[ This is translated story from Telugu. If you are Telugu reader, please check here . This is a very story from a Kendra Sahitya Academy prize winning book - Naa Maargam. I am just a translator of this though most of the work done by Microsoft Copilot, I just checked for contextual/nativity errors- which is very minimal. Hope you enjoy the story-just read this as Metaphor]
When I return home from the office and see letters waiting at the doorstep, an indescribable excitement wells up inside me.
It feels as though dear ones have come to greet me warmly, and all the fatigue from work simply melts away, leaving my heart at ease. Instead of heading straight to the kitchen grumbling about chores, I find myself humming a tune, leisurely making a cup of coffee and sipping it with joy. And if the letters come in familiar inland formats or envelopes, they spark such enthusiasm that I even feel like whipping up pakoras or bajjis to enjoy with them. Though I may be lazy to write letters myself, I still hold onto the hope of receiving one every day from somewhere.
It was an unexpected letter. Akkayya ( sister) never writes letters, so if she wrote one specially, there must be something significant. As I was opening the letter, a slight fear crept in—hopefully it’s not bad news. Of course. If everything were fine, no one would bother to write even a piece of a letter.
Dear Ammalu,
I think my letter must have surprised you. You might be even more surprised to hear that your brother-in-law and I are coming to your city. We’ve been wanting to visit Kashi and Haridwar for a long time, and now the opportunity has finally come. I hope our visit won’t cause you any inconvenience…
“Hey! My sister and brother-in-law are coming here,” I said excitedly. “Really? When? Let me see that letter,” he said, snatching it from my hand. I went into the kitchen to prepare coffee and other refreshments.
Since my wedding, this is the very first time my sister and brother-in-law are coming to our home in this town. I’ve been waiting for this moment for years. They never leave their village—always caught up with the kids, cattle, sowing, harvesting, and some excuse or the other. But now, they’re finally coming to our home in this big city.
My sister didn’t study as much as I did. In fact, her education was stopped after the fifth grade by our father. Those were the days when people believed, “Why should a girl study? Isn’t it enough if she can read and write a little to manage laundry and grocery list?”
By the time I was born—a decade later—that debate about whether girls should be educated had faded. Fortunately, my father had also changed with time. He didn’t hesitate to enroll me in college.After completing higher education, no girl wants to simply get married and remain confined to household chores. There’s a yearning to make good use of one’s education, to achieve something independently in life. That same desire took root in me too. Even though my husband had a good job, I chose to work as well.
Since my sister wasn’t educated much, a match was arranged from the village. Though my brother-in-law is educated, he chose farming as his profession out of idealism, cultivating his own land and settling down in the village. My sister gradually became accustomed to that rural life.
When my sister came, she brought along so many things—dosakaya (yellow cucumber), gongura (sorrel leaves), drumsticks, appadams (crisps), vadiyalu (sun-dried fritters), coconut laddus, and more.
“I don’t know… I brought all these like Kuchela did,” she said shyly, “I’m not sure if you’ll like them.”
“Oh, what are you saying! You’ve brought exactly the things we needed. These are all items we can’t easily find here. If your brother-in-law gets gongura pulusu, dosakaya pappu, and drumstick rasam, he’ll feel like he’s been served a royal feast!
With my office work, I never get around to making appadams or vadiyalu. Even if I do get some free time, I feel too lazy to do those kinds of tasks. You know me well!” I said with a laugh.
“Of course, by the time you get back from the office, you must be completely drained. And then to think of making appadams, vadiyalu, idlis, and dosas—what a task! I really don’t know how you manage both housework and office work,” said my sister, comfortingly.
“I don’t know, Akkayya… this wretched job—sometimes I feel like quitting. Like they say, ‘win the home before the world’—handling office affairs while neglecting the home feels like too much for a woman,” I said, speaking from experience.
“Don’t say like that, Ammalu,” my sister replied gently. “You’re so fortunate—though we shouldn’t say - You’ve studied well, you’re working shoulder to shoulder with men, and earning with your own hands. You don’t have to beg to to anyone for anything. Unlike me, you can live with dignity without depending on your husband even for curry leaves or a for a rupee.”
