And I perform anyway

Even though the curtains stay closed. 

There is something sacred about an empty theatre after all.

Not the kind of empty that feels abandoned. Not the hollow silence of a place forgotten. But the kind of empty that holds its breath. That leans in. That knows something is about to happen, even if no one has come to watch.

I have been performing here for years.

Not for applause. Not anymore. Maybe long ago, there was a time I stood at the edge of this stage and hungered for it. The recognition. The comments. The emails from strangers who felt seen in my words. The particular vanity of knowing that what you wrote moved someone enough to reach across the darkness toward you. I fed on that once. I am not ashamed to admit it.

But somewhere between then and now, between the girl who searched for synonyms to make her sentences shine and the woman who no longer needs to, something changed. The hunger softened into something stranger. Something that looks almost like devotion.

I write now the way some people pray. Not because they expect an answer. But because the silence that follows feels different from all other silences. Charged. Intimate. Like something is listening even when nothing stirs.

I speak into it. This enormous, breathing quiet. Words that are too honest for the outside world. Feelings that would embarrass me in daylight. Grief that I have not named yet and love that I have named too many times. I lay them all out here, on these boards, in this light that is barely a light at all.

And the empty theatre receives everything.

It does not flinch. It does not judge. It does not shut me down, the way the world sometimes does, swiftly, without explanation. The theatre just holds it. All of it. The beautiful and the unbearable. The poem I wrote at 3AM that I will never fully explain. The story about a young girl falling in love anyway. The weight of watching the world outside burn while I sit here, helpless, stringing sentences together like they are prayers I cannot stop making.

But I know this. There is a particular kind of beauty in the performance no one asked for. In the song sung to no audience. In the painting made in a room with the door closed. In the words written at midnight by someone who is not sure anymore if they are writing for others or just to prove to themselves that they are still here. Still feeling. Still capable of turning the ache of living into something with a shape.

And hence, even if the curtains remain closed, the show is always worth watching!

Don't let go

Hold me like the winter holds the earth,

strong and without permission.

creeping into every crack,

until the ground forgets it ever belonged to spring.

Hug me tight.

The way roots grip the ground before the storm.

desperate and wordless,

knowing the wind is coming to tear everything apart.

We have no right to this warmth.

But in this space between heartbeats,

nothing matters, except for this beautiful weight of being known.

Let silence be the only words between us.

Because words would make it real.

And real things can be taken away.

Let time forget it has somewhere to be.

Let it stand still at the door like a guest.

Not ready to interrupt something it will never understand.

It is wrong in all the right ways.

A season that should not exist.

A flower pushing through frost

that has no business being beautiful.

And yet...

For What It Is Worth

I still tear up every time I tell this story. Even today, more than thirteen years later, it hasn’t softened. If anything, time has only made the memory sharper, more defined, like a scar you don’t always see but never quite forget.

It came back to me unexpectedly today. A simple post on my Facebook feed. A concerned mother asking about a city they were considering moving to. Her question was careful, almost hesitant. She wanted to know if there were issues… unspoken ones. The kind that don’t make it into brochures or school ratings. Specifically, she asked about bias tied to skin color.

And just like that, the past rose to the surface.

It’s strange how certain memories don’t fade. They wait. Quietly. Patiently. And then they choose their moment, usually the most inconvenient, the most uncomfortable, to remind you they’re still there.

Color bias is not new to me. I grew up around it. In many ways, I was shaped by it. Because it isn’t confined to one place or one culture. In India, it wears many faces. The subtle preferences between North and South Indian skin tones. The biases that exist even within South Indian states. The deep, layered intersections of caste and color. It’s a hierarchy within a hierarchy, endlessly dividing, endlessly refining who belongs where.

It’s exhausting when you really stop to think about it.

But for all the ways I had seen it growing up, there was a moment, the first time, I truly felt it. Not as an observer. Not as background noise. But as its target.

And that is the memory that still unsettles me. Not just because of the pain. Or the quiet humiliation that came with it. But because, in that moment, I didn’t even realize what was happening. I didn’t recognize it for what it was. I didn’t have the language for it. I didn’t have the awareness. I didn’t even have the instinct to question it. I simply stood there, absorbing it, trying to make sense of something that felt wrong without understanding why.

And when I think back now, that’s the part that makes me recoil the most. Not the bias itself. But my own innocence in the face of it. Because sometimes, the deepest wounds aren’t just about what was done to you. They are about the moment you realize you didn’t know enough to protect yourself.

