Tanmayi
Reddy

Tanu — I am the elder sister. It is in the contract that I get to say the embarrassing things first. You were three when you decided you were going to teach the neighbour's cat to do tricks. You spent two hours with a piece of string and a great deal of patience. The cat was not interested. You sat on the terrace and explained to Patti, with the seriousness of a small Supreme Court judge, that the cat was being unreasonable. Patti agreed. You then taught the cat one trick by the end of the afternoon. I have never forgotten that. Happy eighteenth, my little sister. From IIT, with love and exam stress. Don't let Appa give the speech — he is going to cry and then say it was the dust.

Tanu! Eighteen!! WE ARE LEGAL ADULTS!! Which is a very long way from the day we met at the St. Ann's gate in nursery, when you stole my pink eraser and would not give it back until I agreed to be your best friend. (I want to be clear, for the record, that you started it. The eraser was mine. I have never been compensated.) Thirteen years of best-friendship later, and I am writing this from college in Pune, fully prepared to take the train home for your eighteenth and instead being told there is a surprise on the terrace I am not allowed to ruin. So this is me, being good, and not ruining it. Save me a samosa. Save me TWO samosas. Save me your phone for one (1) selfie. Happy birthday, Tanu. I love you.

எனது செல்லம் தன்மயி — my darling Tanmayi. (Patti is writing this and Sahasra is translating. Patti says: "Write what I say, exactly, do not add anything clever.") Patti says: Eighteen years ago I came to Hyderabad on the train from Chennai when your mother went into labour. I did not sleep on the train. I have not slept properly since. You have been worth every hour of it. Patti says: You are the only one in this family who still asks for my mor kuzhambu the way my own mother used to make it — with the small green chillies and the curry leaves browned slightly. That is how I know you are mine. The recipe is in the steel box in the kitchen. I have written it down for you. It is yours now. Patti says: Eat slowly. Sleep well. Marry someone who makes you laugh. நீ வாழ்க — may you live long. (Patti is now crying. Sahasra has stopped translating. End of letter.)

My Tanu — my little one — eighteen. You were born at 4.42am on a Friday. The monsoon had broken the night before and the air was clean and cold and I thought, in the moment I first held you, that I had never been more frightened in my life and I had never been more sure of anything. Eighteen years have passed. I am still frightened (you are about to leave for college, and the world is what it is, and you are still my baby). And I am still sure (you are going to be more than fine — you are going to be exactly who you choose to be). I made the bobbatlu this morning before you woke up. They are in the steel dabba in the second shelf. I made the chocolate cake yesterday — Appa insisted on a chocolate cake, he says you "still prefer it," and he is right, you still do. The auto uncle will be at the gate at seven. Patti has been awake since five. Sahasra is on the phone every twenty minutes asking if you have read her letter. We are all here, Tanu. The terrace is laid out. Come up when you are ready. With all my love forever — your Amma.

TANU TANU TANU! Eighteen!! Class of 2026 forever!! It has been one (1) year since we sat on the floor outside the chemistry lab at St. Ann's and you taught me — by drawing diagrams in my notebook with a red pen — the difference between an aldehyde and a ketone, and I genuinely believe I passed the boards because of you. Eighteen years on planet Earth and you are already explaining science to people who have given up. I think you should be a teacher and a doctor and possibly the Prime Minister. (You can pick.) I am at Lady Shri Ram in Delhi and so I cannot come, but I am sending all my love, and the small parcel in courier that I PROMISE is not just stationery (it is mostly stationery, with one good thing). Happy birthday, Tanu. Don't forget us St. Ann's girls when you go off and be brilliant.

Dear Tanmayi, It is your eldest cousin writing — yes, the boring one in Bangalore, the one who replies to the family WhatsApp three days late. I wanted to write something properly for your eighteenth because it is a real birthday and you have grown up to be, by every measurable metric, a remarkable person. You take after your mother more than you know, and you take after Appa in all the ways that count (the patience, the slightly maddening insistence that there is a "right way" to make filter coffee). I am proud of you, Tanu. Your school marks were one thing, but what I keep thinking about is the way you helped Patti onto the auto when her hip was bad last summer — you did it without being asked and without making a thing of it. That is the part. The rest is the rest. Many happy returns. Eat well. Call your mother more than you think you need to. With love from Indiranagar, Pranav anna

My dear Tanmayi, On the occasion of your eighteenth birthday I want to formally record three things. Firstly — I am proud of you. The Class XII results, the way you have conducted yourself at St. Ann's for thirteen years, the kindness you show your grandmother. I am proud of all of it. I am also aware I do not say this often enough. I am working on it. Secondly — your mother and I have been saving for your further studies since the day you were born. I will not embarrass you with the figure. It is sufficient. You should choose what you want to study based on what you want to study, and not based on what is "practical." Practicality is for people who do not have parents who saved for them. Thirdly — there is a wrapped parcel on the dining table. It is from your mother and me. It is a small thing. It is not unimportant. You will know when you open it. Many happy returns, ma. Appa

Dear Tanmayi, It is your tabla guru writing — Subramanian sir, from the Wednesday afternoon classes in Banjara Hills which you have attended (with admirable regularity) since you were ten years old. In the eight years you have been my student I have taught perhaps two hundred children, and I can tell you, without exaggeration, that you have the cleanest tihai I have heard from a young student in this city. The way you hold your wrist when you play the dha is correct in a way that cannot be taught — it can only be observed and approved of. You have a natural sense of laya. This is not a small thing. On the occasion of your eighteenth birthday, I wish you health, focus, and the discipline to continue your practice even when you go away to college. The tabla does not forget the student. But the student must not forget the tabla. Many blessings, beta. Sri T. R. Subramanian