“Distant hills always look smooth,” I thought to myself. Then, to change the topic, I asked, “What’s your daughter studying now?”
“She’s preparing for her school finals. If God wills, and she passes, I’m determined to get her into college. He’s not too keen on sending her to a hostel in a nearby town. But I don’t like the idea of keeping a girl at home without education. Haven’t I struggled enough? These days, if a girl doesn’t have at least a degree in hand, she’s good for nothing. Otherwise, she’ll have to live like subservient to man’s needs.” she said with intensity.
My sister always loved studying. But our father didn’t encourage her education. Just because she couldn’t quickly answer a simple question, he dismissed her, saying, “How can a girl like her study?” He stopped her schooling and focused all his attention on our elder brother.
Because she wasn’t educated, a match was arranged from the village. Now she’s left to tend cattle, scrub the stove, and draw water from the well—doing all the hard chores. Even my mother often feels sad about my sister’s situation.
Sensing that my sister was feeling down, reflecting on the past, I wanted to lift her spirits. “Come on, let’s go sit over there,” I said, gently leading her to the balcony.
Over there, my sister began admiring the plants in the flower pots. All the vegetables she brought—all were from their backyard garden. I told her, “Next time someone comes this way, send me a few gongura seeds.”
“Yes, but ammalu,” she said, surprised, “what’s this? You’ve planted banyan and pomegranate trees in flower pots! Look how they’ve turned into dwarfs! Trees that are meant to grow deep and wide in the ground—if you confine them to pots, how will they ever thrive?” she said, both astonished and saddened for the plants.
I burst into laughter. My sister looked at me, puzzled.
“I planted them like that on purpose, akkayya. It’s a special technique called ‘Bonsai’ from Japan. Even giant trees like banyans can be grown in flower pots—with roots trained to stay shallow. If you keep trimming the branches of a pomegranate tree and occasionally change the pot, you can shape it into a miniature tree that even bears fruit. Just imagine how charming it looks!
"Do you know how carefully you must nurture these tiny trees? Bonsai is a beautiful art form,” I explained.
My sister didn’t seem impressed by what I said. “I don’t know… you’ve trapped this banyan tree, which is meant to grow tall, in a pot,” she said with a sigh.
I slumped into the chair, disheartened that I couldn’t win her over with my bonsai. The art I had learned felt like watering ashes—pointless and draining.
Just then, a strong gust of wind blew in. Sand whipped against our faces. I grabbed my sister and rushed her inside. Quickly, I shut the windows and doors.
My sister was stunned by how suddenly everything changed.
“What’s this? It was all normal just a moment ago. Where did all this dust and wind come from? There aren’t even any dirt roads around!” she exclaimed.
“This is how it is in the big city, akkayya. Before you know it, it’s like the sand from the Rajasthan desert has flown in and slapped us in the face,” I said.
I hadn’t even finished speaking when we heard the patter of raindrops. I opened the door and quickly pulled the bonsai pots and flower planters from the balcony under the shelter. A storm had begun.
My sister opened one window shutter and looked out onto the street—taking in the weather of India’s capital.
“Look, ammalu… look over there,” she said. There was a spark of fresh excitement in her voice.
Curious, I looked out the window toward the street. I couldn’t understand what she meant. I turned to her face, puzzled, and asked, “What is it?”
“Look at that tree—see how many people are sheltering under it, staying dry,” she said, as if it were something novel.
To me, it felt like a very ordinary thing. But it seemed she realized I hadn’t understood the feeling behind her words, and she spoke again.
“Look how tall that banyan tree has grown—it’s thriving freely in the open space outside. Even the strongest storm couldn’t shake it. And see how many people it’s sheltering, standing firm as their refuge. In the scorching heat, so many must rest under its shade!”
“I’m not saying it’s strange, ammalu. Just look at your bonsai tree—so neat and charming, like a well-kept housewife. But see how delicate it is. You must protect it with a thousand eyes—it couldn’t even withstand a small storm. When something depends entirely on someone else, how can it offer shelter to others? The difference in how boys and girls are raised is exactly why a woman’s life ends up like a bonsai—beautiful, but confined,” she said.