It began as something small. Ordinary. A quick coffee run with colleagues during an on-site trip. One of those stolen breaks in the middle of a relentlessly busy week. We stepped out, grateful for the few quiet minutes and the promise of caffeine. I remember noticing, almost absentmindedly, that I was the only brown-skinned person in the group. It didn’t feel significant then. Just a passing observation.

The line wasn’t long. We chatted, laughed a little, and let the stress of the week loosen its grip. But in my head, I was rehearsing my order. Over and over again. Every word, every pause, carefully practiced so I wouldn’t stumble. So I wouldn’t sound unsure. So I wouldn’t make a fool of myself over something as simple as coffee.

When my turn finally came, I stepped forward, ready.

But then, in one swift, almost practiced motion, the barista slid the "Counter closed' sign forward and looked down at her phone. Just like that. No eye contact. No explanation. No acknowledgment that I was even standing there.

There were people behind me. The café was still humming with activity. I glanced around, waiting. Surely another counter would open? But everyone else seemed busy, occupied, already stretched thin. I told myself they must be overwhelmed. 

So I did what felt polite. I said, “Thank you,” quietly, and stepped out of the line.

The person behind me began to follow. And then, almost instantly, the barista leaned forward again. This time to pull the "Closed" sign away. The counter was open again.

For him.

He hesitated, confused, and then turned to me with a kindness I hadn’t expected. “You can go ahead,” he said, gesturing for me to return.

I smiled, because that’s what you do, and walked back.

And just as quickly, the sign went back up.

Closed.

She returned to her phone.

And I stood there.

Not angry. Not yet. Not even hurt in the way I would later understand it.

Just… blank.

Trying to make sense of something my mind refused to name.

It didn’t register immediately. My thoughts scrambled for explanations. Maybe I misunderstood. Maybe she's busy. Anything that would make the moment less sharp, less personal.

But somewhere beneath that confusion, something else had already settled in.

A quiet, sinking awareness.

My colleague noticed before I could fully process it. He didn’t make a scene. Didn’t argue. Didn’t demand an explanation. He simply looked at me, threw his untouched coffee into the trash, and said gently, “We’re leaving.”

And I followed him out.

Still trying to understand why my chest felt so heavy, I was dazed. I remember just trying to get through the rest of the day. I remember my colleagues apologizing for something they didn't really do but felt obliged to. I remember coming back home. But at every communication point in that trip back, I expected to be ignored. I was prepared for it. In fact, I had begun to expect it. 

I carry that moment with me in ways I didn’t expect. It made me sharper. Quieter. More watchful. I read between pauses now. I notice what isn’t said. I trust the small, uneasy signals that rise before logic can explain them. And yes, sometimes I flinch too early. Sometimes I see patterns where there may be none. That is the cost of learning the hard way.

But what I struggle with most isn’t what it did to me. It’s what I pass on.

Because I don’t want to raise my children to move through the world with suspicion sitting on their shoulders. I don’t want them to rehearse their existence before they step forward. I don’t want them to shrink, or second-guess, or brace themselves for something that may never come.

And yet, I cannot bear the thought of them standing where I once stood. Unaware, unprepared, trying to make sense of something that should never have needed explanation.

So I find myself walking a fragile line. Teaching them to be kind, but not silent. Open, but not naive. Confident, but not unguarded. Teaching them that their worth is not something to be negotiated at a counter, or questioned in a glance, or diminished in a moment.

And maybe that’s the only ending I have for this story. Not closure. Not resolution.

Just a quiet promise. That they will know who they are, long before the world tries to tell them otherwise. Because if there is one thing I wish I had carried with me that day, it is not the perfect order, or the right words, or the courage to confront. It is this.

The quiet, unwavering certainty of my own worth.

Of Golden Beginnings And First Glances

If you are a Malayalee and most of all, a Malabari at that, this is not a tough one. As a Malabari, there is really only one major festival we celebrate - Vishu. While the rest of the country and even other parts of the state choose to celebrate many festivals, like Deepavali or Onam, in much grandeur, the North Malabar seldom partakes in them. Because we chose one festival, and that is all we need in full grandeur. 

I am not religious. Never been and never will be. But I am spiritual. I love the grounding it brings me.

