories while they can still be heard, preserve the memories that matter, and pass on the values that deserve to live beyond us.

That, perhaps, is one of the most meaningful ways to keep a beautiful life alive.

Goodbye Grandpa

There are some people who can predict their end and my maternal grandfather, Kadiramangalam KV Nataraja Iyer was one of them. Twenty years ago, while teaching me the basics of astrology, he shared the insights into the planets combination that will take away his breath. He also let me into secrets about my own life and accurately predicted my surgery, while many popular astrologers in the city denied or never saw it coming.  

Every time I informed him of my visit, he would be sitting in the verandah (thinnai) eagerly awaiting my arrival. He would fill the refrigerator with fruits, while my grandmother prepared lip smacking snacks. But this time the recliner was empty and I was welcomed by pin-drop silence. As I entered, I found him lifeless on the floor; both his thumbs and toe fingers were tied together to prevent rigor mortis. My cousins told me that he had breathing difficulty post dinner and his end was very peaceful; I could see that radiating in his face.

He had enormous wisdom and never required Robin Sharma’s “Who Will Cry When You Die” to guide his life journey. He networked with people like a sales guy and used his contacts to help people find employment, syndicate marriages and help families in distress. Wherever he visited, he would go around to meet relatives and friends and ensured he kept the relationship warm and cordial. Whenever there was a death in the village, he would be the first one to pay his respects. He would comfort the family and extend physically and material support to them. Many at times, when orphaned elderly died he would perform their funeral.

His deeds earned his so much goodwill that within 12 hours after his demise posters cropped up all over the village condoling his death.The landline kept ringing constantly and people expressed their sadness and recalled his qualities with gratitude. Those who came to pay respects be it his relatives, classmates or those benefited from his generosity fondly recalled his acts of kindness and compared him to Karna in Mahabaratha.

While the funeral rituals where happening, Panditji asked me for a dhoti to tie around my grandfather for his final journey. As I rushed to get a new one from my suitcase I was reminded of the clothes he stitched for me at National Tailors” at Mayavaram every summer vacation. He also got me my first dhoti and introduced me to Khadi.

Despite being a school dropout (discontinued at Grade 6), he opened multiple schools in neighboring villages and sat on management committees of colleges to ensure education was fair and free. He had a strong sense of financial intelligence that learnt through his life experience. He diversified his investments (gold, financial instruments, property) to manage risks. Every time a grand child was born, he would open savings schemes that would mature around the time the child was ready to get into college. Honestly, I’ve never seen someone who understood the value of money and relationships in life better than him.

I may have earned multiple degrees from around the world, but the lessons I learnt from him are precious and continue to guide me in life. He taught me how to write letters and the art of building relationships when I was young. Long before I joined MBA, he taught me the time value of money, importance of saving and introduced me to financial instruments like Kisan Vikas Patra and Insurance Policies. He also taught me value system, importance of being a custodian of culture and follower of tradition and how to make personal wealth useful to society and earn good karma. In short, he was someone with silver in his hair and gold in his heart.     

His healthy lifestyle made him live for 86 years without any major ailments and illness. He rose early and went to bed early living true to the adage, "Early to rise, early to bed makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise. He walked 5 miles every day to oversee his paddy fields and filled his diet with lot of fiber and little carbs.  

When I left the village house after his funeral, I conspicuously felt his absence. Usually, he would pack the boot of the car with vegetables and would walk to the temple at the end of the street to break a coconut to ensure our journey was safe. Today, the boot was empty, temple wore a deserted look and grandfather was not at the end of the street. As I drove away, I recollected his life lessons and promised to pick up the mantle from him and carry on his tradition of selflessly giving and serving people.

Of all the grandchildren, I spent maximum time with him and exposed myself to his wisdom and values. This eulogy has given me an opportunity to reflect on my years with him, express my gratitude and share my grief and learning with you.