We had just settled into life in Singapore and had begun to truly enjoy it. It was clean, safe, and incredibly convenient. I could take Adi out in his pram without worry, and my daughter moved around the city on her own or with friends. Life had found its rhythm—and we were happy.
But soon, everything shifted. My husband was transferred back to Bangalore. We had no choice but to pack up again and start over. It was hard to leave a place we’d grown to love.
In Bangalore, after a short stay in a guesthouse, we moved into a rented apartment. I worried about how the kids would adjust—new city, different weather, unfamiliar routines. My daughter missed her friends in Singapore and was clearly sad.
But Adi? For him, our empty home became a wonderland. With no furniture yet, he had the run of the house—exploring drawers, cupboards, bathrooms, and balconies with curious excitement. He didn’t need much to be happy. That was always his gift.
There was a small play area in the complex, and he loved the sand. It took him a while to try the swings and slides—he was always cautious, always looking to feel safe first. But slowly, he opened up. Every evening by 5 p.m., he’d stand by the door, shoes in hand, ready to go. If we didn’t move quickly enough, he’d bring our shoes too, gently urging us out. There was no ignoring him.
He’d play, take a walk, laugh freely. His giggles echoed through the air, warming every corner of our hearts.
Looking back, I realise how much joy Adi found in the simplest of things. An empty apartment. A walk at sunset. A swing set. He taught us—without words—that happiness doesn’t have to be big or loud. Sometimes, it’s just a small hand in yours, tugging you gently toward the door.