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Fly High, Thatha. I’ll See You Someday
How the man in the stars gave me a life
Hills of stairs. One small motorbike. I will remember.
Man. The tears are really building up.
This man climbed staircases all his life. From a small village down in Tirupati, all the way up to Tirumala, the fire scorched the earth wherever he set forth.
Thatha came from a place of poverty. But he made one thing clear: put education first.
And I have learned so much from that.
He was a good man. He loved a good meal, and he showed this.
“Ro, I have returned!”
In his hand was a piece of gold: ghee roast. The chutney was dripping down, just as the sweat dripped down his forehead.
He wiped his brow, a hopeful smile on his peaceful face.
He would wake up at 5 am every morning, driving his motorbike down to the nearest restaurant.
My grandmother — the Wonder Woman of my life. My grandpa — a hardworking inspiration.
Will I ever find someone like them again? Or is this world incapable of matching their energies?
In my grandmother’s house in Tirupati, I found my soul. I vividly remember her house. Pictures of deities adorn the walls, aromas floating through the rooms, making me hungry. There were two bedrooms, but it was enough.
While my grandfather climbed staircases and rode his motorbike through dusty streets, my grandmother created her own form of dedication in the kitchen.
Ghee roast, with its golden crisp edges, became more than breakfast — it embodied our family’s values.
Furthermore, it is a prominent piece of my culture. But it is more.
It is the heartbeat of my country, and it is the soul of so many people.
It brings families together and represents the identity of my people.
My Thatha was the most hardworking, dedicated man I have ever known. One thing he always told us was: put your food where your mouth is.
I started to see the value in a small home. It was more clear than ever.
The Indian culture is a promise of authenticity rooted in my upbringing.
For example, rituals of delicacy and simplicity, such as dinners in Tirupati, shape how I understand the world.
From sitting on a stool in the kitchen in my grandmother’s house to feeling the care, I know one thing. That part of me will never leave.
But as I grew older, I began to notice the cracks in her knees, the way her spine curved under the weight of years. The fear of losing her, and the world she represented, began to take root in my heart.
And relationships run deep. Connections to my culture, upbringing, and identity revolve around what the world means to me.
And the most important relationship is with my grandparents. They never let me go hungry. And that satiated part of me will never starve.
The memories often transform me into tears.
They take me back to a small village in Tirupati. A place filled with love. Care.
While my grandmother poured her love into the food, my grandfather showed his dedication in other ways.
He would return home in a sweat, dusting his shoes and ducking under the low ceiling.
I know I will spend my life climbing stairs.
Those values that propelled my Thatha up those hills were intertwined in my youthful memories.
Young thoughts were filled with streets of dirt, pani poori frying in oil, and eagerly waiting for the ‘vroom vroom’ that meant my grandpa was home.
Those dirt roads of Tirupati led inevitably back to my grandmother’s kitchen, where the low ceiling framed a world of sensory delights. Her bent spine and cracking knees never stopped her from standing at the stove, transforming simple ingredients into expressions of love.
It translated into our daily routine.
We would climb streets to get food every day. Me and my Thatha would bond over chicken and naan.
The first time I encountered it, my eyes were wide open with wonder. Little me knew that this large cone would hold more value than meets the eye.
Value that holds the perseverance of our entire village.
Every day, my family in Tirupati would cook some of this magic.
Memories were filled with bread frying on a pan, the work of a brittle woman who would hobble to the stove and stir the pot.
That’s my grandmother. When we all left the house, she was the one in the kitchen, preparing a meal for us to come back home to.
Knees cracking, spine bent over, she created recipes for the whole family to follow, forever.
Recipes that held love, nurturing, and the undying wish of a mother who yearns for the next time her kids devour her food.
She has spent all of her years working for the family.
All the way to today. Thatha has passed.
It happened in one phone call. My dad picked it up, and about 2 minutes later, his lips were trembling.
“Rohan…I…I don’t know…”
He stumbled backward into a small chair. His legs were shaking, and a tear glistened under his eye.
His eyes were going wild, and I could see him revisiting every memory we had with my Thatha. The motorbike. The ghee roast. The stairs climbed. The love of a simple man.
All of that led to this.
It’s true, he didn’t know. But now, we do. We have lost something. Something big.
It was my dad’s toughest moment, but we fought. We fought the empty rooms; the ghee roast that had lost meaning. What he told us all those years ago, the wisdom he imparted, and the stairs he climbed, have turned into strength. Will for us to push through.
My dad, as strong as he was, broke down into tears. But even in that grief, my grandfather’s words echoed in the walls: put your food where your mouth is.
He has left a legacy for the family to closely follow.
And as I age, simplicity takes on new meanings. It used to be about a small village. One bedroom, ten full bellies.
It then took its turn into being myself. Meaning, no bullshit.
The conversations with my grandmother, the family culture of holding her hand…it shows me who I am. And when I am myself, I feel closer to what got me here.
I frequently find myself revisiting my grandpa’s proverb. At this time, it is about the connections. About the bond I share with my grandma.
