SPECIAL DAYS

In our home, “Special Days” do not arrive quietly. They bloom – like marigolds strung across a doorway – bright, fragrant, and impossible to ignore. Almost once every month, our ordinary rooms turn into a celebration. The air shifts. The kitchen hums. Laughter gathers in corners like warm sunlight.

My little one has been part of this ritual since his kindergarten days, when his feet were barely steady but his enthusiasm was already boundless. What began as simple participation has grown into wholehearted ownership. For a whole week beforehand, menus are drafted and redrafted like treasured manuscripts. Recently, there even has been a careful consideration of friends’ preferences. Hospitality, I realise, has begun to take root in him not as an obligation, but as delight. And this delight truly is contagious.

There is a special kind of joy in watching tiny hands knead dough, chop vegetables, shop for groceries and more, with intense seriousness. The food is lovingly prepared, yes – but more than that, it is hosted. It carries the warmth of intention. The house is filled not just with chatter but with the quiet pride of a child who has helped create the feast before him.

I once imagined that as he grew older, this interest might fade – replaced perhaps by indifference or distraction. But how beautifully wrong I was. His involvement has only deepened. The commitment more earnest. The ritual no longer feels like something we orchestrate for him; it feels like something he stands within fully.

I am transported back to my own childhood, where my house would be a centre for all family and friends gathering. A nuclear family of 4 of us would immerse ourselves in the preparations of the gathering. My mother stood at the centre of it all, like a maestro – composing and conducting simultaneously – guiding us novice musicians through the symphony of preparation. There was rhythm in the chopping of vegetables, harmony in the clinking of vessels, crescendo in the arrival of guests.

The memories of those days are preserved as very “special days” in my head, like pressed flowers between the pages of time.

Today, being part of a school community that encourages such shared rituals feels like a blessing. It allows us not only to relive those tender childhood experiences but to recreate them – consciously – for the next generation. It reminds me that celebration does not require grandeur. It requires intention. It requires belonging.

As we grow older, I hope we continue to guard this ritual fiercely – not as tradition for tradition’s sake, but as a living thread of community. I hope that one day, when my child is grown and standing in his own kitchen, perhaps with children tugging at his sleeves, he will remember these Special Days. I hope he will recall the laughter, the careful planning, the flour-dusted counters, the warmth of shared meals – and feel inspired to recreate that circle of belonging for the community he builds and becomes part of.

For in the end, it is not the menu that endures. It is the memory of being together.

This post has been authored by Jignasa Parikh, a Tridha Parent & Primary Class Teacher