​Suddenly, slicing through this sacred chaos like a missile, came Rama. All of ten years old, mischief in his eyes and unspent energy in his limbs, he zoomed into the kitchen on his imaginary aeroplane, arms spread like wings.

​

Splash! A bucket of water went flying.

​

"Ayyayyo! Thallu! (Move aside!)" Lakshmy bellowed. With a firm grip, she caught the little pilot mid-flight and marched him to the verandah, where time itself slowed down.

​

There, in a reclining armchair older than independent India, sat Krishnan, the family patriarch. A retired army officer, now at ease amidst the rice fields of Palakkad, he was moments away from his second nap of the morning. His legs were stretched, his glasses perched low, and a mild breeze teased the edges of The Hindu newspaper.

​​

“Dha, ivanae konjam pathukkongo (Here, please take care of him for a while),” Lakshmy said, more as an order than a request. She deposited Rama, along with an Amar Chitra Katha, on Krishnan’s lap, and vanished.

​

Silence. Obey. The only options available at this time.

​

Then a rustle.

​

Krishnan looked over the rim of his glasses.

​

“What book is this, da? Ah! The Samudra Manthanam, Churning of the Ocean,” he said, adjusting himself. “Have you read this one before, kanna?”

​

Rama nestled into his thatha’s lap, the safest runway for all his flights of fancy. “No, but I want you to tell me the story,” he grinned.

​

Krishnan chuckled. “Of course. Always better than the printed version.”

​

He opened the book to the vibrant illustration of the devas (gods) and asuras (demons) pulling the serpent Vasuki.

​

“See, Rama, the devas live in svargam (heaven), the asuras on earth. And they’re always fighting, like cousins during wedding lunch.”

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Rama’s eyes widened. “Thatha, where is svargam? Is it above the clouds? If we take a plane, can we go there?”

​

Krishnan smiled. “Konthae (my dear), I’m not sure if it’s up in the clouds or tucked behind Jupiter. But I think heaven is right here.”

​

“Here? Namma aathiliya ( Our home)... in Palakkad?” Rama tilted his head.

 

“Tell me, what did you do yesterday evening?”

​

Rama stuck his finger on his chin. “Hmm... Appa came home early. He got me a new remote-control car and new clothes. Then we played pillow fight. I beat him!” he beamed.

​

Krishnan raised an eyebrow. “Aiyo paavam Appa! (Poor Appa!)”

​

“Then Amma joined. We played snake and ladder. You kept getting eaten by the big snake!” Rama giggled.

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Krishnan chuckled, “That snake is biased, I swear.”

​

“Then Thathi sang, and Appa told me a story. And we ate mango ice cream.”

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Krishnan leaned in. “And how did all that make you feel?”

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“Happy, thatha! Soooo happy! I think... I think that’s like heaven.”

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Krishnan smiled and nodded. “Exactly.”

​

“But,” Rama’s brows furrowed suddenly. “Remember when I fell from the mango tree and broke my hand?”

​

“How can I forget? Hospital visits, arms in a sling, and your Amma’s shouting for the whole world to hear.

​

“Thatha! Amma, Enna Adicha (Whacked me), Thathi scolded me, Appa was angry... I was sad.”

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Krishnan leaned back. “So, that day... was that also heaven?”

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Rama gave his grandfather a scandalised look. “Thatha! That was like... the opposite! No ice cream, only pain and shouting. That’s not heaven.”

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“Then tell me, you little vidwan (wise one), what is heaven?”

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Rama thought for a moment. “I think... when everyone is happy, when I’m happy, and we’re all together... that’s heaven.”

​

“So, not in the sky then?”

 

“No. Heaven is... here. Around us.” So Thatha, what happens when we grow old and die?

​

Krishnan nodded slowly, his eyes twinkling. “Kanna, you’re becoming a little Nachiketan.”

​

Rama frowned. “Who is that? Another cousin?”

​

Krishnan laughed. “A boy who asked Yama, the god of death, what happens after we die.”

​

“Oh!” Rama sat upright. “Then, thatha, what does happen when we die? Where do we go?”

 

“Aiyo, kutti Krishna, that’s a long story. We’ll need many more mangoes and a full afternoon for that one. Let’s park it for later, okay?”

 

“Okay.” Rama slid off his grandfather’s lap, stretched like a cat, and announced grandly, “I’m going to be happy and make everyone around me happy. I will make heaven here.”

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Saying that, he ran off towards the cowshed, chasing after the baby calf like a mischievous wind.

​

Krishnan watched the scene unfold—the calf dodging, Rama laughing, the coconut trees swaying gently. He leaned back, a breeze brushing against his cheek, and closed his eyes.

​

A smile lingered.

​

Heaven, after all, was right here. On his verandah.