 So it was with extreme joy that my heart leaped when my oldest two asked me yesterday - ' Amma, when is Vishu?' I was not expecting that. Not from the two who have absolutely no visual recollection or memory of the Malabari roots in them. I basked in the glory that all my years of effort have finally paid off - I have them excited for a tradition that I, as a kid, have absolutely fond memories of! There has not been a year in my memory that I have not woken up to the Vishu Kani in the wee hours of Vishu morning. Or waiting eagerly for all the coins and money bills that the elders give us throughout the day. Turns out my kids were also excited for the very same thing! They needed money and figured Vishu was the safest way to ask for it without being lectured by me!!! Small win. I will take it!

As a kid, Vishu was always special. Summer holidays. The annual trip from Trivandrum to Kannur. Sleeper class train tickets. Fighting with my brother for the upper berth. Meeting all the cousins at ammamma's house. Overjoyed that this meant two whole months of nothing but eat, play, and make merry.  Devouring the ripe mangoes, jackfruit, and chikku directly from the trees. Hours of playing non-stop cricket. The many, many days of festivals and theyyam in every temple in the area. Staying up late nights in the temple grounds to see the fireworks. Spending every cent from the Vishu Kaineetam on Kuppi Vala  (Glass Bangles) from Deepa fancy store and the utsava shops. (My fancy for Kuppi Vala is as old as I am!)

So, I was very upset when this yearly routine was disrupted, one fine summer. My dad decided that instead of taking the night train directly to Kannur, we would take a day train to Guruvayoor and then head to Kannur. I was mad. I hated daytime train journeys, especially in Kerala. They are hot, humid, cramped, and stinky! I love the night trains. Waking up to see the dawn. Cracking open the window when everyone is asleep. So, in my usual way, I threw all the temper tantrums I could, but they went unheeded. Against my (tiny) will, I was made to join them in their new routine. My first ever trip to Guruvayoor. The trip that changed me. The trip that made me. The first time I ever fell in love. My first love.

So if you are not familiar with Guruvayoor of yesteryears, then a little recap helps. It is one of the few temples that enforced strict dress codes and held all surrounding areas to an extremely high code of conduct. Thus, after a much detested train ride, when I stepped out of my cramped train compartment and set foot onto the newly laid platform, I was hit with the smell of incense. Subtle and yet sublime. Pure bliss. I am a sucker for incense. Not any kind. The really pure ones. The ones that hit you and instantly transport you into a spiritual trance. And the smell of jasmine..the pure, divine smell all around me. I believed I had just landed in heaven. Earnestly, I looked around and took in all the sights. Devotion all around, wherever I looked. In the outfits worn, in the multitude of sandalwood pastes on the different foreheads around me, in all the jasmines that adorned every beautifully braided hair carried, even in the names of all the establishments around me. I decided not to sulk any longer. 

For a teenager who had spent most of her life in stiff, much-detested school uniforms and an endless rotation of hand-me-down casuals, clothes had always been practical, predictable. But then, in that quiet hotel room in Guruvayoor, something shifted. My mom handed me the most breathtaking silk half saree I had ever seen. Rich, luminous, and impossibly elegant - in red and blue, two of my favourite colours. My very first grown-up outfit. Jumping in glee, I draped myself in that fineness and couldn't stop looking at the mirror over and over again. It was a quick trip down to the store just outside the hotel lobby, to complete my ensemble - Matching glass bangles and tons of jasmine flowers for my braided hair. 

I didn't walk to the temple. I skipped. With joy. On how beautiful I felt. I was definitely sure that this is what true love felt like.  

But then came the disappointment.

Three long hours in a winding, restless line, waiting for that one sacred moment in the inner sanctum. By the time I inched closer to the idol, the magic had worn thin, replaced by irritation and exhaustion.

I was acutely aware of everything that had fallen apart.

The once-elegant silk half saree, now hopelessly crumpled.
My hair, damp with sweat, clinging stubbornly to my neck.
The delicate string of jasmine, slipping loose strand by strand.
Glass bangles, some shattered, their sharp edges pressing into my skin.
Kohl that once framed my eyes, now streaked across my cheeks.
And the sandalwood paste on my forehead… long gone, erased by time and heat.

Ugh. I was fuming. Inside and out.

And then, there wasn’t even a moment to gather myself. No graceful walk toward him. Just a sudden surge. A wave of people pushing, pulling, elbowing, and carrying me forward, whether I was ready or not. It was chaos. No stillness, no serenity. Just a blur of bodies and breath and impatience.

But in the middle of all that madness, for just a fleeting second, I looked up.

