In 1960

The fragrant notes of filter coffee wafted through the ancestral home in Kumbakonam, mingling with the morning prayers from the nearby temple. Meera sat cross-legged on the smooth wooden floor, worn smooth by generations of footsteps, watching her grandfather, Srinivasan, settle into his favorite wooden armchair. The ancient piece of furniture creaked softly, as if sharing secrets of the past with its longtime companion.

The morning sun streamed through the window, casting a golden halo around her grandfather's silver hair. His weathered hands, marked by decades of storytelling through gesture and dance, rested quietly on the armrest. Those deep, expressive eyes that had once captured millions of hearts through the silver screen now carried the weight of untold stories.

Meera shifted closer, her own struggles as an aspiring actress in the world of web series weighing heavily on her mind. After her tenth failed audition that month, she had fled to her grandfather's house, seeking not just comfort but answers. She had always known him as Thatha (grandfather), the wise patriarch who had mysteriously retired from the film industry at the height of his career, but the full story had remained elusive, shared only in whispers and fragments.

"Thatha (grandfather)," she began, her voice soft but eager, "I need to know your story. Not the version Amma tells at family gatherings, but everything. How did you really enter the film industry?"

A gentle smile curved Srinivasan's lips, his eyes distant as if reaching across decades. "Ah, Meera kanna," he said, using the endearing Tamil term that brought warmth to her heart. "The world you're trying to enter today... it's different, yet somehow the same as the one I knew. But to understand my journey, you must understand where it began."

"Our family had been temple priests for seven generations in Kumbakonam. The temple bells were our alarm clock, the prasadam our daily bread, and the Sanskrit shlokas our lullabies. Your great-grandfather was the head priest, respected and feared in equal measure. His word was law, and his dreams for me were set in stone – I would continue our lineage of service to the divine.

"But the divine, Meera, speaks to each heart differently. Mine heard its call not in the temple bells but in the melodies of film songs that floated from the touring talkies. Every time a film screening came to our village, I would find excuses to sneak away. I would hide in the back, watching in awe as larger-than-life figures moved across the white screen, telling stories that made people laugh, cry, and dream.

"The first film I ever saw was 'Chandralekha.' When Vyjayanthimala danced on those drums, something stirred in my soul. I wasn't just watching – I was learning every movement, every expression, practicing them in secret behind the temple when everyone slept."

Srinivasan's voice trembled slightly as he continued, "At seventeen, I made a decision that would change everything. During the grand temple festival, when the crowds were thick and the chaos complete, I slipped away. In my cloth bag were two dhotis, a kurta, some temple prasadam, and my mother's photo. The hardest part wasn't leaving – it was not looking back when I heard the temple bells ring their evening prayer, knowing my father would be looking for me."

He paused, his hands unconsciously moving to touch his ears where the traditional priest's piercings still remained. "The train to Madras was packed that night. I sat by the door, watching my world disappear into darkness, clutching my bag like it contained all my courage. Perhaps it did."

"Madras in those days was a city of stark contrasts. Film posters covered walls like dreams plastered for all to see, while reality lurked in the shadows of studio gates where hopefuls like me waited. I spent my first night on the steps of Central Station, using my bag as a pillow, watching the stars and wondering if I had made the biggest mistake of my life.

"For weeks, I lived on the streets, surviving on the kindness of small tea shop owners who would give me the day's leftover idlis. I would stand outside studios from sunrise to sunset, trying to catch anyone's attention. My long hair, which I refused to cut as it was my last connection to my traditions, made people stare. Some thought I was a madman, others a beggar. No one saw an actor."

Days passed, and hunger gnawed at my stomach. I spent nights on the pavement outside Jayanti Studios, dreaming of the day someone would notice me. One afternoon, weakened by hunger and exhaustion, I fainted at the studio gates. When I opened my eyes, I was inside a grand house, lying on a soft mattress."

"That’s when I met Sulochana Amma, the renowned actress. She had seen me lying unconscious and sent her driver to pick me up. When I woke up, she stood beside me, her face filled with concern. ‘Poor boy,’ she said. ‘Take a bath and change if you have any spare clothes.’

