Things Children Chant But Cannot Picture

One evening, my sons and I were listening to *Bhagyada Lakshmi Baramma* on YouTube when the lyrics appeared on the screen. “Majjige olagina benne anthe…” 

 One of them looked at me quizzically, “Amma, what does that mean?” Yes, you surely know butter comes from buttermilk. They looked at me like they knew that for a fact but felt it was such a misplaced reference in a devotional song.

 

There was a pause, and I realised I had to explain something that would have been completely self-evident to a child growing up a few generations ago. For children of these times, butter comes packaged neatly in little cubes or wrapped in foil, sitting quietly in the refrigerator. It is something you buy, unwrap and put it on toast. 

The idea that butter could be hiding inside buttermilk and had to be coaxed out of it, quite literally, was news. So I explained how it was done in times before machines came into play. You take thick curd, add water, and churn it in a deep vessel with a *madhani*, the traditional wooden churner. You keep churning and churning, and slowly the butter begins to gather. It separates from the buttermilk, comes together into a soft mass, and is then scooped and lifted out to be stored separately. 

It is not a particularly complicated process. But it is a process that takes time, effort and, once upon a time, a fair amount of muscle power. 

 And perhaps there is a reason Purandara Dasa chose something as mundane as churning butter as a reference. For quite a while, it appears that you are doing the same thing over and over again without much to show for it. There is no dramatic transformation taking place in front of you. Just the same repetitive movement, performed patiently, until suddenly the butter begins to gather. 

 Maybe devotion is also a little like that. You chant the same shloka; follow the prescribed rituals. You sing the same bhajan. You repeat the same prayer. You go through the motions, sometimes with complete attention and sometimes, if we are being honest, almost mechanically. But repetition has a way of doing something to you. The motions may remain the same, but somewhere along the way, something changes. What initially appears to be a mechanical exercise can slowly produce something far more valuable. 

 Yet their simple question had me thinking. I had never actually watched the women in my family spend their mornings churning a pot of curd into butter. I doubt if my mother had also used one. But I never questioned these references, for I had heard enough stories about it to be able to picture it. 

I had seen it in comic books. I had seen it in television serials depicting Krishna's childhood. 

And most importantly, I had danced it. When I learnt Bharatanatyam, the mischievous little Krishna and his antics were central to our repertoire. Somewhere between the mudras, the expressions and the choreography, Maa Yashoda's hand churning the pot had become a visual image stored away in my head. So when someone spoke about butter being churned out of buttermilk, I did not need an explanation. I could immediately picture it. 

My boys could not, and their questioning glance stayed with me. Because perhaps this is what is quietly happening to many of the old songs, stories and shlokas we continue to pass down. 

The words survive. 

The tune survives. 

We teach our children to pronounce them correctly and perhaps even explain their meaning. 

But the world that made those words intuitive is fast disappearing. 

I noticed this again when I was teaching them to recite the Mahamrityunjaya Mantra.

Aum Tryambakam yajaamahe sugandhim pushtivardhanam | 

Urvaarukamiva bandhanaan-mrityormuksheeya maamritaat ||

We got to the line about the *urvaruka*, and I explained the analogy: just as a ripe cucumber or gourd naturally separates from the vine that holds it, may we be released from the bondage of mortality. 

 The boys looked distinctly unimpressed. Why a cucumber? Of all the metaphors that could possibly have been used for one of the most profound mantras we know, why a cucumber? 

 I laughed seeing their expression. To them, it was a completely random vegetable analogy inserted into a very important prayer. To someone who understood the lifecycle of a cucumber growing on a vine, the image would be anything but random. 

The beauty of the metaphor is precisely in the way the fruit separates from the stem when it is ready. There is no violent tearing away. It is a natural release. 

 I gently explained that this was a rather wonderful, timeless analogy and, unlike many things we consider ancient, I did not think it was ever going to go out of fashion. They sagely nodded but remained unconvinced. 