And there he was.

My Kannan.

The very first time I saw him.

And I could swear. He was smiling.

That infuriated me.

I had no prayers ready. No gratitude to offer. No sense of peace or surrender. Instead, I met him with anger. Raw, unfiltered, unapologetic.

While a hundred others around me stood there, melting into devotion, hands folded and eyes brimming with reverence, I stood there doing the exact opposite. In that brief, chaotic moment, we had our first meeting and our first disagreement.

I complained to him.
I told him how unfair it was.
I had spent hours getting ready, only to stand before him looking like a complete mess.
How everything I had carefully put together had unraveled before I could even reach him.

And in that fleeting exchange, I made him a promise. One fueled entirely by frustration.

“I’m never doing this again,” I told him.
“Never again am I showing up like this on a Vishu day, just for a glimpse of you.”

It wasn’t devotion.
It wasn’t surrender.

It was defiance.

And somehow, that became the beginning of something much deeper than I understood at the time.

I wish I had enacted that day differently. I wish I had told him how much he means to me. 

With all the excitement I carried as a child, one thing has remained unchanged, year after year, I celebrate Vishu with the same quiet devotion. Time has moved on, life has evolved, but this ritual, it has stayed sacred.

And over the years, one place has come to hold my heart in a way I can’t quite explain - Guruvayoor.

It isn’t just a town to me. It’s a feeling.

I long for the simple joys it offers. The crisp, golden masala dosas, the endless rows of bangles and tiny knick-knacks I can never resist, the comforting ritual of hot, piping coffee house cutlets paired with a strong cup of coffee. These little things have become traditions of their own, woven into my memories of the place.

But more than anything else, I go back for him.

I have walked into that sanctum countless times since the very first visit. Some days, I’ve stood there whole. On others, I’ve arrived completely broken, tears streaming, words failing, yet somehow knowing I was heard. I have wept without restraint, surrendered without explanation.

And then there have been days of quiet pride. Like the time I dressed as a bride and stood before him, still seeking his approval, still that same girl at heart.

Over the years, I’ve made promises there. Some I’ve kept with conviction. Some I’ve gently postponed, tucking them away for a future I have no vision of. 

But one wish continues to rise above the rest - to see him as my kani on a Vishu morning.

To wake up to that divine first sight.
To return, just for a moment, to being that wide-eyed teenager again, filled with excitement, discovering herself, falling in love with who she was becoming.

And somewhere in that journey, realizing she had already fallen for him.
Completely. Quietly. Forever.

I penned this a few years ago and posted it on my social media page. But the words hold true. Even today. And until the day I breathe my last.

Where I call home, I am called an alien 

Where my heart feels at home, the time away has made me feel alien

You are the only place where time stands still for me

The only place, my head and heart has always felt at home

The only place I never feel alien

In your presence, I am ME again

Always my first and forever love

Without you, I don't exist

Ente krishna ❤!

The Thin Line

​Between my yesterdays and tomorrows, I forget where today’s fantasy ends and reality begins…

Thank you!

 I have a reader! For my blog. And I am ecstatic!!!

When I revived my blog and decided to start writing again, having an audience was never in the cards. A decade ago, every post of mine had interaction. Friends and strangers leaving comments. Emails. Heck, even a marriage proposal (which obviously I declined!).

But despite the contents, back then, I basked in the glory. Knowing that my writing was read and appreciated. Because being a writer was all that I had ever wanted to be. Publishing my own book (has to be a best seller!!) has been the biggest dream of my life (that still keeps eluding me).  

But now, when I finally jumped back here, with renewed enthusiasm, unlike my previous years, I did not make any public postings or invite audiences to my blog. I kept it on the low. Possibly because of my fear of judgment, as most people in my social life now don't know about my prior life. 

But an anonymous email yesterday, checking in after my last two posts - Thank you!

Per my head and heart mutually agreed policy, I will not reply to anonymous emails. But I take the opportunity to post here. Thank you for telling me that my posts are being read and loved. Thank you for taking the time to make sure I am okay. 

I guess I am not really okay, in the true sense of it. But I am as okay as okay can be. Some days, I crave the romance of a miserable life. And on some days, I live the whimsical life of an eccentric author. Most days, I try to be worldly sane. Or remind myself that I have to be just sane.

But thank you! 

There is nothing that makes an author as vain as knowing that there is an audience. Maybe this will inspire me to put up some happier posts.

