Visit to Mahsoba temple with my husband, flowers and cake from children, diligently made, with the labor of love the birthday card by Mihika, Ajay calling and singing lovely birthday song for me while on the way to school in Chicago, blessings from elders and warm wishes from friends were highlight of my this birthday.
But what blew me away completely is this article which today I am sharing with you all. It was written and sent as birthday gift to me by Vir, eldest of my three grandchildren, Vir, Mihika and Ajay.
*Pyaari Naani *
Seven decades ago, in a quiet lane of Almora in Uttarakhand there was a girl born who was named Jyoti. She was the kind of child whose report card made the whole neighborhood proud. While other kids were busy flying kites on the rooftop, Jyoti was buried in science books,
But she wasn’t just a bookworm. Once she hit her teens, the serious student turned into the most mischievous kid on the block.
Academics still called to her though. She finished her BSc in with top marks, then her MSc Chemistry. She didn’t stop there — she dove into a PhD, spending long nights in the lab surrounded by flasks and the sharp smell of chemicals with the invigorating smell of chai and samosas on which very often debates and gauntlets were based The lab became her second home, and chemistry became her language.
Life moved forward. Jyoti married and had two children, Uday and Namita. Both were academically excellent, Uday was steady and quiet, like his father but Namita had Jyoti’s spark — funny, naughty, silly Jyoti balanced home life, studies and bedtime stories of her both children. She became busy with work and learning technology , equations experiments and earthen pots of mango pickle.
Years passed, and Namita grew up and had a son of her own — Vir. From the moment Vir was born, Jyoti’s eyes softened in a way no one had seen before. She was “Nani” now, and Vir was her favorite partner in crime. For twelve years she spoiled him with secret cheese parathas before dinner, taught him how to solve chemistry equations in seconds, and told him stories of her own childhood in the 1970s — of lantern-lit evenings, her mischievousness in Msc while she stole samosas and sang songs at most serious moments when HOD sahab was serious , and funny takes of Namita and Uday.
Then, when Vir was twelve, nani fell ill. Cancer. The word hit the family like a storm. But if you knew Jyoti, you knew she didn’t give up easily. She fought it with the same fire she had in the lab. There were painful days, hospital visits, and quiet nights, but she never let it dim her spirit.
She beat it. Not just for herself, but to show the world what Jyoti Pant really means — resilience, laughter, and stubborn hope.
Now, every summer, when the heat in Pune becomes unbearable, Jyoti packs a small suitcase and comes to Vir’s house. The house fills with the smell of old stories, chaat, cheese paranthas and fresh ice cream.
She sits on the table with Vir , teaching him simple chemistry and telling tales of her mischievous days, and yes — buying buckets of ice cream till the freezer overflows.
Vir still waits for those summers. Because to him, Nani isn’t just his grandmother. She’s proof that a person can be serious and playful, a scholar and a storyteller, fragile and fiery — all at once.
And every evening, when the sun sets and the house glows warm, Jyoti still shines the brightest.
Love you Naani
❤️❤️❤️
Vir Sinha



























