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August 1972 — Jalan Bendahara
Tamarai.
It meant lotus in Tamil.13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡl4o4wHdtrj
And just like her name, the Indian woman standing before me carried a quiet, graceful beauty—soft-spoken, calm, untouched by time. There was a nervous hope in her eyes as she handed me the letter.
I decided to read it for her.
July 1972 — South Kensington, London
Dear love,
How are you, my love? I hope you are well.
I am doing fine here. I reached my friend’s house two days ago. My best friend, Anderson—who loves science and discoveries as much as I do—welcomed me warmly. The first thing he asked about was you. He even apologised for bringing me here, so far away from you, and so suddenly.
He explained the urgency. The British Government wants this project to succeed. Anderson shared his findings from an ancient temple, and he believes this could become a major breakthrough in the medical world. He was surprised by my ideas and my new invention concepts. We have already begun working together.
I hope my work here will be over soon. I have already started missing your scent.
I have sent money orders for you. Bring Abdul—he knows what to do.
Please take care of yourself. Eat well. Sleep well.
I always love you. I always miss you.
Lots of love,13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡS3WY1PDlwV
Maaran
That was all.
When I looked up, Tamarai’s eyes were shining. She didn’t speak, but her smile said everything. Love had travelled all the way from London to Jalan Bendahara in the form of ink and paper.
She thanked me softly, and I felt lighter—for helping her, for being a small bridge between two hearts separated by oceans.
With my work done, I walked back home under the dim streetlights. That night felt different. Like something had shifted. Like a beginning.
I opened a new diary.
Just as I began writing the first line, there was a knock on my door.
When I opened it, I was surprised to see Tamarai standing there, a small boy beside her. In her hands was a Tupperware container.
She had brought sweet wheat porridge, still warm, along with banana fritters.
She smiled shyly. It was her way of saying thank you.
I was truly grateful. I had eaten dinner earlier, but I was still hungry—like my heart had been waiting for something comforting. I thanked her, and since it was already dark, she turned and walked away quietly into the night.
Later, sitting alone, I ate the wheat porridge and the banana fritters.
Only then did I truly understand why her husband had written about missing her cooking.
Some flavours are not just food.13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxmvppIaIdw
They are love.13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcCR5oZlf8O
They are home.
and then Add to home screen.