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Kula Deivam and the Act of Returning

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Kunnathur, rebuilt — familiar, and not. When I was growing up, I spent most summers with my grandparents and extended family. My maternal side was based in Pudukkottai, my paternal side in Gobichettipalayam—Gobi, for short—in Tamil Nadu. Like most families, ours has since scattered, pulled toward larger cities and better livelihoods. The structure is new. The pull is old. Back then, our visits were unremarkable in the best way. We stayed home. Visitors came and went through the day. When we were in Gobi, there was one outing we never missed: a visit to our kula deivam at Kunnathur, about twenty-five kilometers away. We would pile into a van or a bus, pack food, and set out like an informal family pilgrimage—grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, all together. My paati would make sweet pongal and offer it to Goddess Angala Parameswari, an avatar of Parvati. There were no restaurant...
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Colombia: Travel, Time, and Tired Knees

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Cocora Valley — where the fog shows up and leaves whenever it feels like it. I remember our visit to New Zealand and Bora Bora 12 years ago. Our days were packed. We would get up at 6 in the morning and retreat at 8 in the evening. A good breakfast, something quick for lunch, and a proper dinner. Day after day, for two weeks. Lots of travel, hikes, and sightseeing — and somehow, we never felt tired. Today, our travel method has changed. We still pack our days, but at a much more relaxed pace. Ironically, we are far more tired. Age definitely catches up. In the middle of a tour, I now look for opportunities to sneak in a secret nap, or I scan the area for strategic locations where a lonely chair might be waiting just for me. I’ve also reached a point where, if given the option between extra excitement and standing around waiting, I’m strongly leaning toward the latter. Add kids to the mix, and the picture changes entirely. Over the last year and a half, we’ve vis...
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The Years Without Fingerprints

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Some years don’t leave fingerprints. For the last few years, time feels like it has quietly pressed fast-forward. I finished tenth grade in 1997. Twelfth grade in 1999. I exited my teens right as the new millennium arrived. And somewhere along the way, I crossed a strange milestone: I’ve now lived more of my life after 2000 than before it. Yet most of my vivid memories still belong to the pre-2000 world. Maybe childhood memories are denser. Or maybe adult life is just better at overwriting itself. Post-2000 is one thing—but post-2020 is another entirely. The last five years feel like I took a hand towel, wiped my face, and tossed it away. Gone. Just… blur. Nothing makes time’s passage more obvious than children. Akhil and Sahana are growing up fast, each carving out a personality that couldn’t be more different. Akhil’s fascination with basketball has only deepened—remarkably so, given his usual talent for boredom. Middle school is around the corner, and we’re all quie...
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The Paralysis of Choice

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A desk overflowing with choices — the perfect metaphor for a modern mind. I’ve always wondered why stepping outside my comfort zone feels harder than it should. With so many ways to spend time, I keep circling the same question: am I choosing what matters, or am I just numbing myself with options? Choice overload might be the defining anxiety of our era. One moment I’m browsing an AI course on Coursera, convincing myself I’ll finally finish it. The next, I’m tempted to restart my Sanskrit lessons. And somewhere in that mental whirlpool, a random LLM video on YouTube quietly steals an hour I never intended to give away. It isn’t learning — it’s drifting. I think back to my first iPhone 4. One model. One color. No storage decisions. Apple had already stripped away the noise. Life felt simpler when constraints were built in. Today everything comes in infinite flavors — phones, courses, ideas, careers, spiritual paths, entertainment platforms. Abundance looks empowering,...
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The Legacy Beneath the Leaves

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My first ever publication — a small step, but a meaningful one. Many of us carry a quiet wish to do something meaningful with our hobbies. If you love cricket, you dream of playing in a local league. If you’re passionate about music, you imagine performing for a small crowd. Some people even try their hand at stand-up comedy just to feel that spark on stage. When any of these milestones happen, it feels like a dream — not because you’ve “made it big,” but because you’ve taken one real step toward something you love. And in my book, that’s a gigantic step. This week, I finally took my own step: I published my first Kindle Single. For years, I kept sitting on ideas. I kept waiting for the “perfect” novel, the magical debut that would fetch stunning accolades. Instead, nothing moved. It was a classic case of kicking the pot in the dreams — forever imagining, never doing. But the publishing world has changed. Shorter works are w...
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When Destiny Sends Its Helpers

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Keep running. The right people find you on the way. At different stages of life, you’re confronted with different challenges. And each time you cross a hurdle, you feel that familiar sense of accomplishment. It’s tempting to attribute that success to your own skill, tenacity, and willpower — to pat yourself on the back and feel proud of how you handled it. But when you zoom out and look at the moments where you somehow managed to trump the odds, a quieter realization sets in: It’s never just you. There is always an unseen army that shows up at the right time. It was 2005. I had decided to pursue my Master’s in the US. I picked a few schools in the Midwest where the expenses were manageable, and that’s how the University of Missouri–Rolla entered the picture. But funding was still a massive question mark. I hadn’t secured any assistantship, and we didn’t have the means to pay out of pocket. We went from bank to bank, hoping for an education loan. Each manager aske...
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The Quiet Between Two Rings of a Landline

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A rotary phone – the slowest and somehow the most peaceful form of communication. This was the early nineties. Most homes didn’t have a landline. Mine didn’t either. And strangely, nobody thought it was a problem. If my father came home late from work, the family didn’t panic — we simply assumed: traffic, work, or he met a friend, in that order. My mother didn’t have a “Find My Kid” app. Her version was: divine trust and a loud voice. My brother and I would disappear into a gully or a friend’s apartment complex for hours. We walked to the library, roamed three streets away to play cricket, and trekked half a mile to Malleswaram 18th Cross ground — returning home at 6:30 or 7, covered in dust and joy. Parents assumed kids would eventually wander back home the way cows return at dusk. No drama. No helicopter parenting. Just life moving at its own calm pace. Postcards and inland letters — the original long-distance messaging apps. With no phone at home, the only wa...
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