And I realised that perhaps the problem was not with the metaphor. It was with the picture. 

We live in a world where almost everything arrives already processed, packaged and ready to use. Butter comes in cubes. Milk comes in packets. Vegetables come from supermarkets. We know the names of fruits and vegetables, but increasingly have little idea of what they look like before they arrive in a crate at the store. 

A cucumber is something you buy, slice, and put into a salad. The vine it came from is another matter entirely. 

This is not necessarily a criticism of modern childhood. My boys are growing up in city, in a very different world from the one I grew up in. 

Their childhood has its own visual vocabulary: screens, apps, football pitches, gaming consoles, YouTube thumbnails, metro trains, airport terminals and a thousand other things that would have meant absolutely nothing to my grandparents. 

 Every generation inherits a different set of reference points. But there is something rather poignant about realising that a line in a song can become unrelatable simply because the everyday experience behind it has disappeared. Perhaps that is why some of our old songs and stories feel so vivid to those of us who grew up hearing them, even if we did not actually live the lives they described. 

We inherit fragments of worlds that are long gone. 

A grandmother talking about churning butter. The story about Sri Krishna stealing butter from the pots that were hung from the roof. 

Television serial showing Yashoda at the *mathani*. 

Traditional dance gestures, be it Kathak or Bharathanatyam, that enact the same movement. 

Pictures in a storybook. A phrase in a devotional song. 

 None of these things, individually, amount to education on the traditional Hindu life. 

But together, they create a kind of visual continuity that gets passed through generations. We hear a word, and it conjures up that world instantly in our minds. Our children may have to ask what it means, but it only means we need to ensure the meanings are not lost. 

And perhaps that is the real challenge of passing on culture. It is not enough to preserve the words. 

We have to preserve some of the pictures behind them too. 

Because a child can memorise a shloka without knowing what a cucumber vine looks like. 

She can sing a bhajan beautifully without knowing that butter was once something you made rather than something you unwrapped. He can recite a story about Krishna stealing butter without ever having seen butter being churned. 

The words can survive perfectly well. It is the world inside the words that is at risk of disappearing. 

 And maybe that is where our job begins. 

 Not by insisting that our children live the way we did, or by making them nostalgic for a childhood they never had, but by occasionally stopping at the strange little references and saying, “Wait. Let me show you what that actually means.” 

 Because hidden inside one seemingly ordinary line about butter is an entire kitchen that no longer exists. 

 And sometimes a bhajan is not merely a song. It is a civilization's archive. 

[Short Story] A Star is Born.

Bhagalpur, 2045

By 2045, nobody became a movie star by accident. That belonged to another century.

There was a time when actors spent years auditioning, waiting tables, doing theatre, appearing in advertisements, and hoping that one director would notice them. There had been a time when people stood outside film studios for hours to catch a glimpse of their favorite star. They collected autographs. They screamed & waved at airports. They fought to get photographed. All of that had become quaint. A relic of the past decade. 

The entertainment industry had discovered a better way. AI Actors had become mainstream and surprisingly well-accepted among the new generation. It had turned into a strange hybrid industry where human creativity had moved upstream, and human labour had moved sideways.

AI actors did not age. They did not fall ill, demand better contracts, cancel shoots, or develop opinions that upset sponsors. They could speak thirty languages, perform in hundreds of locations, and appear simultaneously in cinemas, immersive theatres, and holographic rooms across the world.

Every major streaming platform had its own stars. Every other star had their own production house. And every production house had their team of Persona Managers, Narrative Experience Architects, Narrative Editors, Generative Music Curators, Voice Personality Artists, Visual Reality Designers, and World Builders, roles that had largely replaced the screenwriters, directors, and cinematographers of an earlier era. The newest generation of actors did not even exist in the traditional sense.

They were faces. Voices. Personalities.

Algorithms trained on what the world wanted to watch.

The most famous of them all was MUKUR10.

