2001

November 19th! Morning….

The time had come — I had to return to my native land.

My four-year stint in the United States of America had come to an end.

An astounding fall?

No — just a stumble.

The splendour had vanished.

No — I was reborn.

Awestruck wonder.

India — my motherland — a place where humanity has lived for millennia. A land eternally known for hospitality, love, and affection. Home to over 1.3 billion people, 3,000 communities, around 325 languages, 25 scripts, and multiple religions — I felt proud of my country.

A sacred land.

Its beauty stretches from the mighty Himalayas in the north to Kanyakumari in the south, from the vast Thar Desert in the west to the cloud-laden states of the east.

Religions, societies, cultures, and languages intertwine in harmony.

People greet one another with respectful words — “Vanakkam” or “Namaskar” — no matter where they go. Every region of India is distinct in its charm.

Tamil — one of the oldest languages — is my mother tongue. I speak and write it with ease. It flows from my heart. No interpretation needed. No mental arrangement required. No separate thinking. It is deeply woven into the fabric of my mind.

I dreamed of participating in World Conferences one day — representing my wonderful country. A cherished desire. A powerful hope. A resplendent imagination — to showcase my nation’s uniqueness with pride and joy.

My wife was seven months pregnant. Every door seemed closed. There was no strong reason to stay — and we had surrendered to that truth.

It was our fate — our joy, our sorrow, our glory — and the reason for our return.

I struggled to stop the stream of thoughts — loss, failure, frustration — over a door that had shut.

But it did nothing except create suffering. I lamented, pitied myself, and reflected on the drastic turn our life had taken.

It was a Monday morning — November 19, 2001.

I woke before the sun. I was jolted into wakefulness. The morning felt shortened. No anxiety — I had moved beyond it.

I begged time for just a little more — to live until our child’s birth. I wished for a postponement — a delay in leaving this world. And I understood: “Time is a priceless gift.”

“Wasting time is a crime, and everything in life has its price,” I realized.

I called the airline to confirm our tickets — more activity than usual for that hour.

And then came the news — a flight accident in New York City. All services were halted at both Newark and JFK airports.

The travel agent advised me to re-validate the ticket.

My legs had swollen, my body had expanded — I couldn’t endure another day.

My wife was in the same condition — we were struggling together.

My friends acted quickly — agile, organized, like a team. They booked new tickets for a flight out of Philadelphia.

Don’t ask how — but they did it. Travel confirmed — 1:00 p.m.

My dear friend Tharani brought us low-salt food at a quarter to one.

My wife and I ate in a rush — not chewed, just swallowed — as if the sky were falling.

An hour later, our friends arrived — not in one, two, three, or four — but in five cars.

They loaded our packed bags and asked us to get in.

I held my wife’s hand and sat in silence. It felt as though I was chained. I couldn’t respond properly to the friend who was driving.

My answers were vague — I was counting days, not minutes.

I hoped the friend driving understood the turmoil inside me.

We reached the airport in under two hours and spent a few moments in a nearby restaurant.

Our group helped us check in. There were handshakes, gifts, words of comfort — and then the airline announcement.

My wife and I said a big goodbye.

But my mind didn’t rest — not for a moment — throughout the journey.

While I was on the airplane, my mind refused to rest. I feared death would find me mid-air before I could reach my homeland. My legs trembled. My heart pounded.

I wore a mask of courage for my wife’s sake. She returned an impassive, almost impudent look—yet I knew it wasn’t real. We both understood what the other was feeling. There was unspoken solidarity between us. We were holding on to the same hope—the arrival of our baby. That is the essence of husband-wife kinship.

More than anything, I prayed that my wife wouldn’t go into labor during the flight. She held my hand the entire time.

We landed at Chennai airport at midnight. Burdened with heavy bags, we struggled to move or exit. At the terminal entrance, my in-laws were waiting. A few other relatives had come as well. They stared at us, wide-eyed. I had changed so much that some didn’t recognize me—I had gained over 25 kilos from steroid treatment, my face swollen, my appearance altered. My wife too looked different, for reasons everyone could see—she was visibly in the final stage of pregnancy.

Her mother rushed forward, hugged her, and wept—tears of joy and relief.

Outside, I spotted Winston—my former housemate during our bachelor days. He was a senior from MIT and then working as an engineer for the Government of Tamil Nadu. Now, he lives in the U.S., still in touch, still calling, sharing scripture, encouraging me with the Word of God.

They brought us to our ancestral courtyard home in West KK Nagar. The house was modest, almost rustic—a small stove sat atop a broken table. But that night, we had our supper there. It was a classic South Indian meal: hard, sour idlis; pungent, slightly rancid vegetable broth; urad dal powder—nothing fancy, yet filled with meaning.

It wasn’t the food that made it delicious. It was the people.
The warmth, the words, the love.

In the midst of every shortcoming, I thanked God for reuniting us with family. I took a deep breath of reassurance—my wife was now in the right place, safe and secure.

Her parents treated me like their own son. That night, I slept like a child. I couldn’t tell day from night. Neither light nor noise disturbed me. I sank into deep, natural sleep—a kind I hadn’t known in months.

There was no fear.

For a brief moment, I believed my role in this world was complete. I was ready to accept death.