Just like that

This morning, I made a grand declaration: “I’m going to write a book!” My husband, deep in his weekly-column trance, mumbled something without lifting his eyes from the screen. I don’t know if he heard me — his automatic, half-conscious response sounded like pure gibberish. I’d like to think it meant, “Mind-blah-blah-blah…” For the past few days, I’ve been consumed by an unstoppable urge to write. I left journalism because I was tired of turning in stories every single day — and now here I am, planning a book . Oh, the irony. But somewhere beneath the irony, I sense a quiet calling — maybe this urge to write is less about producing something and more about pausing long enough to listen to what wants to be expressed. A mindful whisper from within, perhaps. Two ideas are swirling in my head, both aimed at helping educators. Having shifted from journalism to elementary teaching, I have enormous respect (and plenty of empathy) for this tribe. My first idea is a practical phonics work...

A simple peeler set off interesting train of thoughts today. This morning, as I was about to scrape some carrots, I noticed my favourite peeler was missing. Instinctively, I assumed my husband had misplaced it—after all, there had been a few such incidents before. Without skipping a beat, I asked him, “Why did you misplace the peeler again?” That small question quickly turned into a minor argument—who uses it more, who bought it, why always him, and so on. Thankfully, my mindfulness training kicked in just in time. I paused. Took a breath. And reflected—what exactly was I doing? In that moment, my mind flashed to a scene from a K-drama I’ve been watching. A young patient sneaks out of the hospital at night and gets hurt. When she's brought back, it’s the doctor who apologizes to her—for not being there when she needed him. That scene suddenly put things into perspective. I wasn’t even sure who had misplaced the peeler, yet I had jumped to conclusions and pointed fingers. It reminde...

 As I stirred my favourite semiya upma for breakfast, my mother walked in, freshly back from her week-long trip. She was eager to hear all about the summer camp I had just wrapped up. With a mix of pride and excitement, I pulled out the colourful feedback chits my young campers had written. She skimmed through them, smiling at the sweet messages—until one particular comment made her pause. “Your piercings look really good on you,” a child had written. She looked up, amused. “What kind of feedback is this?” I laughed. “That,” I said, “is actually the best compliment I got.” Intrigued, she raised her eyebrows, demanding an explanation. I told her that for a child to notice the tiny stud in my ear meant something deeper—it meant they were truly present. When a child begins to notice the little things around them—what they see, hear, eat, say, and touch—that’s when mindfulness begins to bloom. The idea for such a camp took shape thanks to the plethora of messages that flo...

Thirukkural —this two-line wonder—has been an integral part of our lives in various forms since childhood. Yet, I hadn't picked up that small book in a long time, except when my husband asked for the meaning of a Kural quoted by a politician in a speech or recited by finance ministers during Budget presentations. (I’ve always wondered why quoting Thirukkural has become a ritual, even for finance ministers with no connection to Tamil Nadu!) That aside, my interest in this seven-word marvel was recently rekindled by The Times of India initiative, where famous personalities share their favorite Thirukkural . As I listened to their experiences, I was surprised at how many Kurals I could recall effortlessly, despite never having consciously studied them. In school, I was a Sanskrit and Hindi student, so my Tamil lessons never came from textbooks. Yet, my love for Tamil never faded—thanks to my father. He always had a Kural ready for every situation, and perhaps that’s how I pick...

Kamsahamnida —that word has been stuck in my head lately. It means “thank you very much” in Korean. No prizes for guessing why—I've been on a Korean drama binge for the past three weeks. Yes, I am a late bloomer. And let me tell you, they are dangerously addictive. So much so that even my regular chores have taken a backseat! What makes these dramas so captivating? When I think about it, I can draw a few parallels: Korean culture, at least as portrayed in these dramas, reminds me a lot of Indian culture from the ‘80s. I say this specifically because, post-liberalization and the brain drain, we seem to have embraced Western influences more than our own traditions. There’s a certain warmth in their visuals—nothing jarring or loud. Everything is so easy on the eye, creating a soothing effect. The sound design is subtle. No unnecessary high-pitched screeches. Even when a scene demands it, it’s kept brief. The storylines—some of...

“Hey, you’ve put on weight since the last time we met!” This isn’t an uncommon greeting from one of my friends. Trust me, he doesn’t mean to hurt—but somehow, he always does. He’s not a mean guy; in fact, he’s one of those friends I can call in the middle of the night for help. But that’s just his way of talking—not just with me, but with everyone. I’ve tried explaining to him that this sort of comment is body shaming and that it’s neither kind nor funny. But he just waves me off, insisting it’s all harmless fun. The truth? He’s far from alone. Comments like these are ingrained in our everyday conversations, especially among women. Often, they come from people who claim to mean well. Think about it—how many times have you heard a relative or a friend casually drop a remark like, “Your dress seems tighter. Gained weight, huh?” For me, it’s my aunt. She never fails to greet me with, “Enna nalla sappadare pole irukke?!” (Translation: “You seem to be eating well!” ) I know she do...