Just like that

Some days you wake up feeling low for no particular reason. Nothing dramatic has happened. No catastrophe. No earth-shattering news. And yet, there is a heaviness you cannot quite name. You feel irritable. Slightly unreasonable. Ready to pick an argument over absolutely nothing. I was having one of those days. My son sent me one of his latest stories to read. On any other day, I would have read it with interest, maybe even pride. But that day, all I could focus on were the ads popping up every few lines on the website — flashing, blinking, interrupting. They annoyed me more than they should have. So I messaged him about it. Instead of explaining or defending the platform, he sent me a Rajinikanth GIF — folded hands, fingers pointed upward, that unmistakable calm expression. And I laughed. Just like that, the heaviness shifted. One tiny animated image altered the emotional temperature of my entire day. It made me think. We underestimate words. We underestimate tone. We under...

When my husband announced an orange and red weather alert for Chennai and nearby areas, with schools shutting down, my brain didn’t go to “emergency prep” or “stock up on snacks.” No. My first thought was:   “Ah, perfect. Time to wash the bed sheets. They’ve been waiting forever.” He stared at me, baffled. “When they predict rain,” I added casually, “it’s definitely going to be sunny.” The science reporter in him gave me a death glare and walked away. But am I really wrong? How does the Tamil Nadu Meteorological Department so often miss the mark? Sure, the weather is unpredictable — always shifting, just like our thoughts and emotions. Still, I can’t help but wonder: if mindfulness helps me manage my emotional storms, what would it take for our weather experts to predict the skies? Being a K-drama fan, I recently watched Forecasting Love and Weather . A young meteorologist joins the national weather bureau and ends up predicting typhoons perfectly, saving countless lives. If ...

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...