He was the star of The Last Yesterday, a time-travel series that had become a global obsession. There were MUKUR10 fan clubs in Tokyo, Lagos, Mumbai, and São Paulo. Children wore his face on school bags. Adults bought limited-edition holographic collectibles.

Nobody had ever met MUKUR10. Nobody expected to.

That was the point.

---

Raghav had never watched an episode.

He was eighteen, born and brought up in Bhagalpur, and had spent most of his teenage years worrying about examination results, electricity bills, and whether his parents would be able to afford his engineering education.

His father worked at an automobile manufacturing plant outside the city. His mother worked there too, on a different shift. By 2045, Bhagalpur had changed considerably. The roads were wider. There were electric buses, metro stations, shopping complexes and gleaming residential towers where fields had once stood.

Life was easier than it had been fifty years earlier. It was also more expensive.

Raghav's parents earned enough to be called middle class, provided nobody asked how hard they worked to remain there.  Raghav had studied Robotics and Artificial Intelligence at a college in Patna. He had graduated with reasonable marks and one clear ambition. Get a job in the city.

No dreams of becoming famous. No desire to become an influencer. And certainly no interest in becoming an actor.

For Raghav, the future had changed, but his relationship with entertainment had not changed much at all. He watched Netflix and Amazon Prime, just as his parents had before him. The Last Yesterday, however, was an expensive immersive experience, available only through premium subscriptions and holographic theatres. It was the kind of entertainment people in wealthier cities talked about, not something a boy from a middle-class family in Bhagalpur would spend money on. The world had become more technologically advanced, but the age-old class divide between what people could afford to experience remained. Raghav simply had never come across MUKUR10. 

Three weeks after graduation, he boarded a Maglev for Noida with one suitcase, a backpack, and his mother's instructions to call every evening. He had barely stepped out of the station when people began staring at him.

At first, Raghav assumed he had something on his face.

Then two hip teenagers stopped in front of him. 

One of them whispered, "Is that him?" The other scanned him through his Meta glasses, shaking his head as though he couldn't believe his eyes, and a few asked politely if they could take his photo, while many simply were clicking on their tiny wearable phones.

Within seconds, six people had gathered.

Someone shouted, "MUKUR!"

Raghav froze. "Sorry?"

A girl pushed through the crowd.

"Can we take a picture?"

"With me?"

The girl looked amused. "Who else?"

The crowd grew. Raghav stepped backwards.

He had never seen so many cameras pointed at him.

Then he noticed the enormous holographic billboard across the road.

MUKUR10 stared down at the city.  The face was unmistakable. It was his face.

Not similar. Not vaguely familiar. His.

The same narrow jaw. The same deep-set eyes. The slight crooked lift of the left eyebrow.

Only MUKUR10 looked more polished. More handsome. More impossible.

Raghav stared at the billboard.

Under the face were the words:

MUKUR10 RETURNS IN THE LAST YESTERDAY: SEASON 8

For the first time in his life, Raghav understood what it felt like to be famous.

It was terrifying.

---

By 2045, the global entertainment industry operated under strict Human Likeness Protection laws. AI actors could not replicate the face, voice, or identifiable features of a living person without explicit consent. MUKUR10 had been created entirely within those rules, his face had been generated from a synthetic biometric architecture designed to resemble no particular human being. There was, therefore, no law being broken when Raghav appeared in Noida. No one had copied his face. No one had used his image. No one had even known he existed. And yet, somehow, an algorithm designed to create a face that belonged to nobody had produced one that looked exactly like him. 

The machines had followed the law. Nature, it seemed, had played by no rules at all. 

He spent the next week avoiding crowds. His resemblance to MUKUR10 was everywhere.

People took photographs secretly. Some asked him to smile the way MUKUR did. Someone offered him money to record a birthday message in the AI actor's voice.

Raghav refused all of it. He only needed a job.

Then, one humid afternoon, he was walking past a high-rise in Sector 137 when he heard a huge commotion and someone screaming.