And next time you are here, please do post comments. I love the interaction.

Directed Protection

 "If you get what you want, that's God's direction. If you do not get what you want, that's God's protection."

Life around me is going as usual. Every other day. And I participate in it. Because I don't know any other way to live. But the storm inside me rages every day. I am worried that one day it will be beyond my control. Until then, life will go on as usual. Birthday parties, festivals, friends and families, school, movies, work, celebrations, schedules, routines.

 I hope I don't break today. I hope I live to see tomorrow. 

I hope others live to see tomorrows and dayafters.

 I pray. More than I have ever prayed. 

Pray that this makes sense. If not to me, at least to the ones who are in it. This senselessness.

Letters of Love

 It breaks me. It kills me from the inside. Everything that is happening in the world outside. 

I am so helpless, I cannot even express my pain, fear, or despair in any form or manner. 

No social media venting - lest it impairs my alien status and cause any future disruptions (selfish, I know)

No honest-to-goodness open conversations because I can never know who is in favor and who is not.

People can be two-faced. Feel one thing inside, but be a silent manipulator so they can know what your true feelings are.

I can put up with most things. I am strong. I have made myself stronger. But senseless loss of life, especially those that have just started - this I cannot bear.

Many, many years ago, in a similar world, I felt so helpless and desperately searched for ways to help. 

Money - I did not have, to save any lives. 

Words - I had plenty. Words that could bring love and a new ray of hope, and that - I was very happy to share and spread. 

Exactly what I did. Through an extensive network, I wrote and got letters delivered. To children who had no choice in the life they were being made to live. Lives torn apart by war and destruction. Living in rubble. Waiting for what felt like eternity, for something to satisfy their hunger.

Not just letters but tiny gifts of hope. The tiniest squishy heart with the words 'HOPE' written on it. A keychain with a little umbrella that said 'You are protected'. A tiny notepad with words of motivation and inspiration. These gifts made their way to the destination through different dedicated volunteers who braved all adversities and made sure they stayed committed to the cause - Bringing some hope and love to those who suffer in silence, for choices they did not make, for reasons they do not know. 

Every time I wrote a letter, my directions were clear. Give this to a child. Old enough to read. They need to know that there was someone in the world out there who cared dearly for them. That there was someone who did not want them to live life this way. Someone who wants to let them know that one day, it will all be okay. The pain will end. The destruction will cease. Memories can be made. Laughs can be shared. Tears can be stopped. Food can be plentiful. Cold will not be intolerable. Clothes can be fresh. Skin can be clean. Wounds can be healed. Blood will not be seen. Sirens can be fun. Alarms can mean a new start, not just another end. Home will feel like home again. Love will prevail.

And in return, I always got a picture. Of the recipient holding my letter and gift. With the biggest smile on their face. The smile was maybe for the camera. Or the smile could have been for my letter. Or the gift. Or just the fact that this was something out of the ordinary they were used. But nevertheless, a smile. 

For years, I held on to those pictures and smiles. Never the same. Always someone new. Someone different. 

But one day, I decided to let them all go. Because it killed me not knowing what happened to them after that smile. Did they make it? I made promises I could not keep. I had prayed desperately for all the promises I had made. Did god hear me? Did my little recipients get to live my promise? 

I never knew, and one day I stopped wanting to know. Not because I didn't want to. Because I had no way to. They didn't have an address. The letters I wrote, and the gifts I gave, were randomly delivered by volunteers at refugee camps that kept popping up all over the war-torn regions. The volunteers moved on. They never revisited the same camp. And the refugees moved on. They shifted camps too. 

Those little boys and girls had been a very important part of my life for years, even though I was part of theirs only for the tiniest bit of a day. A day that possibly would have been erased by many, many days of war and attacks since. 

I didn't want those days back again. And yet here we are. Again. 

I cry for those little children every single day. But that's all I am capable of doing now. Cannot pick up the pen to write those letters again. Because this time, I am not strong enough for that. I am weak. 

This is unfair - to all those lives that could have been. Should have been. 

With a bleeding heart and tearful eyes, all I can say is - I love you. My little children of war. 

A war that never should have been. Nowhere in this world.

I pray for you. Everyday. 

Mind my Mind

 My mind is an overwhelming place to be. It runs as if I am having 100 conversations with 100 other versions of me. And all on very different topics. At the same time. All the time. It never shuts up. 

Is that how it is for all of you? Or am I just the chosen one?