And Tirupati gave me that. It showed me the value of a small home filled with love.
Traveling to different parts of the world brings back parts of my childhood. Every place I go carries hints of my grandmother’s care, something I will always be close to.
Though miles away from Tirupati, Saratoga carries the same warmth I felt in my grandmother’s kitchen. It’s a reminder that love and care transcend borders.
In Saratoga, I have found the same feeling. It hits in every way Tirupati felt.
Tirupati has given way to the man I am today. And that man accepts every background, just the way my grandmother accepted me the way I came.
Mothers start the book and write the preface. I know I need my ma. And this feeling stretches as far as small towns in Saratoga. While there are no Mexicans in Tirupati, it is virtually impossible to walk around Saratoga without taking in the aroma of burritos and tacos. The city is filled with Mexicans. I have a Mexican friend, and entering his house was like entering a portal to Tirupati. No Telugu prose, but still saturated with full bellies and pulsating motherly love. The ‘madre’ was cooking up some enchiladas. It took me back to my grandma. Sitting by her side, holding her hand, all I want is to let her know. She is my whole world.
I have a Mexican friend. Entering his house, a home packed with seemingly strange aromas, truly hit home for me.
His mother had a big smile on her face: “Mi hijo, por favor, siéntate.”
We were sitting down for dinner. The air was saturated with Spanish lingo, and cries of “Ah, gracias!” and “De nada!” It interests me because I have felt the same thing. The family is so close-knit that they are a unit. That is powerful. The affection the Mexican family has for one another transcends tacos and burritos.
Recently, I took a trip to Canada, in search of the oneness I felt in Tirupati.
As I walked the streets of Toronto, the scent of spices took me back to dinners in Tirupati.
Amidst all the unfamiliar accents, I found the same fundamental truth.
They have their traditions, such as celebrating Christmas and rejoicing in Thanksgiving with stuffed turkey. It brings them together. The mother might say “Okay, who’s doing the stuffing today?” Just as my mother says, “Get out the chutney!”
It reminded me of my grandma.
Dabbling in conversations, I had some interaction with a Canadian. His accent had a distinct flavoring, yet his words felt the same: “Amen, brother. You’ve gotta try my mom’s blueberry pie.”
And I replied, “You’ve got more to see, my friend.”
It made me feel like what I had in Tirupati would forever be alive right next to me.
Those tears I would cry….maybe they entailed something good.
This is powerful. Ma gave me life.
Ma gave me something to be proud of. She gave me a life. A life filled with honesty and love. With tears spilling onto the keyboard, I know I won’t waste it.
The passing of my grandpa gave me a new lens to look into. And so I started recreating her recipes. I know I can never match her cooking, but it still gives me a sense of pride. I am proud of where I come from. However small the house was, her heart was bigger than a mansion.
None of the houses in that village had more than one story. And yet they beat even the largest house I can find here in the Bay Area.
I consider myself lucky. Lucky to have been brought up in a poor village. Because no one there is fake. They live by their values, based on the collective feeling of being ‘down-to-earth’.
Please, guys. Don’t let that die.
Put your food where your mouth is. Now, it turns into a sense of solidarity about where I come from. It is more than a place, it is the base of all my values.
And I will never truly forget.
When my mother says that proverb, it carries new weight every time.
At one time, I would be licking the plate, unknowing of the meaning. Next, I would see the sky’s reflection in the glass plate — a place I believe my Thatha has reached. But now…now I see all of the conversations. With my grandparents. With myself.
They gave a life for all of us to live. Do you hear me, ma?
Every time I see a motorbike, I see Thatha, forehead sweaty, biking to the nearest store. Every time I see an old Indian lady, visions of my grandmother’s house, a kitchen full of love, and wobbly knees, give me something to fight for.
And these memories make me who I am.
They make India what it is.
All I want is to carry Thatha’s legacy forward. I’m telling my kids, “Eat ghee roast, but while you do, remember who cooked it.”
Because the care, the love? It is immortal. And, generation after generation, the power of a childhood that shaped who I am will never go away.
Nights of memories will turn into tears of remembrance.
And I keep it alive. What takes me back to my childhood is recreating those dishes. Using the same amount of salt, ghee, and bread. Learning the trade from my mother.
But I know I will never beat my grandmother’s food. That is in another league.
I can picture having dinner with my future son. I’m telling him, “Eat that not just to taste the food. Eat it to taste life.”
Food is powerful. It is more than ingredients. It is much more.
And it all stemmed from my grandpa. From the hills he climbed, to the stores he biked to, all the way down to the love he gave.
I will never forget him. I will never forget my grandma. They gave us all a life to live.
And I couldn’t be more proud to be their grandson.
This is what I’ve learned from my grandmother’s kitchen and my grandfather’s perseverance: our deepest connections are formed around humble tables, where food becomes the vessel for passing down not just flavors, but values that sustain us long after the plates are empty.
Thatha? Fly high.
And grandma? Your kitchen has unlocked the door to our hearts.
Your food was my childhood.
And now? It is life.