A glass elevator had stopped between floors. Inside was a girl, perhaps sixteen or seventeen. She was trapped between the forty-second and forty-third floors.

The building's emergency system was attempting to restart the lift remotely, but every attempt had failed. People gathered below.

A rescue team had been called. Raghav looked up.

The elevator's diagnostic panel was flashing.

He recognised the interface. It was an older hybrid system, partly autonomous, partly dependent on the building's central machine-learning controller.

"Don't restart it," he shouted.  Nobody listened. He shouted again and this time, someone did.

Raghav ran into the control room. The building supervisor protested, but Raghav had already connected his diagnostic tablet.

The problem wasn't the motor. It was the prediction model controlling the elevator's braking system.

A software update had incorrectly classified the elevator's stalled position as a mechanical obstruction. Every restart was making the system return to the same safety lock. Raghav bypassed the faulty prediction layer and forced the controller into manual rescue mode.

The elevator moved. Slowly. The girl came down. Alive. Safe. 

Shaken, crying, and clutching the hand of the rescue worker who reached her.

Someone had recorded everything. Within twenty minutes, the video was everywhere. 

Not because Raghav looked like MUKUR10. This time, people were watching because he had done something.

The headline on the first viral feed read: MUKUR10 LOOKALIKE SAVES GIRL TRAPPED IN ELEVATOR

Raghav groaned when he saw it. But then another headline appeared.

WHO IS THE BOY BEHIND THE FACE?

And another.

ROBOTICS GRADUATE FROM BHAGALPUR STUNS NOIDA

By nightfall, Raghav had millions of views. By morning, MUKUR10's production house had called.

---

They offered him a contract. Tony Pictures offered him a contract! Not an acting contract.

Something much bigger. They wanted to scan his face, map his voice, capture his movements, and create a new character based on him.

"MUKUR10 has reached a mature brand stage," the executive explained. "You can become the next human layer of the franchise."

Raghav looked at her.

"You mean you want to make another AI actor who looks like me?"

She smiled. "We want to make you the brand ambassador for MUKUR10."

Raghav declined. The story might have ended there. But it did not.

Because people had begun following him. Not millions at first. Then millions.

They wanted to see him fixing machines. They wanted to hear him speak. They wanted to know about Bhagalpur, his parents, his college, the cheap tea he drank outside his hostel.

They laughed when he stumbled over interviews.

They noticed when he became nervous. They liked that he sometimes forgot words.

They liked that he did not always know what to say. And then something strange happened. People began asking him for photographs.

Then signatures. Actual signatures. On paper.

At a technology conference in Delhi, hundreds stood in a queue for almost three hours to meet him.

An elderly man handed Raghav a notebook.

"Will you sign here?"

Raghav looked at him.

"Why?"

The man smiled. "Because I haven't had a real autograph in fifty years. The last I got was of Virat Kohli."  Raghav signed it with a smile. The next day, the photograph of that moment went viral.

MUKUR10's production house released a new season that week. It received respectable numbers.

Raghav's film received twice as many.

Raghav stated clearly that he had no interest in becoming an actor. He continued with his engineering job, trying to keep his sudden fame at a distance. Then a documentary crew came to Bhagalpur to film his parents, his childhood, and the unlikely story of how a robotics graduate had become the face of the world's most famous AI actor. The thirty-minute documentary was released without much promotion.

 Within days, it had been watched by hundreds of millions. People were not watching Raghav because he looked like MUKUR10 anymore. They were watching because he was Raghav. His awkward laugh, his unpolished accent-laced answers, the way he spoke about his parents and the quiet pride with which he described his hometown had struck a chord. For the first time in years, audiences were fascinated by something an algorithm could not manufacture: a real person being entirely himself.

---

Ten years later, historians would argue about the moment the global entertainment industry changed again. 

Some would say it was the elevator incident. Others would point to Raghav's candid resemblance to an AI actor and the play of nature. Some would blame the declining creativity of AI actors.

