June 2nd — The Day Life Gave Me Lemons

June 2nd — my Papa’s birthday. Last year, my mom’s 80th pirannal also fell on the same day. It is a rare cosmic coincidence: Papa’s solar birthday and Mom’s lunar birthday aligned on the same calendar day!

It felt deeply special to all of us, and we kids decided to celebrate it in the grandest way we knew — a traditional Kerala sadya with three payasams and a lemon after the feast.

Most people melt into a post-lunch nap after such a meal, while the health freaks take a little walk. My knee, however, seemed to have other plans.

Whether it was trying to grab one more lemon after the sadya, or a little too much excitement at seeing cousins and relatives after a long gap, it chose to jump instead.

Whatever the intention, it eventually ended with me in a kind of Ashtangasanam in front of too many guests — probably more accurate than the ones I usually do.

Going from a standing posture straight into an Ashtangasanam truly deserves a standing ovation.

I didn’t hear any. I was busy howling in agony.

Though the entire vibe took a sharp U-turn after that, my knee left me with a whole basket of lemons for a year.

And with that, my year had a new rhythm.

They say, “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” Sounds simple — as if the lemons arrive already sliced, the sugar measured, and the glass ready.

But making lemonade is slow, messy — and never a solo act.

You need five players: pitcher, knife, squeezer, water, and sugar.

Five. That number stirred something in me — the way a number sometimes holds more than a count.

And just like that, the Pancha bhutas surfaced in my mind. The five elements behind the creation of all living things: Earth, Fire, Water, Air, and Space.

My mind, as it usually does, found a pattern. This is what it showed me:

Earth — Prithvi — was my Pitcher.

The pitcher holds everything — steadily, without wavering. So did they, my family and friends. Though they were shattered inside, they never let me see it.

They were the firm ground I was limping on when everything felt out of balance.

Just like earth, they held me steady, absorbing all the shock.

Earth is considered the hardest. But for me, it was the softest.

Fire — Agni — was my Knife and the Squeezer.

You cannot make lemonade without being cut and squeezed. The surgery did what only fire can — it forged to heal.

Cut to realign and reshape to restore.

Broken pieces — the seen and the unseen — were wired and tightened until the fragments forgot they were ever apart.

Rehabilitation was fire in slow motion — at times, a cold splash of water after the forging.

Every session released something in me — some resistance, some fear, some doubt that I’d ever get back to where I was.

Just like fire, it forged me bone-deep.

Fire is what people fear most for its heat. But eventually, it was the coolest.

Water — Jal — was my Water itself.

Water simply flows. Time does too.

Desperate to reconnect with my old self, I tried to hurry my recovery. I remember watching the weeks creep, begging my body to listen.

Yet time moved at its own pace, indifferent to mine.

Eventually, I stopped resisting time — and danced to its tune instead. Day by day, it showed me—less swelling, more bend, one more step up the stairs than the day before.

Just like water, it forced me to flow.

Water is known to be fluid and flexible. Yet it turned out to be the most stubborn.

Air — Vayu — was my Sugar.

You can’t make lemonade without sugar, but it slowly dissolves into sweetness.

Love does the same. I could feel it in the smallest and most unexpected ways:

a reassuring message, however caught up they were;
an unexpected call, however busy they were;
a hand offered, however tied up they were — to rise from a chair, climb a step, walk a little further than I thought I could.

And then some stayed with me until my inexplicable fears faded and forgotten confidence found its way back — however held up they were.

Each of them dissolved into me so gently that I cannot trace where it went, cannot name what it did — only feel what it left behind.

Just like air, it was all around me.

They say air is the lightest. But I think it carried the most weight.

Space — Akasha — is my Lemonade.

Before this year, I used to think space meant emptiness. Now I know it differently.

Space was vastness, and in that I felt wholeness from the other four: earth, fire, water, and air.

And this wholeness — the lemonade — could only have been made as it was. No shortcuts, no other way. It was poured, drop by drop, by every hand that held me.

Just like space, I found wholeness in vastness.

Space is the only one that stayed true to its claim. In reality, too, it felt infinite.

The lemonade I hold today belongs to everyone who poured their patience, energy, time, and love into my glass — and stirred it with their presence. It still overflows.

Cheers to all the Bhoota(m)s in my life—whom I leaned on heavily and pestered endlessly with my unexplainable fears! Without you, I’d still be knee-deep in sour lemons. 🙂

Today is June 2nd. Happy birthday, Papa. I know you are in a sacred place, never bound by the five elements.

P.S. This lemonade will live with me — beyond what earth can bury, fire can consume, water can erase, air can disperse, space can contain, and even time can measure.