Mayuranum Athaiyum: A Legacy of Love and Claiming

By Dr. Nandhini A P

The bond between us was a word of mouth, could never be learnt from textbooks or taught by tradition—it was felt, deeply in the heart, from the very first time his tiny fingers curled around mine. It was a feel of head over heels. That moment, I wasn’t just a woman with responsibilities—I became Athai (Aunty, Father’s own sister). Not by obligation, but by a legacy I stubbornly, lovingly, claimed. The relationship could be as old as the hills but this really hits different for me.

Mayuran—my blood brother’s son, my heart’s own child.

Whenever he visits from Chennai, he brings out the child in me. He awaits my arrival, and all eyes are on the road, not just for the warm embrace, but for the snacks, and little treats I always carry like treasures. He hesitates at first and then pretends to be shy, peeking from behind a curtain or clinging to his mother. But soon, his mischief takes over. He twists me around his little finger with his tiny tricks, melting me with that vibrant, demanding voice that calls me Athai. He drags me into his games, allows me to feed him, and even lets me change his urinated trousers. And there, in those raw, humdrum moments—but it makes me feel like I’m on cloud nine.

I cherish them. I treasure them. I live in them.

He teases me, and I bully him right back—mock scolding him until he pouts with a theatrical sigh or pretends to cry. The moment I claim our father—his beloved grandfather—as “my Appa, my lovable father”, his face crumples in jealousy. He doesn't allow it. “Appa is mine!” he declares, almost sternly and angrily. If I jest about taking our father to my home, he throws a full-blown tantrum or sulks in silence. That’s his love—loud, possessive, and pure.

Even my father seems to change when Mayuran arrives. His presence lightens the house and then it lights up with joy. My father, often weighed down by age and ailments, becomes High-spirited at once. He forgets the pain in his legs and laughs like a child, matching Mayuran beat for beat without missing anything. In those moments, Mayuran holds the reins over everyone at home, and knocks the socks off everyone with his charm.

As for me, I wait all year for his arrival. No therapy, no holiday could ever compare to what his presence does to me. The stress from work, the tiredness, and the worries—they all vanish when he’s around. While I wrestle daily with the weight of being a working woman, torn between duty and desire, he quietly becomes my healer.

My son has grown up, mature, understanding. He comforts me with his words: “Amma, you don’t have to go to work. Stay home, rest.” But it’s Mayuran’s childishness that soothes me. Perhaps it's because when my son was a baby, I had no choice but to leave him for work, pushed by financial need and responsibility. I couldn’t relish his early years. That regret still stings.

But Mayuran—he gives me a second chance.

Once, when I was too burdened with stress, I told him half-jokingly, “Mayuran, I’ll come to Chennai with you.” He stopped and looked at me with the maturity far beyond his years, saying, “Yes, come. Feed me, pack my lunch, and drop me at school. Neeyae School-a vidu dailyum.”

Those weren’t just words—they were balm for my bruised soul.

When I teased him before his return to Chennai, pretending to cry, he gently whispered, “Azhadha... we’ll drop Achu and come back. We won’t go to Chennai and leave you here.” He comforted me the way a grown son would. In that moment, I wasn’t just his Athai—I was everything to him.

He’s my selfie partner, though I usually shy away from the camera. I always say I don’t have a “photo face,” but with him beside me, I feel beautiful. We once visited the hospital together—his first trip without his mother. He clung to me, gave me her place, and trusted me with his every little need. I felt his comfort, his tender confession that you are everything to me, Athai.

Once, after a long day at work, I returned to find the house echoing with silence—my brother, his wife, and my mother had gone out, leaving only my son, my father, and Mayuran. As soon as he saw me, he sprinted to me and hugged me tight. That hug, it said everything. It said you are my safe place, you are the love I look for when no one else is around.

Even when I make phone calls to my brother, Primarily, I always ask for Mayuran. My brother teases me for it—“You always ask only for Mayuran, not me.” That’s his way of claiming his sister back, of being cheeky, of being loved.

This time, during his forth coming holidays, he’s coming for a longer stay. He promised me he’d bring me “Mutta Mittai” from Ulundurpet. But I’m not really waiting for the candy.

I’m not only waiting for him—his presence, his laughter, his chaos, his healing energy but also longing for his hugs, kisses he gives lavishly and embraces

Mayuran isn’t just my nephew.

With him, I feel heart and soul, and I think of him as the light of my life. 

He is the child who gave me back my lost moments, who made aunthood a fierce, an unshakable legacy I will forever claim with pride.

And in that claiming, I found joy, healing—and above all—a love that I forever cherish with and that never perishes.

By Dr. Nandhini A P