But the truth was much simpler. People had become tired of perfection.

They had spent over twenty years watching faces that never aged, voices that never cracked, female stars who were perfection personified, heroes who never had a misstep and knew exactly what to say.

Then a boy from Bhagalpur appeared. His laugh was original, his accent was strong, but nobody cared. Forgot to be politically correct.

Lost his cool. Apologised. Made mistakes. And grew older. And somehow, people loved him for all of it.

By 2055, MUKUR10 was still there. He had been redesigned twice. His jawline had been refined. His voice had been made warmer. His personality had been adjusted according to audience preference. He remained a star. 

But Raghav had become something MUKUR10 could never be. A person people related to, believed they knew.

At airports, crowds waited for him. Children carried photographs.

Fans travelled across cities for a few seconds of his time.

And sometimes, when Raghav was tired, he would remember the day he had arrived in Noida and been mobbed by strangers who thought he was someone else.

He would remember staring up at that enormous billboard.

At the time, he had thought the face looking down at him represented the future.

He had been wrong. The future, it seemed, had simply gone around in a circle.

The world had created stars without human beings. Then it discovered that what people had really been missing was the human being.

Raghav stepped out of his aero-car that evening. A crowd was waiting.

Someone shouted his name. Someone else held out a photograph.

A little boy stood at the front, nervously clutching a notebook. Raghav smiled and walked towards him.

The boy opened the notebook.

"Sir," he whispered, "can I have your autograph?"

Raghav took the pen. For the first time in decades, a star was signing his own name.

And somewhere across the city, on a thousand screens, MUKUR10 was smiling.

Exactly as he had been programmed to.

The Invisible Operating System

Every home has one.

It isn't the person who earns the most. Or the one who speaks the loudest. Or makes the family decisions.

It's the invisible operating system. It runs quietly in the background, executing hundreds of tiny processes that no one notices because, well, they are not supposed to notice them. Like every good operating system, it is expected to boot up before everyone else, remember everything, crash never, and recover instantly after every update.

The curious thing about operating systems is that people only become aware of them when they stop working. The same is true of homes. 

For the longest time, I had convinced myself that I simply had to improve my time management skills. Every health article I read cheerfully advised me to "find thirty minutes for myself." Walk. Run. Exercise. Stretch. Meditate. I wanted to know where these mythical thirty minutes lived.

So one morning last week, I decided to audit my day. 

5.30 a.m. The operating system boots.

Indian breakfasts have to be fresh because idlis & dosas with their side accompaniments are rather unforgiving without advance planning. One son leaves for school, with a neatly packed box for his morning break. The other one has a hurried breakfast and picks up his lunchbox and rushes to catch his college bus.

By then, my mother's breakfast & diabetic protein drink need to be ready. Her caregiver needs her dose of strong tea to get her morning going. 

The househelp arrives. The breakfast table must be cleared before she can wash the dishes. The washing machine has already begun its cycle. Vegetables need chopping. Our presswala appears & waits for the weekly clothes bundle to be counted and given. My OH prepares his herbal tea. Househelp wants fresh cleaning supplies. Emails & messages are answered between pressure cooker whistles and a hurriedly gobbled breakfast.

By ten in the morning, I finally sit down.

For exactly long enough to realise that it's almost time to prepare my Amma's mid-day fresh juice before starting to cook her lunch for the day. She likes that I serve it personally. At my stage of life, I know that such requests are not interruptions. They are love, wearing the slightly demanding clothes of old age.

By evening, the house has changed shifts but not pace. The boys arrive in periodic breaks and are looking for a light snack before dinner time. 

A 100 things are waiting to be set right. The folded laundry waits to be stashed away. 

Payments to staff and other monthly essentials wait. 

Insurance renewals + Tax Returns + Banking tasks wait.

Clients & Partners presentations wait.

The Agentic AI course I signed up for (on a spur of the moment) waits.  