My heart softened at my sister’s words.
Just like setting a caged parrot free and letting it soar as a bird of freedom, I suddenly felt an urge to liberate my bonsai trees from their flowerpots.
When I return home from the office and see letters waiting at the doorstep, an indescribable excitement wells up inside me.
It feels as though dear ones have come to greet me warmly, and all the fatigue from work simply melts away, leaving my heart at ease. Instead of heading straight to the kitchen grumbling about chores, I find myself humming a tune, leisurely making a cup of coffee and sipping it with joy. And if the letters come in familiar inland formats or envelopes, they spark such enthusiasm that I even feel like whipping up pakoras or bajjis to enjoy with them. Though I may be lazy to write letters myself, I still hold onto the hope of receiving one every day from somewhere.
It was an unexpected letter. Akkayya ( sister) never writes letters, so if she wrote one specially, there must be something significant. As I was opening the letter, a slight fear crept in—hopefully it’s not bad news. Of course. If everything were fine, no one would bother to write even a piece of a letter.
Dear Ammalu,
I think my letter must have surprised you. You might be even more surprised to hear that your brother-in-law and I are coming to your city. We’ve been wanting to visit Kashi and Haridwar for a long time, and now the opportunity has finally come. I hope our visit won’t cause you any inconvenience…
“Hey! My sister and brother-in-law are coming here,” I said excitedly. “Really? When? Let me see that letter,” he said, snatching it from my hand. I went into the kitchen to prepare coffee and other refreshments.
Since my wedding, this is the very first time my sister and brother-in-law are coming to our home in this town. I’ve been waiting for this moment for years. They never leave their village—always caught up with the kids, cattle, sowing, harvesting, and some excuse or the other. But now, they’re finally coming to our home in this big city.
My sister didn’t study as much as I did. In fact, her education was stopped after the fifth grade by our father. Those were the days when people believed, “Why should a girl study? Isn’t it enough if she can read and write a little to manage laundry and grocery list?”
By the time I was born—a decade later—that debate about whether girls should be educated had faded. Fortunately, my father had also changed with time. He didn’t hesitate to enroll me in college.After completing higher education, no girl wants to simply get married and remain confined to household chores. There’s a yearning to make good use of one’s education, to achieve something independently in life. That same desire took root in me too. Even though my husband had a good job, I chose to work as well.
Since my sister wasn’t educated much, a match was arranged from the village. Though my brother-in-law is educated, he chose farming as his profession out of idealism, cultivating his own land and settling down in the village. My sister gradually became accustomed to that rural life.
When my sister came, she brought along so many things—dosakaya (yellow cucumber), gongura (sorrel leaves), drumsticks, appadams (crisps), vadiyalu (sun-dried fritters), coconut laddus, and more.
“I don’t know… I brought all these like Kuchela did,” she said shyly, “I’m not sure if you’ll like them.”
“Oh, what are you saying! You’ve brought exactly the things we needed. These are all items we can’t easily find here. If your brother-in-law gets gongura pulusu, dosakaya pappu, and drumstick rasam, he’ll feel like he’s been served a royal feast!
With my office work, I never get around to making appadams or vadiyalu. Even if I do get some free time, I feel too lazy to do those kinds of tasks. You know me well!” I said with a laugh.
“Of course, by the time you get back from the office, you must be completely drained. And then to think of making appadams, vadiyalu, idlis, and dosas—what a task! I really don’t know how you manage both housework and office work,” said my sister, comfortingly.
“I don’t know, Akkayya… this wretched job—sometimes I feel like quitting. Like they say, ‘win the home before the world’—handling office affairs while neglecting the home feels like too much for a woman,” I said, speaking from experience.
“Don’t say like that, Ammalu,” my sister replied gently. “You’re so fortunate—though we shouldn’t say - You’ve studied well, you’re working shoulder to shoulder with men, and earning with your own hands. You don’t have to beg to to anyone for anything. Unlike me, you can live with dignity without depending on your husband even for curry leaves or a for a rupee.”
“Distant hills always look smooth,” I thought to myself. Then, to change the topic, I asked, “What’s your daughter studying now?”
