The Small Things by Vikram Bhaskaran

I used to brush past the day—
the soft swirl of steam rising from your morning chai,
the way light drifted in through the French windows
in our Benson Town home,
bougainvillea nodding in the soft Bangalore sun,
your sari rustling faintly as you moved
from one room to another.

I never knew how loud the small things were.

The hush of dawn before you left for Trident,
your breath steady as a weaving loom,
moving through the rhythm of Bangalore traffic,
your presence still lingering in the hallways
long after the front door closed.

Your voice, calling from the kitchen,
asking if I’d eaten.
The quiet clink of cups
as you poured tea for two.

I never knew how loud the small things were.

But memory—
memory is not a photograph.
It is light scattered through a prism,
shards of a whole,
fragments repeating, fractaling—
each one holding a world.

I see you now,
five years old in 1958,
clutching your schoolbooks in small hands,
your mother Mercy speaking gently to every child,
her kindness wrapped around your lunch like a napkin.

Banana to settle the stomach,
apple slices gleaming like glass,
guava, peaches—one fruit for each of you,
a quiet abundance lined on a bench
in the school parlor of Good Shepherd.

Six lunches arriving from Richmond Town,
still warm, carried with care.
A cup of milk placed next to every meal.
And for dessert—
one small, perfect Lacto Bonbon,
melting slow under your tongue,
sweetness lingering through the afternoon.

I never knew how loud the small things were.

The rustle of your mother’s sari
as she checked on every child:
Did you eat enough? Did you take your medicine?
Her worry a soft hum beneath the clatter of dishes.
Her love measured in teaspoons and napkins,
in fruit divided six ways.

Your classmate Jill,
lining up onions at the side of her plate—
a tiny rebellion against the rasam.
And the hush after lunch,
when games began and the cook packed up the leftovers—
everything clean, everyone fed.

I see you lying on your bed,
pulling one string up and down,
up and down, until sleep took you.
Your childhood a quilt sewn from these threads—
milk and steam, kindness and guava,
black tea going strong,
love wrapped in the ordinary.

Now I know—
we live many lives in one skin,
each memory folding into the next
like the layers of a sari,
fluid, beautiful, precise.

Even you, even I,
are made of the quiet ash of dead stars,
scattered into light.

I never knew how loud the small things were—
until they quieted,
and I learned to listen
with my whole life.

One lacto Bon Bon without end.