The blog post that has been forming in my head all day waits.

Somewhere in between all this, I am expected to remember that I have a body which apparently deserves a brisk walk. I laughed at the absurdity of my own audit.

It wasn't that I had failed to make time for exercise. I had mistaken a capacity problem for a time problem. Then came another realisation.

Every sentence I had written about my day began with someone else's name.

My son. My mother. The househelp. The cook. My husband.

Not once had I unconsciously written, "At nine o'clock, I..."

It dawned on me that I had quietly become the operating system of my home.

Not out of sacrifice. Not out of martyrdom.

Simply because families, over time, develop their own rhythm. One person remembers that the curd is running low. Another knows where the passport is. Someone instinctively checks if there is enough coffee powder. Someone notices that the detergent is almost over before anyone else does.

These are not chores. They are background processes. Homes run on them.

No one applauds background processes. Nor should they.  

If every successful breakfast required a standing ovation, we'd never leave the dining table. But every once in a while, it helps when someone notices.

The other day, my elder son said, quite casually, "Amma, you remind me of Donna from Suits." I laughed.

Donna Paulsen is the woman who quietly keeps everything running while everyone else takes the smooth functioning for granted. It was perhaps the nicest compliment I have received in years.

Not because he compared me to a popular fictional character. But because, hidden inside that remark, was something every invisible operating system secretly longs to hear.

"I see you."

Yet, this is not a story about the invisible work. At least, not entirely.

It is about seasons. It is about a phase of life. 

There will come a morning when no one needs a lunchbox. The dining table will need only two plates instead of four. The washing machine will no longer begin before sunrise. The kitchen will be quieter.

My mornings will finally have those elusive 15 minutes of hot filter kaapi.

Perhaps I'll even take that walk everyone has been recommending. I think I'll enjoy it.

I also think, somewhere along that walk, I'll miss the chaos I once wished would slow down.

I'll miss the hurried footsteps searching for the blue sweatshirt five minutes before leaving.

I'll miss the college bag flung casually on the chair. I'll even miss someone asking, "Amma, what's for breakfast?" 

Life has an odd sense of humour. It grants us leisure only after taking away the reasons we longed for it.

So if you, too, are in this strange season of life, where your days seem to belong to everyone except you, hang in there.

Not because it gets better. Not because one day you'll have more time. But because one day the operating system will have fewer processes to run.

The house will become wonderfully efficient. And unexpectedly quiet.

Until then, pack the lunchbox. Set the plates on the table. 

Listen patiently to the story you've heard before. Complain about your aching feet if you must.

Then look around. This chaos is not permanent. 

Neither is the privilege of being at the centre of it.

[Old Post from 2009] Are You Cursed With Knowledge?

From the archives: This post was written many years ago and somehow remained in my drafts. I've published it now with only minimal edits, so it reflects the thoughts and context of that time. Some ideas, I suppose, are worth revisiting.

*******************************

Sheila meets her college friend after a long time. During the conversation, she casually asks for her friend’s Twitter handle and, in response, gets a blank look. ‘What is a Twitter handle supposed to be?’ Sheila is flummoxed and surprised that her friend doesn’t follow her. She is unable to come up with the right words to explain the concept of microblogging to her friend. There seems to be a sudden disconnect. Her friend mistakes the silence for a condescending attitude on Sheila’s behalf.

Imagine explaining the internet to your grandmother or a photocopier to a five-year-old. For that matter, few people find it difficult to give out clear directions despite knowing a route very well. It bewilders them that someone could ask for something so elementary. This is the curse of knowledge. A concept arrived at from lots of research in economics and psychology, which shows that when we know something, it becomes very difficult to imagine not knowing it. Hence, our communication of this knowledge suffers. In extreme cases, the curse of knowledge could trigger communication failure and even strain relationships. There are several references, books, and opinions by various people on this subject.