“She’s preparing for her school finals. If God wills, and she passes, I’m determined to get her into college. He’s not too keen on sending her to a hostel in a nearby town. But I don’t like the idea of keeping a girl at home without education. Haven’t I struggled enough? These days, if a girl doesn’t have at least a degree in hand, she’s good for nothing. Otherwise, she’ll have to live like subservient to man’s needs.” she said with intensity.
My sister always loved studying. But our father didn’t encourage her education. Just because she couldn’t quickly answer a simple question, he dismissed her, saying, “How can a girl like her study?” He stopped her schooling and focused all his attention on our elder brother.
Because she wasn’t educated, a match was arranged from the village. Now she’s left to tend cattle, scrub the stove, and draw water from the well—doing all the hard chores. Even my mother often feels sad about my sister’s situation.
Sensing that my sister was feeling down, reflecting on the past, I wanted to lift her spirits. “Come on, let’s go sit over there,” I said, gently leading her to the balcony.
Over there, my sister began admiring the plants in the flower pots. All the vegetables she brought—all were from their backyard garden. I told her, “Next time someone comes this way, send me a few gongura seeds.”
“Yes, but ammalu,” she said, surprised, “what’s this? You’ve planted banyan and pomegranate trees in flower pots! Look how they’ve turned into dwarfs! Trees that are meant to grow deep and wide in the ground—if you confine them to pots, how will they ever thrive?” she said, both astonished and saddened for the plants.
I burst into laughter. My sister looked at me, puzzled.
“I planted them like that on purpose, akkayya. It’s a special technique called ‘Bonsai’ from Japan. Even giant trees like banyans can be grown in flower pots—with roots trained to stay shallow. If you keep trimming the branches of a pomegranate tree and occasionally change the pot, you can shape it into a miniature tree that even bears fruit. Just imagine how charming it looks!
"Do you know how carefully you must nurture these tiny trees? Bonsai is a beautiful art form,” I explained.
My sister didn’t seem impressed by what I said. “I don’t know… you’ve trapped this banyan tree, which is meant to grow tall, in a pot,” she said with a sigh.
I slumped into the chair, disheartened that I couldn’t win her over with my bonsai. The art I had learned felt like watering ashes—pointless and draining.
Just then, a strong gust of wind blew in. Sand whipped against our faces. I grabbed my sister and rushed her inside. Quickly, I shut the windows and doors.
My sister was stunned by how suddenly everything changed.
“What’s this? It was all normal just a moment ago. Where did all this dust and wind come from? There aren’t even any dirt roads around!” she exclaimed.
“This is how it is in the big city, akkayya. Before you know it, it’s like the sand from the Rajasthan desert has flown in and slapped us in the face,” I said.
I hadn’t even finished speaking when we heard the patter of raindrops. I opened the door and quickly pulled the bonsai pots and flower planters from the balcony under the shelter. A storm had begun.
My sister opened one window shutter and looked out onto the street—taking in the weather of India’s capital.
“Look, ammalu… look over there,” she said. There was a spark of fresh excitement in her voice.
Curious, I looked out the window toward the street. I couldn’t understand what she meant. I turned to her face, puzzled, and asked, “What is it?”
“Look at that tree—see how many people are sheltering under it, staying dry,” she said, as if it were something novel.
To me, it felt like a very ordinary thing. But it seemed she realized I hadn’t understood the feeling behind her words, and she spoke again.
“Look how tall that banyan tree has grown—it’s thriving freely in the open space outside. Even the strongest storm couldn’t shake it. And see how many people it’s sheltering, standing firm as their refuge. In the scorching heat, so many must rest under its shade!”
“I’m not saying it’s strange, ammalu. Just look at your bonsai tree—so neat and charming, like a well-kept housewife. But see how delicate it is. You must protect it with a thousand eyes—it couldn’t even withstand a small storm. When something depends entirely on someone else, how can it offer shelter to others? The difference in how boys and girls are raised is exactly why a woman’s life ends up like a bonsai—beautiful, but confined,” she said.
My heart softened at my sister’s words.
Just like setting a caged parrot free and letting it soar as a bird of freedom, I suddenly felt an urge to liberate my bonsai trees from their flowerpots.