Maybe because I have so many conversations in my head, I can barely make myself have a decent conversation in the real world. Because all my neurons are busy handling my 100 selves, I suck at conversations with others. 

Most often, I look at my 3 offspring and wonder if they inherited this? Unlikely, because they are adept at having perfectly good conversations in the outside world. And they seem quite at ease when they are on their own. Me, on the other hand, if you see me not doing anything, I am either shaking my head at a preposterous suggestion one version of me recommended to the other version inside my head, or laughing away at something hilarious that a part of me just exclaimed inside my head. I am not really ever still, even when I am supposed to be still. Confused much?

It's been a few days now that one neuron in my head has convinced the 99 other versions inside me that I need to get a Private Pilot Certificate. Apparently, that was the outcome of an argument two of them had inside my head while I was trying to understand my sudden onset of the fear of flying. I was not even a party to this discussion - I was only thrown the decision - 'Get the Certificate'.That is all that is hung in my head. I even signed up. $150 for an initial assessment. Get to experience the process and understand the course requirements. Now what in the world am I going to do with a Private Pilot Certificate, god only knows! All I know is I am short of a non-refundable $150 and that at some point within the next 12 months, I have to drag my lazy ass into the said pilot training school and get this assessment done with. And if I like it, then proceed to complete my 50 hours of training and everything else needed to actually get certified. 

On top of this, I am already in the midst of the last decision they threw my way - Getting my PhD (Hopefully I complete it this year!). As if working full-time, being a mom to three little humans, and managing a household weren't enough!!!

Like I said, my mind is not my best friend. It likes to put me in situations and then have the rest of me figure out some way to get out of it. I thought I got better with age. Turns out I just wasn't blogging enough. Getting back on here has been a great change for me. At least it is giving me a chance to vent some of these things out. 

Ah! My favorite place to be!! - Not my Mind, my Blog!

Shouldn't the past be the next generation guidelines for a future?

Have you ever contemplated what it would be like to run into an ex? Not just an ex-flame or ex-crush or even an ex-love, but an ex-spouse? Someone you have spent years with and now suddenly is just another stranger in the world? I have. Many times, I have replayed multiple scenarios of how that would transpire.

There are two sides to this story. My husband's side and mine. 

When we were first introduced (or as we call it in Kerala - Pennukaanal), I wanted to lay out all my cards to him about my past, present, and what I hope for the future. So essentially, my first ever text to him was - 'Here is my blog link. Read through every single post in here and only then decide if you even want to consider taking this forward.' I spent a whole night dreading the worst. I was fully prepared for an incoming text in the morning that would pretty much sum up that he is not interested in a future with a loony who has been cribbing about the past for three years after it was over. But I was in for a surprise because this was his response - 'Read through some posts. Good English. You need to pay attention to the punctuation marks and grammar in some places. But apart from that, your command over the language is good'.

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I replied to him again - Is that it? Is that all you have to comment? 

He was affirmative. And to be honest, it's been 10.5 years to that day. That person has not ventured into my blog since that day! 

But I was not someone to leave it at that. On our very first ever lunch date, I kept bringing up discussions on the past. He was kind enough to entertain, patient enough to answer, and thoughtful enough to not probe. But in the end, I made it clear to him - We ended badly, and that person is probably the last person I want to ever run into again.

I expected a similar response from him about his life. But he was calm. He took his time, smiled, and gave me a response that took me by surprise - 'We ended very amicably. You might even say that we are still friends.' As appalled as I was by the preposterous statement then, I played it cool. I mean, how in the world could you still be friends with an ex-spouse? I couldn't even begin to comprehend that. Maybe my world was still way too inhibitive at that time. Or my life's experience hadn't been kind enough to teach me some important lessons. Hence, with the little wisdom I had in me then, I secretly wished that if we did get married, I hoped he would change his mind about being friends with an ex. I was just too arrogant to say it out loud. And like mine, I hoped to never run into his person ever.

So it was probably at that very moment that fate decided to save a moment to taunt me, or teach me a valuable lesson. Because soon after that day, we got married, and in less than 4 months, we were at the hospital for the very first scan of our first offspring. The waiting room was crowded, and the two of us sat there in much anticipation and excitement. Out of the blue, we heard someone calling my husband. He turned around, and I could see so many emotions cross his face at the same time - Recognition, worry, anxiety, familiarity. The recognition and familiarity were for the person calling out his name. The worry and anxiety were about what my reaction to this would be. 