Today, the world of business, which relies mainly on communication, is not far from being affected by the curse of knowledge. This might be a barrier to successful negotiations, because it leads us to falsely believe that our “subtle” signals are being received correctly by the other.

Try tapping out a popular song such as “Happy Birthday to You” or, better still, a widely popular Bollywood number and ask your friend across the table to guess it. In all probability, she wouldn’t even come close to guessing the song. This might seem bewildering, but when you tapped, the tune was all the while playing in your head. On the other hand, all that your friend heard was the staccato of taps. This is a classic example of the curse of knowledge, inferred from a study conducted by Elizabeth Newton in the 1990s at Stanford.

This can be extrapolated to the fact that most marketing campaigns, be it direct mailers, flyers, brochures or mail-orders, evince little or no response from the target audience. In most cases, it's not the delivery vehicle but the quality and clarity of the message it carries.

As the authors of Made to Stick: Why Some Ideas Survive and Others Die Chip & Dan Heath say, the greatest cruelty of knowledge lies in the fact that the better we get at generating great ideas—new insights and novel solutions—in our field of expertise, the more unnatural it becomes for us to communicate those ideas clearly. That’s why knowledge is a curse.

As most curses go, there is a cure for the curse of knowledge too. The trick lies in maintaining a fresh perspective like the one who is seeing for the first time. :)

Would You Choose to Live in Simpler Times?

 Saturday mornings have a rhythm of their own.

They are reserved for the weekly visit to the local market, buying vegetables and groceries, washing and sorting them, and prepping everything ready for the week ahead. Weekdays are a blur of lunch boxes, breakfast, school, and work. So, this weekly ritual makes life a little less hectic.

Like most weekends, there was music playing in the background. Old Hindi film songs. The kind that instantly transport you to another era.

As one song followed another, I found myself wondering about the actors on screen and the people who lived through those decades. When these songs were filmed, could anyone have imagined the world we live in today? Smartphones, AI, Ubers and 10-minute deliveries...Video calls with someone sitting thousands of miles away. The central conflict due to miscommunication in those movies could've been solved in a matter of minutes. 

To them, all of this would probably have sounded like science fiction.

I shared this thought with my OH. He smiled and differed in his view.

"Those were simpler times," he said. "People were happier. Life wasn't ruled by instant gratification, endless notifications, or the pressure to always be connected."

It was a fair point.

It also made me ask myself a question. If I had the choice, would I actually want to live in those times?

Surprisingly, my answer was no.

I enjoy revisiting the past through its music. I smile at old photographs. I love hearing stories from that generation. But I wouldn't want to give up the conveniences, opportunities, and possibilities that today's world offers.

In fact, I've noticed something else. As much as I admire old cinema, I rarely have the patience to sit through an entire classic film anymore. Somewhere along the way, my mind has adapted to a different pace. Not necessarily a better one, just a different one.

And that led me to another thought.

Perhaps knowledge changes us in ways we don't fully appreciate. Once you've experienced a new way of living, thinking, or doing things, it is incredibly difficult to return to not knowing it. You cannot unknow electricity, the internet, antibiotics, GPS, or AI. The mind resists going back because its idea of "normal" has shifted. 

Maybe that's why every generation romanticizes the one before it. We remember what was beautiful about the past while conveniently forgetting its limitations.

The past deserves our affection. It gave us timeless music, enduring relationships, and memories worth preserving. The present deserves our gratitude. It has given us tools that have made life safer, faster, healthier, and more connected than our grandparents could have imagined.

 

Once you've experienced a new way of living, the mind finds it almost impossible to return to not knowing it.

Perhaps the answer isn't choosing one over the other. Maybe it's carrying forward the warmth, patience, and human connections of simpler times while making the best use of the remarkable world we live in today.

After all, progress is not the enemy of nostalgia. The two can coexist quite beautifully. Right? 

When Life Comes Full Circle

No one really prepares you for the quiet heartbreak of watching your parents grow old.

