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Prologue: The Story in the Stones

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After my father passed away at the age of 97, I found myself in the quiet task of sorting through the many papers he had left behind. It was a slow and reflective process, one that forced me to sift through not only the remnants of his life but also the memories I had of him—some clear, some hazy. Among the old bills, yellowed letters, and well-thumbed books, I discovered something I had never expected: his diaries.

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Now, if you had known my father, you’d understand why this surprised me. He was a man of few words, at least when it came to talking about himself. He rarely, if ever, spoke about his struggles or the early years of his life. What little I knew about his youth was pieced together from the occasional anecdotes he shared in a matter-of-fact tone, usually about his training in the Navy or some humorous incidents during World War II. But struggles? No. He never mentioned those.

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Yet, here were his diaries. Neatly written, in the same hand I remembered from birthday cards and grocery lists. There was no grand storytelling in these pages, no sweeping narrative of his life. Instead, they were simple, brief accounts of his days—small details of daily life that, when put together, told me more about the man my father was than any conversation ever had.

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Curiosity, and perhaps a bit of guilt for not having asked him more while he was alive, led me to delve deeper. It didn’t take long before I was completely absorbed. Through these small entries, I began to see a side of my father I had never known. A young man, hungry in more ways than one, navigating a world that offered him little and demanded much. I saw his grit, his fears, and his quiet endurance of the turbulent times he lived through—times he had never spoken of, perhaps because he believed there was no use looking back. Or maybe, he simply didn’t want to burden us with those memories.

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Not long after, I made a trip to our ancestral village of Thiruvanakoil. I wasn’t sure what I expected to find—after all, time changes everything, doesn’t it? But as I arrived, I was struck by how little had actually changed. The rice fields still stretched out in every direction, green and gold under the sun, just as they had during my father’s youth. The Srinivasa Perumal Temple still stood tall, though the stones were more weathered now, softened by time. And the Tamirabharani River, placid and unhurried, flowed by as it always had, indifferent to the passing years.

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It was as though the village had been waiting for me, unchanged, holding on to the stories of my ancestors, waiting to be remembered.

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I walked through the narrow lanes of the Agraharam where my father and his brothers must have run as children. I stood at the temple, touching the cool, ancient stones. Stones my ancestors had touched. As I laid my hand on the rough surface, I felt the weight of history. The stones didn’t speak in words, but they told me everything I needed to know about the land, about my father, and about the generations before him.

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This is their story, and more than that, this is his story—the story of a boy from a small village who lived through times of war, hardship, and change. A boy who grew into a man of quiet strength, who never boasted about his past but carried it within him every day.

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And now, as I share this story with you, I can’t help but smile. My father would probably shake his head, a wry grin on his face, and say, “What’s the use of digging up the past?” But I think, somewhere, he’d be pleased. After all, he left the diaries behind, didn’t he?

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So, here it is. The story of my father, Ambi.

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