You would have guessed by now who was calling. I was bracing myself and playing many scenarios in my head on how my reaction should be. She was approaching us, with the biggest smile on her face, the tiniest bundle of a baby in her arms, and a gentleman of a husband by her side. Even before I could decide and settle on any reaction, she was by our side, exclaiming in all excitement and introducing herself and her family to us. Heck! forget about having my husband still be friends with her.. I would have loved to be friends with her!!! She was genuinely eluding such a friendly air about her that whatever doubts I had about their relation just evaporated into thin air. We spoke a lot. We shared names and dates. Their baby's and ours (coming soon). She joked. We laughed. Her husband joined in. For anyone looking at us from the outside, we might as well have been friends who ran into each other after years. 

I think my husband knew what my next move was going to be. So he swooped in, ended the impromptu rendezvous, and had our little gathering disperse pretty quickly. I was annoyed. I told him I was just about to get her number so we could stay in touch. And he laughed. He said he guessed that, and that's exactly why he got me out soon. In hindsight, maybe that was a wise decision. But at that moment, I was sad. Because I would have really loved to know her more.

And then for many days after, I kept wondering how this situation would have played out if roles were reversed. I decided it was best left unexplored. Because there was no way I could see that with a happy ending. 

Why is this suddenly featuring in my blog now? After all these years? Because my husband and I are unable to reach a mutual consensus on revealing our past to our children. 

While I feel we should proactively bring this topic up and share it with our oldest two (they will soon be at the age where they will naturally feel curious about the big emotions they feel and begin to feel new, unfamiliar emotions), my husband is vehemently against this. He argues that our past has nothing to do with their future. That is, if and when they ever ask us, only then do they need to know. I just cannot concur with that. I have always felt that if my upbringing involved open, free, and respectful discussions about topics of love, relationships (failed/successful), consent, sex, and self-respect, I probably could have avoided a lot of the drama I endured. I want to set myself as an example for my children and show them that it is okay to lose. That, it is okay to feel pain. That, it is okay to be elated. That, it is okay to feel completely lost. Just know your anchors and hold on tight. I want to be that anchor. For them. Forever. And I want him to be the example too. I know we will still be having all these conversations with them, but I want to add the personal element to it. He doesn't.

We are still debating this. I truly want to have an open talk with my kids about my failures. And soon. Maybe I will bring this argument up again in a year!  

As for the meeting part, I probably will be good at running into an ex now. Because they are truly a part of who I am today. I will also gladly meet his again and maybe even forge a friendship this time! 

Put Together

 How I detest that phrase - Put together! 

Of the many nicknames I had decades ago, my favorite was 'Scent'. I was called 'scent'. Referred to in conversations as 'scent'. And I cherished it. Because it was a non-negotiable part of me - smell good every second of every day. I splurged recklessly on luxury perfumes (My weakness then and now). But those were also the days, I never stepped out of the room without kohl lining my eyes, hair brushed till it was shining, and clothes so neatly ironed and starched.

Fast forward years later, dealing with a third-time postpartum body and an absolutely blank mind, I suck at being 'Put together'. I run errands in my pajamas and would rather spend the 5 minutes before stepping out praying that I run into absolutely no one I know! I love the harsh winters for that reason; cover-ups are easy. 

Hate pool season

Hate having to run into school for voluntary sessions

Hate cookie season, where social interactions are mandatory

If it is not a car drop-off or pick-up, I am not thrilled about doing it

Parties and social obligations cripple my mind and body both! - I despair before each event, crying about how nothing I own fits me or looks good on me. 

For someone who spent hours in every store and street in Bangalore, shopping till I dropped dead, I cannot even bring myself to shop online nowadays. It gives me no joy. On the contrary, it sends me into dejection.

I loved heels (still do). I have walked hours on end in the most absolutely painful stilettos and carried them with much grace and charm. Now, I cannot even bring myself to get out of my fuzzy, woozy flat slipper. Not that, I don't love my heels anymore. My mind chooses to discourage me. It decides to lecture me on the crippling back pain that I might endure if I embark on the adventurous stilettos journey.

It is not just about what I wear or how I look, it is also about who I was Vs who I have become. I used to fold my neatly ironed clothes and organize them by color. Now I am relieved if I can pull one clean outfit straight out of the dryer. 

