In the Quiet Company of Abi Akka!

- By Swathi

Thamarai Hostel always held a different kind of warmth, and a large part of it was because of Abi Akka. Her Room No is 40.


She was a tiny figure, with short, playful curls and a love for bright-colored clothes that made her look like a splash of sunlight in the dull hostel corridors.
More than her appearance, it was her spirit that captured attention, a spirit that loved to make others feel seen and loved, often through the tender power of her words.

Abi Akka was a poet in her own right, spinning Tamil words into delicate verses, breathing life into short stories that clung to the reader's heart long after the last page.
She wasn’t just a writer; she was an editor too, polishing Tamil manuscripts with an artist’s patience.
I admired her even more for that, especially because, at times, I myself fumbled, wondering whether the first letter in Tamil sentences should be capital or small.
While I wrestled with such doubts, she enjoyed every nuance of the language, swimming effortlessly in its rhythm.

She was a lover of little things, stationery items, colorful trinkets, the gentle beauty of natural scenes, the kinds of treasures that often go unnoticed by the hurried world.
There was something pure about her admiration for these simple joys; it made her feel untouched, genuine, like a rare, unpolished gem.

But what truly set her apart was the kindness she carried without pride or expectation.
I often watched how she helped Mythili Akka in small, quiet ways that spoke louder than any grand gestures.
Whenever Mythili Akka returned late to the hostel, it was Abi Akka who would be waiting with a warm cup of coffee tucked inside a flask.
They cooked together, laughed together, and navigated the harshness of hostel life with the gentleness of shared friendship.

Over time, I found myself admiring their bond, so effortlessly woven, so deeply rooted in care.
They woke up together, each heading to a different bathroom but moving in a silent, mirrored rhythm.
They shared their morning coffee side by side, and by 9:15 a.m., they left the hostel together, a quiet testament to a friendship that asked for nothing but gave everything.

Abi Akka had the rare gift of being both, beautifully childish and deeply mature, knowing exactly when to be either, as though she had mastered the dance between innocence and wisdom.
And no matter how many turned away from her or how many misunderstandings brushed against her path, she never forgot to share her smile, that simple, radiant smile that was her silent rebellion against bitterness.

It’s a quality not many possess, to choose kindness even when the world offers cruelty in return.
In her, I saw not just a friend, but a quiet lesson:
That the truest strength often lies in choosing to be gentle, again and again, in a world that makes it so easy not to be.

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