I washed myself, changed into my slightly better pair of clothes, and neatly tied my long hair into a bun. When I stepped out, she gasped. ‘You look so different now,’ she said, smiling warmly. ‘Come, have food.’

A grand meal awaited me—a Maharaja thali with so many dishes I had never seen together before. "That first meal at Sulochana Amma's house marked the beginning of not just my career, but a sacred bond that would define my life," Srinivasan's voice softened with emotion. The first bite brought tears to my eyes. I had been starving for days, and now, here I was, eating like a king. Seeing me cry, Amma wiped my tears. ‘Tell me, dear, what are you doing here?’

I told her everything—how I had run away from home to chase my dream, how I had no one to turn to. She listened patiently and asked, ‘What kind of role do you want to do?’

I simply said, ‘Anything is fine, Amma.’

That one word—‘Amma’—brought tears to her eyes. She patted my head. ‘I’ll see what I can do for you.’"

'Listen, kanna,' she said, wiping my tears. 'From today, this is your home. No more sleeping on streets, no more hunger. But you must promise me one thing – you'll never lose the purity in your heart that made you brave enough to follow your dreams.'"

"After dinner, she showed me to a room – my own room, with a real bed and clean sheets. I broke down crying again, and she held me like a mother would, stroking my hair until I calmed down.

"Days passed, and Amma tried to get me roles, but none came. Directors didn’t know what to do with a boy who wouldn’t cut his hair or remove his ear studs. But fate had other plans. One day, on the set of a film, the director was in a fix—the actress playing Sulochana Amma’s companion had fallen sick. They needed someone immediately.

From behind, the director saw me and said, ‘Makeup man, prepare this person for the role!’

I was confused, but Amma nodded at me reassuringly. ‘Go ahead, trust me,’ she whispered.

The makeup artists worked on me, dressing me in a saree, fixing my hair, and applying makeup. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I couldn’t believe it—I looked… beautiful. Nervous, shy, I stepped onto the set, my heart pounding.

Amma saw me and kissed my cheek. ‘You should have done this long ago. If you do well today, success will find you soon.’

That day, I acted with all my heart, and the director was impressed. ‘You have something special,’ he said. ‘I want you in my next film.’ It was a dream come true."

Srinivasan's eyes twinkled as he recalled the early days of his transformation. "Amma was determined to teach me everything about being a young woman, not just for the screen, but for life itself. She would spend hours showing me how to drape a half-saree, making sure each pleat fell perfectly.

'A half-saree is not just clothing,' she would say, adjusting the pallu over my shoulder. 'It's a young girl's first step into womanhood. See how the fabric flows when you walk? It should dance with your movements, like a butterfly's wings.'

Every morning, she would wake me up early, before the household staff arrived. 'Come, Sridevi,' she'd say, her voice full of enthusiasm. 'Today we'll practice walking.' She would place a book on my head and make me walk the length of the corridor, teaching me the subtle art of feminine grace.

'Smaller steps, kanna,' she'd guide. 'Let your anklets make music with each step. When you walk, imagine you're floating on water – gentle, graceful, but always with purpose.'"

"Amma didn’t just give me my first break; she shaped my entire career. She chose every costume with care, making sure it matched my character’s essence. She ensured my dresses were tailored to perfection so that my secret remained just that—a secret. At home, too, I was always dressed as Sridevi. The staff treated me as Amma’s daughter, never questioning my identity.

Whenever I hesitated to do a scene, Amma would sit me down. ‘Sridevi, my dear, acting is about surrendering to the moment. Don’t be afraid.’

She guided me through every challenge, whether it was perfecting my walk in a saree, controlling my expressions, or adjusting my voice. ‘You are not pretending, child,’ she would say. ‘You are Sridevi. Own it.’

For two decades, Sridevi ruled the silver screen. I played roles that were daring, graceful, and emotionally rich. Each time I won an award, I placed it before Amma’s portrait.

