A to Z Work Travelogue : Yerevan, Yah!

He stood at the airport holding his wife’s favorite jacket. We had agreed that late February would be a good time to visit—spring just setting in, the chill fading. But the day before I landed, a snow alert was issued and temperatures plunged. From the airport, we drove straight to the market for fur-lined boots.

To set the stage, let me rewind a few years. One afternoon, I received a call from my colleague who headed international business. "Hey, Madhu, come over. I want you to meet a very interesting person. Let’s have lunch together."

That’s how I first met M—magnetic in presence, with a disarming energy. He had tracked down our company through old Soviet-era connections—back when lead-acid battery manufacturers in the USSR signed large annual contracts. M was especially keen on our brand. On his first visit, he brought an interpreter, but there was a certain dissonance. The meeting still went well, and it was the start of a long association. On subsequent trips, M came alone, armed only with a dictionary. The interpreter, he confessed, could not convey the spirit of his remarks— the empathy he felt was essential to negotiation.

Years later, once his business with us was firmly established, he insisted I visit Armenia to see what he had built for our brand. I spent just under a week there. Days were devoted to visiting stores; evenings were spent with his family. His mother sat at the head of the table, a gentle smile on her face, her keen eyes making sure my plate was never empty. M’s sister—an English teacher, interpreter, and gifted storyteller—spoke with pride about Armenian history, culture and heritage.

One evening, she told me the story of the salt cellar—an essential in every Armenian home. Handmade in the shape of a pregnant woman, it symbolized both life and fortune. Landlocked and often war-ravaged, Armenia depended on imported salt, which was precious and entrusted to the matriarch. She held it symbolically “in her womb” and dispensed it sparingly, preserving not just the family’s food but its fortune. Linked to Anahit, the Armenian goddess of fertility, these cellars are still proudly displayed as cultural heirlooms.

I also learned of Armenia’s deep historical ties with India, particularly Kolkata and Chennai. At the Etchmiadzin Church, I was surprised to hear of the 18th-century Armenian Church in Chennai—and felt a tad shy as the priest obviously expected to learn more from me.

Driving through Yerevan was like leafing through a living history book. Every heritage building had a story to tell. In open-air markets, stalls brimmed with hand-crafted pottery, wood carvings, jewelry, and woven textiles in a riot of colors. And no matter the hour, every home welcomed guests with bread, fresh salads, sweets, and dried fruits.

Some images stay forever in the mind; others are lost when photographs fade or disappear. M visited our plants many more times, eventually leaving his dictionary behind entirely. I moved to another industry, but our friendship endured—woven into the fabric of shared meals, exchanged stories, and the crisp spring air of Yerevan.