As children, we believe they are invincible. They are the ones who always know what to do. They carry the family through every storm, make difficult decisions look effortless, and somehow find the strength to be everyone else's anchor.

My Amma has always been that person for me.

She stood by me through every phase of my life. She celebrated my victories, comforted me through disappointments, welcomed my husband into our family, and was there to witness the birth of my children. She helped raise them with the same patience and love she had shown to her daughters. The woman who woke up before dawn every single day, effortlessly running a bustling household, now struggles with something as simple as getting dressed.

Watching that change is an emotional burden unlike any other.

This is the same proud woman who raised two daughters to be independent, capable, and strong-willed. She taught us to face life with courage, to learn continuously, and never to lose hope, whatever the circumstances. To see her body gradually give way while her spirit still tries to hold on is difficult to accept.

How does one come to terms with it? You know your time together is limited. Yet knowing that does not make it any easier. Perhaps that is why I find myself treasuring the smallest moments.

The sparkle in her eyes as she enjoys an occasional sugar-free kulfi with the delight of a little child.

The laughter that follows when she mistakes my husband for her grandson.

Her insistence on taking a cold water bath during Margazhi despite everyone's protests.

Her determination to observe Ekadashi fast, even when we gently remind her that she no longer needs to.

There are mood swings. There are stubborn moments too. There are days of frustration for both of us. Caring for an aging parent often feels strangely familiar. In many ways, it resembles taking care of a young child. You remind them to eat. You help them remember names. You persuade them to take their medicines. You celebrate the smallest victories.

Life has a remarkable way of coming full circle. 

As children, our parents held our hands until we were steady enough to walk on our own. One day, almost without warning, the roles reverse. We become the steady hands.

It is not always easy. There are days filled with helplessness, guilt, exhaustion, and quiet tears that no one sees. 

But there is also gratitude. Gratitude that I still have the chance to sit beside her, listen to her stories, smile at her little quirks, and hold her hand. 

One day, these ordinary moments will become the memories I cling to the most.

And perhaps that is the greatest lesson our parents teach us in the final chapter of their lives. Love is not only about being cared for. It is also about having the privilege of caring for the people who once made us feel that nothing in the world could ever harm us.

Back to the Long Road

 My first blog post went up in 2003.

That feels almost prehistoric in a world where content appears, trends for a few hours, and disappears before the day is done. Sometimes I joke that I'm a digital dinosaur. Maybe I am. 

Over the years, life has changed in every possible way. My children have grown up. I crossed well into my forties with a few more grey hairs, a little more patience, and a much better sense of what truly matters. 

Every now and then I revisit my old posts. Some make me smile. Some make me cringe. I could edit them. I could quietly delete them. Technology certainly makes that easy.

But I won't.

Those posts are snapshots of who I was at that moment. They capture my excitement, my naivety, my certainty, my doubts. They remind me that growth isn't about rewriting the past. It's about acknowledging it.

These days, life is a different kind of busy. Building a startup, keeping a household running, being there for growing children who need you in new ways, and caring for aging parents... each brings its own joys and its own demands. Some days are overwhelming. Some days are unexpectedly beautiful. Most days are a little bit of both.

Social media has changed the way we tell our stories. X, Instagram, LinkedIn... they're all part of our daily lives now. I enjoy them too. But they often ask for quick thoughts, quick reactions, quick applause.

A blog asks for something else.

It asks you to slow down.

To sit with an idea for a while. To tell the whole story instead of the headline. To write without worrying too much about algorithms or engagement. Maybe nobody reads it. Maybe a handful of people do. Maybe years later, I'll be the one reading it again.

And somehow, that's enough.

So I'm returning to this little corner of the internet. Not because blogging is making a comeback. Not because I have all the answers. Simply because it still feels like home.

If you've wandered in, welcome back. Drop a hello and nudge me to keep this going on. 

There will be stories, observations, a little nostalgia, a little humour, and perhaps a few lessons gathered along the way.

Here's to writing again.