Summer vacations almost always ended with a family wedding.

It was the season when cousins reunited, uncles and aunts returned home,

and Mangalore became the meeting place for a family scattered across different cities.

By then, my younger brother and I had already spent weeks at Dodda's house,

happily spoiled by grandparents, cousins, and every adult

who believed summer holidays were meant for indulgence.

Our parents would join us for the wedding celebrations, and after a week filled with laughter,

ceremonies, and family, it would be time to return home to Coimbatore.

But before we ever reached the railway station, there was one stop that was never missed.

Taj Mahal Sweet Store.

Standing just a short distance from the station, it seemed to hold every beloved

Mangalorean sweet and savory under one roof.

Paper packets were carefully chosen and packed.

Kodubale.

Ellu Undae.

Wheat Halwa.

Macaroons.

Kai Holige.

Each one of us had a favorite.

At the time, I thought we were simply buying snacks for the long train ride.

Looking back now, I understand something I couldn't have known as a child.

Both of my parents had grown up in Mangalore.

Perhaps they missed home too.

Those little paper packets weren't only filled with sweets and savories.

They carried familiar flavors, familiar streets, and pieces of a childhood

they quietly took back with them each year.

Without realizing it, they passed that inheritance on to us.

❦

Once aboard the train, the excitement slowly gave way to goodbyes.

While my parents carefully arranged the luggage and made sure

nothing had been left behind on the platform—

including the precious parcels from Taj Mahal Sweet Store—

my brother and I lingered at the window,

waving until our cousins disappeared from sight.

There were hugs.

Blessings from elders.

One last smile.

Then, almost imperceptibly, the train began to move.

For a while, everyone became quiet.

Each of us seemed lost inside our own memories of the summer we had just lived.

Only after the train crossed the Ullal Bridge did conversation slowly return.

We began replaying the holiday together.

Remembering which cousin said what.

Which adventure had been the funniest.

Who had eaten the most ice cream.

The familiar rhythm of the train on the tracks became a lullaby

I knew by heart after so many journeys along that route.

❦

By dawn, we arrived in Coimbatore.

And that's where something beautiful happened every single year.

Waiting on the platform were my father's friends.

Not merely friends.

Family.

The warmth with which they welcomed us made

the long journey disappear almost instantly.

Together we would head to Annapoorna Gowrishankar

for a steaming South Indian breakfast.

Somewhere between the first sip of coffee, the crisp dosa,

and the laughter around the table,

something inside me quietly shifted.

Only then did I realize...

I wasn't arriving somewhere that felt less than Mangalore.

I was arriving home.

As a child, I never had the words for it.

Today I do.

My parents spent every summer carrying a little of Mangalore back with them.

And every year, Coimbatore gently reminded me

that home isn't only where your parents began.

It's also where your own memories are made.

By the time the Kodubale tins were opened a few days later,

summer had already become another treasured memory...

waiting patiently for the next vacation to begin.

"Some journeys don't end when the train arrives. They end the moment your heart recognizes home again.”