"There were countless moments when Amma protected me, shielding me from those who might have discovered my secret. Once, during a film shoot, a co-star got suspicious about why I never changed costumes with the other actresses.

Amma smoothly intervened, saying, 'Sridevi has taken a religious vow. She can only change clothes in private, with specific prayers.' Her authority was such that no one dared question further.

Another time, a director insisted on a swimming scene. Amma stood firm. 'My daughter has a severe chlorine allergy,' she declared. 'Either you change the scene, or we leave the film.' Her tone left no room for argument.

But the most touching moments were the private ones. Every night, she would come to my room and help me remove my jewelry. As she unbraided my hair, she would share stories from her own journey in cinema.

'Amma,' I asked one night, 'aren't you afraid people will judge you for sheltering me?'

She paused, her hands still in my hair. 'Kanna, in this world, there are two kinds of people – those who judge, and those who love. I chose love long ago, and it has never led me astray. You are my daughter in every way that matters.'"

"The day before she passed away, Amma called me to her bedside. Her hand trembled as she touched my cheek, but her eyes were clear and strong.

'My beautiful Sridevi,' she whispered, 'you have made me prouder than any mother could be. Promise me you'll never forget who you are – not the star, not the actor, but the pure soul who had the courage to be true to yourself.'

I held her hand, my tears falling on her fingers. 'I promise, Amma.'

She smiled then, the same radiant smile that had welcomed a lost temple boy years ago. 'You know, kanna, sometimes God gives us the children we need, not in the way we expect. You were His gift to me.'

Those were among her last words to me. The next morning, she was gone, leaving behind a legacy of love that transcended all boundaries of convention and biology."

But after Amma passed away, something inside me broke. Without her, the industry felt empty. I didn’t want to act anymore. I quietly left, disappearing into thin air, and returned to my hometown, where I live today."

As Srinivasan concluded his tale, the evening light painted the room in shades of gold and purple. Meera's eyes were wet with tears, but they sparkled with newfound determination.

"You see, Meera," he said, reaching out to touch her cheek, "success in this industry isn't just about talent or beauty. It's about finding your truth and having the courage to live it, whatever shape it takes. Sulochana Amma saw beyond my appearance to the artist within. She gave me more than a career – she gave me the freedom to be myself, even if that self wasn't what the world expected."

The room fell silent as Srinivasan finished speaking. Meera watched as her grandfather wiped a tear, his hands still graceful in their movements, just as Sulochana Amma had taught him all those years ago.

"That's why you always smell of jasmine, Thatha," Meera said softly. "Just like you told me Sulochana Paati did."

Srinivasan nodded, touching the small string of jasmine flowers in his hair – a habit he had never abandoned. "Some lessons, my dear, become part of your soul. And some love... some love transforms you forever."

Rising slowly from his chair, Srinivasan walked to an old trunk in the corner. From its depths, he pulled out a small silver anklet. "This was my first costume piece," he said, placing it in Meera's hands. "Amma gave it to me for luck. Now it's yours."

As the anklet caught the last rays of sunlight, its tiny bells chiming softly, Meera understood. Her grandfather's story wasn't just about survival or success – it was about the transformative power of art and the courage to be authentically oneself, regardless of the world's expectations.

"Thank you, Thatha," she whispered, clutching the anklet to her heart. "I understand now why you always say that acting isn't about pretending – it's about revealing."

Srinivasan smiled, his eyes twinkling with the same light that had once captivated millions. "Go, my dear," he said softly. "Your story is waiting to be written. Make it one worth telling."

As Meera left that evening, the anklet tucked safely in her purse, she walked with new purpose. Her grandfather's journey had shown her that the path to success wasn't always straight or conventional, but it was always authentic. In an industry that often demanded conformity, she had learned the most valuable lesson – the power of being true to oneself.

The temple bells rang in the distance, their sound carrying across generations of stories, dreams, and transformations. In their melody, both grandfather and granddaughter heard the same truth: that sometimes the greatest acts of devotion come not from following tradition, but from having the courage to forge one's own path.

You can read this story in my website with visuals: https://www.meghanadixit.com/serial_item/184/