A Bit of Amma, A Bit of Appa

Every time a writer writes, she reveals a bit of herself... just a bit. The rest is purely imagination. 

I still see her — clear as day, though it's been years.

Amma at the wooden table, her back slightly hunched, hair pulled into a tired bun. The house would be quiet by then — dishes washed, clothes folded, lights dimmed. The smell of coconut oil and cumin lingered in the corners. Midnight. Maybe later. She’d sit with a chipped cup of coffee, the steam curling into the silence like a quiet ritual. 

And she would write. 

Not for fame. Not for money. Just... because something in her had to be put into words. It looked like breathing, almost — the way she would pause, stare into the distance, then bend her head and begin again. Her stories were filled with emotion — layered, subtle, steeped in the textures of everyday life. Women with untold stories–who never got to speak. Moments of quiet rebellion. Love that waited, sometimes too long. Dialogues borrowed from overheard gossip and reimagined endings. Characters that looked suspiciously like the aunties and uncles we knew, though she’d always smile and say, “No, no, purely fictional.” 

She wrote many short stories for popular magazines and radio channels — her words carried on paper, and through the airwaves. I remember one in particular: Isai Sollum Kathai — “The Story That Music Tells.” It was unlike anything else. A story interwoven with songs — not just as background, but as part of the plot. The songs spoke when the characters couldn’t. 

When the radio played it late in the evening, I can still hear the warm, familiar voice of the announcer saying, in Tamil: “Indraikku, Beruas-il irundhu —Thevamalar Subramaniam avargal eluthiya isaiyum kathaiyum kalandha oru siru kathai…’’ (Today, from Beruas — a short story woven with music and narrative... written by Thevamalar Subramaniam). I could hear her humming along softly, almost unconsciously, as if the story still lived inside her. 

I used to wonder why she didn’t just sleep. 

But now I know. Some words don’t wait for morning. 

I used to watch her from a corner of our majestic, dad-built house— too young to understand, too curious to sleep but not too young to remember. She didn’t always know I was there. Or maybe she did. Amma noticed everything, even when she pretended not to. And when she was done — when her blue-ink-stained pages were stacked and her coffee gone cold — she would leave them for Appa. 

Appa, the teacher. He was different but similar in a certain way. He’d read them slowly, carefully. Red pen in hand. His world was full of numbers and neat columns, but he always made space for Amma’s words. He’d underline gently, make little notes in the margins. “Clarity?” or “Reword this — too many adjectives.” She’d pretend to be annoyed, but I could tell she loved it. 

It was their quiet collaboration. She wrote through the night from the heart; he shaped it with the head before sunrise. She was instinct, he was precision. Her stories ran wild — his edits gave them legs. 

Appa was a man of order. A timetable kind of man. Morning walks and yoga asanas at 5.30, school at 7.30, tea at 4. He loved chalk dust, lesson plans, the smell of fresh notebooks and woods. His handwriting was neat, his words measured and precise. He taught generations of students to think logically, speak clearly, and show their work. 

But with Amma, he softened. He never dismissed her dream. He just anchored it. 

From him, I learned discipline. The value of finishing what you start. The quiet dignity in preparation. The steadiness of showing up — even when you’re tired, even when no one is watching. 

Now I sit at my own desk. Different home. Different city. Different country. But the feeling is familiar. My coffee cools beside me. My laptop glows faintly in the dark. I stare at the screen, fingers hovering, waiting for the right words to land. Sometimes I pause and hear it — the faintest tune, Amma’s humming voice trailing down the hallways of memory. A song from each of her many Isai Sollum Kathai. Or something older —her favourite, Chittu Kuruvi Mutham Kodutthu, a gentle melody from the 60s, a lullaby stitched into the bones of our childhood. 

Even now, when I write something I care about, I catch myself humming too — not quite in tune, not quite aware. Maybe that’s what inheritance looks like. Not in the obvious things, but in the habits we didn’t mean to carry. 

Some nights, when I reread what I’ve written, I imagine what Appa might say. 

 "Clarity?" 

 "Too many adjectives?" 

It makes me smile. 

They shaped me, my late Amma and my still-the-same but weathered Appa in Malaysia. Not just in what they taught, but in how they lived. She taught me to feel deeply, to trust what rises in silence. He taught me to ground those feelings, to give them structure — not to tame them, but to make sure they stand. 

I used to think I had to choose between them — between art and order, between wildness and discipline. But they both taught me, guided me and gave me the freedom; I don’t have to choose. 

I am both. 

And I am deeply convinced– I am a bit of Amma, and a bit of Appa. 

From her, the ache to create. The deep belief that stories matter and are sacred. From him, the will to shape them. To sharpen, refine, persist. From both, a kind of love that never had to shout — it just stayed- the kind that lingers long after the words have ended. Quiet and steady and always present. 

Every sentence I write feels like a thread connecting us. Amma’s midnight voice, Appa’s morning edits. Their lives folded gently into mine. A quiet echo of midnight. A page with her handwriting somewhere underneath. I know they’re both here. In every sentence. In every pause. 

Because every time a writer writes, she reveals a bit of herself... just a bit. The rest — well, that’s purely imagination.