We live in a time when experiencing life has almost become an aspiration in itself.
Travel to distant destinations.
Explore unfamiliar cultures.
Visit places of historical and spiritual significance.
Try new cuisines.
Meet new people.
Step outside familiar surroundings.
Collect experiences and make memories.
There is an implicit suggestion that the more of the world we see, the more fully we have lived.
I often think of my maternal grandmother, Alamelu Thirumalai, when I reflect on this idea. Her life offers a rather different perspective on experiencing the world.
She grew up in a traditional, patriarchal household and was married in her teens. Higher education, which she could have pursued, was no longer an option. Yet she did not allow the circumstances of her upbringing to define the possibilities of her life.
She learnt to read, kept herself informed, cultivated her interests and created a world that was distinctly her own. She did not spend her life lamenting what she had missed or turn the restrictions she had experienced into rules for others. Instead, she found ways to live fully within her circumstances while ensuring that the next generation had the freedom to explore beyond them.
She wore the traditional nine-yard saree, observed her religious practices and lived by many customs she had grown up with. Yet she never expected everyone else to follow the same conventions. She appreciated modern clothing on her younger relatives and would readily tell her granddaughters and younger cousins how good they looked in their contemporary outfits.
Her traditions were not set in stone. She could remain rooted in her own choices while being genuinely appreciative of different ways of living.
There was much more to her than the conventions associated with her generation.
She had a beautiful singing voice, composed tunes and set lyrics to music with ease. Her diaries and journals were filled with observations about people, reflections on events in her life, memories of her father, and poems and songs that captured her thoughts. She had opinions on almost everything and followed cinema, politics and contemporary events with keen interest, keeping up with developments and forming her own views. She had her favourite actors, too. She regaled us with stories, taught me my first dance steps and found countless ways to keep us entertained and engaged.
One of her compositions, Enakoru Nalvazhi, a song dedicated to Lord Ranganatha, remains particularly close to me. She taught me the song, and even today, family members ask me to sing it just as she taught me. Her devotional composition continues to find a voice through another generation.
There is something deeply special about an artistic expression surviving in this way, carried forward not through a published work or a formal performance, but through memory, affection and the enduring bond between a mother and her child.
She was also an extraordinary cook, capable of preparing food for large gatherings with remarkable ease. Anyone who happened to visit was welcomed and fed, irrespective of the hour. She made friends effortlessly and could connect with almost anyone. Having lost her mother early, she had taken responsibility for her siblings' welfare, extending her care to those who needed her.
Her generosity was not limited to hospitality. She rarely spent on herself and was always thinking of others. She would give me money to buy something for myself every day during summer vacations. There was a hotel nearby that served puris, which we enjoyed. She would not eat outside herself, but she was happy to send us with money to enjoy them. The children were never forgotten. There was always money for an ice cream or some little treat. She found happiness in making others happy.
What I remember most, however, was her childlike appreciation of life. She found delight in little things. She liked that I could speak English and would sometimes ask me to speak to my grandfather, who held an MA and BT, simply so she could enjoy watching the exchange. She could find amusement in something that might seem entirely ordinary to someone else.
She had an amazing sense of humour, and her shy smile is something I remember even now.
Her curiosity was not confined to cultural or creative pursuits. She had a remarkably discerning mind. Even doctors were sometimes surprised by her knowledge and understanding. She paid attention to what was prescribed, questioned changes in medication and was quick to recognise when something needed further evaluation. She did not accept things unquestioningly merely because they came from an authority. Her formal education may have been limited, but her capacity to learn, observe and make sense of things certainly was not.
She also had a keen understanding of people and relationships. When I went away to the hostel at NIT, she noticed that I had become rather accommodating, smiling and agreeing with everything. She reminded me not to lose my spirit and to speak my mind. She considered assertiveness and strength valuable qualities.
When I got married, her advice was equally revealing. She told me not to assume that just because someone was a husband, he would have everything figured out. He was also a person trying to understand life, just as I was. Seeing it that way, she said, would make it easier to forgive and work things out together.
She shared a beautiful relationship with my grandfather. They were an ideal couple, and the care she extended to him until his final days was a reflection of their companionship. She understood that relationships involved two people figuring life out together, rather than one person having all the answers.
Her world was not geographically expansive. She did not travel extensively or visit temples regularly. Yet she had an active mind, a generous spirit, a creative inclination and an enduring interest in people. She found ways to enjoy life without needing to venture far from home.
And this brings me to a question worth considering.
Are we confusing the accumulation of experiences with the experience of life itself?
Travel can broaden perspectives. Exposure to different cultures can challenge assumptions. New places and encounters can enrich our understanding. There is no reason to diminish their value. Yet, the number of destinations visited or experiences collected cannot, by itself, tell us how deeply someone has lived.
Two people can visit the same place and return with entirely different insights. One may remember the sights, another may reflect on the people, the culture and the differences in the way lives are lived. The experience becomes meaningful through what we notice, absorb and understand.
The same is true of everyday life.
A conversation can reveal more about human nature than a journey across continents. A song can open up an entire world of emotion. A relationship can teach us about patience, acceptance and forgiveness. A simple meal shared with someone can become a memory that stays with us for years. A new idea can change the way we think, even if we encounter it within the familiar surroundings of our home.
Experiences are not valuable merely because they are extraordinary. Their value also lies in what they awaken within us.
There is a difference between having an experience and being receptive to experience. The former is about what happens around us. The latter is about how we engage with it.
We can travel extensively and remain confined by our assumptions. We can live in one place for decades and continue discovering new dimensions of ourselves and the world around us. We can accumulate memories without necessarily gaining understanding. Equally, an ordinary day can leave us with an insight that changes how we see life.
Perhaps the more meaningful investment is not simply in acquiring experiences, but in developing the capacity to experience life.
It is an investment in curiosity, learning, creativity, relationships, observation and reflection. It is about remaining interested in the world, even when the world immediately around us seems familiar. It is about finding delight in what we encounter rather than constantly seeking something more spectacular.
My grandmother did not need to see the world to remain curious about it. She did not need formal qualifications to remain intellectually engaged. She did not need to abandon her traditions to appreciate modernity. Nor did she need to live beyond the boundaries of her circumstances to create a life of her own.
She created, questioned, observed, learnt, sang, wrote, laughed, formed friendships and found joy in the lives of those around her. She also made sure that the next generation had the freedom to explore possibilities that were unavailable to her.
She created a world that was meaningful to her, and made room for us to create worlds of our own.
Perhaps that is one of the most beautiful ways of experiencing life: to remain curious about the world, receptive to what it offers, appreciative of what is already within reach and generous enough not to impose the limits of our own lives on others.
The world is not measured only by how far we travel. It is also measured by how deeply we experience the life we live.
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