Reader or Hoarder?

I am not your typical girl. Well, I suppose there are no typical girls. But then again, I fall into no category ever. I am in a league of my own. I live in a world that is confusing for many to comprehend. I have many worlds. A world of my past, present, fantasies, and future, all woven into one complex web.

But if you ask me what my favourite place to be is? It is my world of books. I can stay hidden in them for days together if worldly obligations don't drag me back to reality. 

I can go for years together without buying a single new outfit or accessory. In fact, I am doing just that. But that has to be a post on its own. Long story short - I am determined to work out and get back in shape, back to being who I was, before the pregnancies, hormonal imbalances, and perimenopause decided to wreak their havoc on me and my health. So I only have two classifications of clothes right now, and I vehemently refuse to buy more. One entire set of wardrobe that I have been faithfully saving up for the last decade, in the quiet, stubborn hope that I will one day fit back into them. And the other set, the clothes I wear now, which make me look so depressingly bad that they serve as my most effective motivation to get back into the first set. There is just no in between here. 

But I still go on purchasing sprees. Terrible ones. Ones that leave me so consumed with guilt that I hide out the packages in my garage and sneak them in when my husband doesn't notice. And pray he doesn't notice. Because when he does, I am in for many, many subsequent days of relentless lecture and on his more theatrical days, outright ridicule. 

The culprit? Books. Always books

Nothing pisses him off more than seeing yet another new bundle of books in the house.  

Allow me to set the scene.

It is a time-honoured tradition in our culture. Before the wedding, the bride packs her belongings into suitcases. On the day itself, these are carefully transferred from her maternal home to her new in-laws' house. There are nominated volunteers just for this sole and sacred purpose - the weight-training brother or the young cousin, who has been feeling inexplicably powerful ever since the wedding preparations began. Their sole role throughout this entire wedding fiasco is to keep these suitcases safe and properly transferred across venues. 

I have watched many cousins pack their suitcases over the years, meticulously and with intention. Filled with brand new outfits, some heirlooms, tons of new jewellery(Hello!! Malayalee here!), sandals, perfumes, some seriously questionable/debatable intimates, and even loads of homemade delicacies (because hey! you need something to remind you of home when you are busy settling in your new home and life). 

But even then, I always knew exactly what was going into mine.

So it was no surprise that on my wedding day, when my brother was hauling my suitcases from one car into the other, he kept giving me the most threatening stare ever. Of my three large suitcases, two of them were tearing at the zippers - stuffed, unrelentingly, with hardbound books that had absolutely no intention of yielding to the pressure being exerted on them.

I carried them into my new home proudly. Not only did I have my brother move them across cars. I even made him lug it all the way up a full flight of stairs in my in-laws' house. He didn't speak to me much, but I could see his seething fury anyway. 

When we moved from Kerala to Bangalore, I insisted we take them all the way there as well. So this time it was my husband who was seething with all that frustration and fury. I guess I was given some grace because I was still his new bride. 

However, I am sure this is where he decided to get me an impromptu gift. His first ever gift to me - a Kindle Paperwhite. He presented it to me with what he thought was thoughtfulness and pragmatism. 

But I have never felt so insulted in my life.

 Before sundown, we went back to the store and promptly returned the unopened device. And I gave him my one and only lecture ever - Never ever get me a gadget or device that will replace a physical book. 

Because for me, it has never just been about the words on the page. It is a holistic experience. The rustle of the pages as I flip through them. The smell, musty old paper or freshly printed ink, both equally intoxicating. The crinkled edges, the faded pictures, the weight of those pages in my hands - it is an experience unlike any. No device, however elegant, however convenient, can come close to replicating it. 

Call me old school or call me a fanatic. But I am set in my ways, and I don't intend to change that. Not for anyone.

However, a decade later, his patience for my love of books has definitely waned. 

Perhaps it is the credit card bills. The monthly evidence of exactly how much money goes toward books I collect with great enthusiasm and get around to reading at a pace that is, let's say, aspirational. Perhaps it is the books themselves, strewn across every level of the house, on every available surface, in every room.

Or perhaps it is the fact that children learn what they see.

Because now I have my little ones following in my exact footsteps. Not necessarily reading right away, but collecting. Saving. Curating their own piles for the perfect later time.

The war, it appears, is being fought on multiple fronts now.

And I am winning.

My haul from this week: Attached below

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.