Personal belongings were never strewn about. There was a place for everything - Keys, pens, books (Oh! tons of them), cosmetics. Watches are arranged neatly in clear boxes, so I have all my options laid out. Now, I hop over strewn magnatiles and Lego bricks. Or broken pieces of cars and trucks. Or hunt for the stench coming from the laundry from two days ago, which one of my kids decided to hide under the couch because she was too lazy to get up and put it away. 

There is no meal planning. There is just 'stuffing your mouth with whatever you can get your hands on before you dash out'.

My day starts at 4AM every single day and ends at 11PM (if I am lucky!). My favorite and honestly, the only time of the day I really put myself into - my gym session from 5AM to 6AM. If I am not in the gym at that time, it is probably because I am dead.

And yet, I am never 'Put together' in the real sense. I am just 'survival' disguised as a parent. 

Would I trade any of this craziness for anything in this world - Absolutely not. I take my role as a parent so very seriously that sometimes I scare myself to see who I have become. But I do hope that one day, at least one of my three offspring can look me in the eye and tell me that I was good at this. Despite not looking good or smelling good, while killing myself to be the best mom around! I think I know who that's going to be, but I still have hope for the other two as well.. Only time will tell..!

Signed,

A tired mom!

Front Row Seats

 "Never give someone the privilege of the front row seats to your life, unless you know they are here to cheer for you."

Hiatus much? Safely so. Boy! It feels good to be back. Ah no... I have several drafts on my page that I couldn't complete. I certainly hope this one sees the light of day. But it sure feels surreal to be here typing out the random ramblings coming out of my head. It's like.. I don't recognize this person anymore..

The last time I wrote a post here, I frantically searched Google for synonyms and acronyms to make my writing look more polished. And today, almost a decade later, all I have to do is prompt ChatGPT to summarize my life/day based on all the questions I have been throwing at it. And it does a phenomenal job, too. I feel small in comparison.

Which also reminds me, the last time I was here, I was a broken piece of a human being. 

Long story short. I gave in to marriage (arranged marriage!) even when I was too terrified to. And I birthed the three most amazing tiny humans in the one decade that I allowed myself to trust. 

I spent my teenage years living in the shadows. 

I spent my twenties chasing after the wrong things and misplaced priorities. Honestly, the second half of my twenties was mostly blackout periods, rebellion (so much rebellion!), and self-loathing. The only thing I missed was carrying out the Goth look and getting my face tattooed. 

My thirties were entirely about self-reflection, rediscovery, and learning to trust again. 

Well, now, finally in my early forties, I gladly say - 'I do not give a flying f*ck!'

No, really, I mean it. I have always been an introvert. Happiest in my own company. A book, my drink, and a nice place to curl up, that's literally all I need. I hate small talk. I get drained in social gatherings. My tolerance for dealing with overbearing personalities has been zero or less. So, my social circle is still very, very small. But when you have three extrovert kids, I guess that is all the socializing that introvert parents can handle!

But the one aspect, I still miss - My random ramblings here. My love for the unknown and the mysterious. A decade ago, I would have rambled on about the passionate love (or lack of) and the overwhelming emotions I was bubbling with. But today, my conversations in my head are about which class the kids need to be scheduled for or which one needs a doctor appointment or when was the last time I did the laundry.. well you get my drift.

So it is no surprise to me that when my oldest saw a decade-old picture of me, She was genuinely surprised and said - That's you? You looked so pretty - Whatever happened to you since that picture was taken?'. Not my best parenting moment - but my answer to her was - 'Well, I got married, got pregnant and here I am, three kids later'. Understandably, it offended her, because hey! nobody wants to be told you are the reason someone looks unattractive..so I had to jump into damage control.. that's been going on for three days now.. Kids.. I tell you..they may forgive but they never forget!

At this point, I highly contemplated sharing my blog with her. So she gets to see her mom before she was a 'mom'. At the risk of sounding very vain, I had quite the fan following back then. I was an introvert then and now, but if I had dared to respond to some of the proposals I got back then, I would have dated some really famous names lol! But no, me being me, stayed in my shell and allowed myself to believe that I wasn't as beautiful as they claimed me to be. Dang it! I would kill to go back to that day and knock some sense into my younger self! If only, someone had warned me what getting older feels like, I would have enjoyed being young and reckless. Maybe even loved it!

Anyways, I need to make myself get back on here and rant. Cause I miss it. And sometimes, the chaos in my head, only my blog can handle. Maybe, even vent about the butterflies in my stomach.