This Valentine’s Day, Team Sun chose to step away from the familiar rhythms of celebration and do something different. There were no crowded tables at restaurants, no carefully planned outings meant for photographs, no loud music or hurried laughter. Instead, we spent our afternoon at Sujatha Elders’ Home, sharing a simple tea with cake, biscuits, chocolates, gentle conversations, and a single rose for each resident, lovingly arranged by Poru Flore. It was meant to be a quiet gesture. Nothing elaborate. Just a few hours of companionship and presence. What we imagined was a small, meaningful act. What we experienced was something far deeper than we had prepared ourselves for.
We arrived thinking we would bring warmth into their day. We left realizing how much warmth they had placed into ours. From the moment we stepped inside, there was a stillness in the air that felt different from the noise of our everyday lives. The home was calm, almost reverent in its atmosphere, as if time moved more gently within its walls. Before we even began handing out tea or flowers, one of the residents, Mrs. K.G. Perera, led Buddhist prayers. Her voice was steady, soft yet powerful in its quiet conviction. She offered blessings for each of us and thanked us for coming. In that moment, it felt as though the roles had reversed. We had come believing we were there to give. Yet here we were, receiving gratitude, blessings, and a sense of peace that stayed with us long after the prayers ended.
When the roses were handed out, one by one, something shifted in the room. Each flower was received with a tenderness that caught us off guard. Some residents smiled and held the rose close to their hearts. Some lingered over the simple beauty of a single bloom. Some reached out and held our hands for longer than expected, as if afraid to let go of the connection that had been formed in that brief exchange. A few eyes filled with tears. A few of ours did too. It was astonishing how much meaning could be held in something so small. A rose. A touch. A shared moment of recognition.
As we served cake, biscuits, chocolates, and tea, the room began to fill with conversation. What had started as a quiet gathering slowly turned into a space of warmth and laughter. There was a gentle hum of voices, stories unfolding over cups of tea, memories being revisited, and small jokes being exchanged. It did not feel like we were guests, and they were hosts. It felt like we were all simply people, sitting together, sharing the ordinary magic of being in one another’s company.
We met Thanuja, who has lived at the home for twelve years since her parents passed away. She spoke without bitterness, her voice steady and composed. There was a calm acceptance in her words that came from years of learning how to live with loss. Listening to her, we were reminded that strength does not always look like loud bravery. Sometimes it is quiet endurance. Sometimes it is the ability to wake up each day and continue with grace, even when life has taken more than it has given.
Ms. Magalika Diaz surprised us with her stories. She spoke fluent Japanese and told us about working three jobs a day for fourteen years in Japan. She had travelled to twenty countries, each journey adding another layer to her life story. Listening to her felt like opening a well-worn travel journal filled with adventure, sacrifice, and resilience. It reminded us that the residents of the home are not defined by the place they live now. Each of them carries entire worlds within them. Lives filled with experiences, work, dreams, heartbreaks, and triumphs. Their pasts are rich and complex, even if their present is quiet.
Priyanthi shared that she prefers staying upstairs because her grandmother lives there. Even within an elders’ home, family bonds endure. The way she spoke about her grandmother held the same tenderness we hear in younger people speaking about those they love. It was a gentle reminder that love does not fade with age. It changes shape, but it remains deeply rooted in the heart.
Then there were Chathu and Somala, whose presence filled the room with laughter. They were known as the dancers of the group, and when music began to play, they needed no invitation. We tried choosing songs for them, but they quickly let us know that our taste in music did not meet their standards. They laughed, sang their own tunes, and danced with a joy that felt wonderfully unrestrained. When Chathu was asked her age, she grinned mischievously and said she was ten years old. She explained that she was enjoying her second childhood. Watching them move and laugh so freely was humbling. Their joy was not performative. It was genuine. It made us question how often we allow ourselves to be that open, that light, that unburdened by the weight of adulthood.
Upstairs, the mood shifted. We met a grandmother who was blind. When we offered her a rose, she threw it away and said she did not need anyone. The moment was painful. It was not anger that we felt from her, but something heavier. A loneliness that seemed to have settled deep within her over time. Living without sight, feeling isolated, perhaps feeling forgotten, it was easy to imagine how the world might feel unkind. Her response felt like a shield, something she had built to protect herself from disappointment. It reminded us how easily we take the world around us for granted. Sight. Company. The simple comfort of feeling wanted. Her reaction stayed with us, not as rejection, but as a quiet lesson in empathy.
One of our team members, Vishwa, spent a long time speaking with a resident named Punchi Manike. Later, he showed me photos of his own grandmother and smiled softly. He said she looked exactly like her. In that conversation, he was not just speaking to a resident. He was reconnecting with memories, with love, with a part of his own life that had shaped him. For a moment, past and present met in a simple exchange of stories. It was a reminder that we often see our loved ones in strangers, and in those moments, something tender stirs within us.
What we thought would be a small Valentine’s gesture became an unforgettable lesson. Love does not always arrive wrapped in romance. Sometimes it arrives quietly, in the form of a shared cup of tea. Sometimes it is a rose placed gently into wrinkled hands. Sometimes it is a prayer whispered for people you have just met. Sometimes it is a dance to a song you did not choose but somehow ended up loving.
That afternoon at Sujatha Elders’ Home taught us that celebration is not about grandeur. It is about presence. It is about listening without rushing. It is about holding a hand and allowing someone to feel seen. It is about acknowledging the humanity in front of you and letting it touch your own. As we left, the roses remained in their hands, but the warmth they gave us stayed in our hearts. This Valentine’s Day, Team Sun did not just celebrate love. We witnessed it in its quietest, truest form.it.
