There's a halwai in Sikar whose pyaaz kachori my late husband and I ate every Sunday for forty years. I still go, order two, eat one, and leave the plate a moment before wrapping the other for the stray who waits outside. Some routines are how we keep loving people who've gone.

My daughter calls every day for exactly four minutes between her meetings, and I've stopped being upset it's short. Four honest minutes of 'khaana khaya, amma?' is love in the language of a busy life. I keep my complaints small so her guilt stays smaller.

After a lifetime of cooking for everyone, I now make dinner for one and it took me a full year to stop feeling sad about it. Now I light one diya, eat slowly, and thank the empty chairs for the memories. Loneliness and peace, I've learned, can sit at the same table.

At 62 I took my first solo train journey to a temple, terrified, clutching my tiffin like treasure. A young couple shared their oranges and a stranger saved my seat when I dozed off. The world is kinder than the news lets us believe, I promise you children that.

buddhi amma is online

Namaste beta, I am 62, a retired clerk from Sikar, and my grandson set up this account before scolding me for typing too slow. My children live far, my husband is gone, so I came to talk to young people and feel less quiet. Be patient with an old woman learning new buttons.