She is writing her very first fictional story, a creative endeavor that marks the beginning of her journey as a storyteller and explores the depths of her imagination through characters, plots, and vivid narratives.
Aditya was born into an affluent, conservative Brahmin family in the heart of Chennai. He was smart, ambitious, and carried the legacy of generations who valued status, tradition, and family honor. But Aditya was different. From a young age, he questioned societal rules, especially when it came to love.
Sumathi, on the other hand, came from a modest background. Her father was a retired railway clerk, her mother a homemaker. She was intelligent, compassionate, and deeply rooted in her values. Her family's love was their wealth.
Their worlds collided at a cultural conference in college. She was reciting Bharatanatyam verses. He was speaking on entrepreneurship in a modern India. Their eyes met during a tea break — and that was the beginning.
What started with stolen glances grew into a romance that withstood societal pressure. But when they decided to marry, hell broke loose. Aditya's parents were appalled at the idea of him marrying beneath his caste and class. Sumathi's family feared Aditya's world would swallow her.
Defying them all, they eloped.
Aditya and Sumathi escaped to Bengaluru, where Aditya found freelance work through his college contacts. They lived frugally, often sharing meals and taking buses to save every rupee. Aditya took online coding and business courses while Sumathi worked as a private tutor.
Aditya soon built a small portfolio and applied to a tech competition. He won a small grant that put him on the radar of a UK-based startup accelerator. Within a year, Aditya received an invitation to London under a startup visa scheme. He worked day and night, and eventually brought Sumathi on a spouse visa.
London wasn't easy. The weather was unforgiving, and so was the loneliness. They lived in a shared flat, worked odd jobs, and built their life from scratch. Aditya took up contract tech work. Sumathi worked at a community center and helped tutor immigrant children.
Aditya eventually founded a logistics startup, solving last-mile supply chain issues for small businesses. Word spread quickly, and soon he was speaking at forums and winning investor interest. They bought a small home in the suburbs, and were blessed with two children — Aarav and Anika.
But behind the success, there were wounds. Sumathi missed her parents — she never got to say goodbye before leaving. Aditya silently longed for his mother's cooking, his father's approval.
Their solace came in the form of a close-knit NRI friend circle — each of whom carried their own emotional baggage.
Esha and Monal were married but falling apart. Esha wanted to return to India; Monal loved the London life. Pooja and Shakti were silently battling the heartbreak of not having children. Ravi was estranged from his brother after a bitter legal dispute. Shiva and Shankar were twin brothers who hadn't spoken in years, both living within blocks of each other.
Lavanya, a single mother, was fighting a court case for her child's custody.
Vinayak wanted to go back to India but was stuck in immigration limbo. Aditya and Sumathi were the glue. Their home was the hub of weekly dinners, laughter, tears, and cultural nostalgia. Aditya always said, "When you can't go back to your own family, you build one."
It started with minor tremors. A missed step. A forgotten word. After multiple tests, the truth hit hard: Aditya was diagnosed with Multiple System Atrophy — a rare neurodegenerative disease with no cure. Doctors gave him 1–2 years at best.
He kept it a secret initially. But one night, he broke down in front of Sumathi.
"I don't fear death," he said, "I fear dying with guilt — of never letting my children know where they came from... of tearing you away from your family."
That night changed everything.
Despite his weakening body, Aditya began his final mission — to make peace.
He started with his friends: He arranged a surprise trip for Esha and Monal to India, where they reconnected with family and rediscovered their love.
He helped Ravi draft a heartfelt letter to his brother, which led to a long-awaited call.
He guided Pooja and Shakti to an adoption program. He stood by Lavanya in court and connected her with a top lawyer. He invited Shiva and Shankar to a Diwali dinner without telling them the other was coming. The reunion was awkward, but they ended the night hugging.
He wrote to Vinayak's MP and pushed through a special request for visa clearance.
Then, he recorded a video — his last message to his children. In it, he told the story of how he met their mother, why they left India, and how family is not a place but a feeling.
He sent letters to his own parents and to Sumathi's family. Some came back unanswered. Some, surprisingly, replied with tears.
Aditya's condition declined. He could no longer walk without support. He sometimes forgot names. But his spirit never faded.
On a cold February morning, with Sumathi holding his hand, his children by his side, and his friends around him, he passed away. Peacefully. Silently.
His funeral was attended by more people than anyone expected. He was gone — but he had touched too many lives to be forgotten.
A month later, Sumathi, Aarav, and Anika flew to Chennai. Alongside them came the friends whose lives Aditya had healed.
They arrived at the ancestral home. The door opened. There stood Aditya's aging parents, tears in their eyes. Behind them, Sumathi's parents, older but still proud.
No one spoke for a long time. Then Aarav stepped forward.
"I'm Aditya's son," he said. "And he wanted us to come home." And home they came.
Today, Aditya's children split their time between London and Chennai.
Sumathi volunteers at the very school where she once studied. Esha and Monal run a wellness retreat in Coorg. Ravi is building a home beside his brother's. Pooja and Shakti have a daughter now. Shiva and Shankar started a business together. Lavanya won her custody. Vinayak lives in Bengaluru, working with returning NRIs.
In the middle of it all, Aditya lives on — not in photographs or memories, but in every bond he restored, in every life he touched, and in the family that finally, came home.
"The last wish wasn't just his. It became theirs."