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Krishna, Dharma, and the Mahabharata I Thought I Knew

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Krishna and Arjuna at Kurukshetra When I was growing up, I used to listen to so many stories from our epics and mythology—whether it was reading Amar Chitra Katha books or listening to my paati narrate tales of bravery and valor, the purpose of the divine, and the importance of adhering to dharma. Stories of Shiva and Vishnu found their way into my life through various forms. As a child, it was fascinating to see the power wielded by the Gods. And the message I took away was very simple: if you are devoted to the Gods, no harm can befall you. The Mahabharata, Ramayana, Nala-Damayanti, tales of Muruga and Ganesha, Draupadi, the Pandavas, the Kauravas—the army of characters was endless. To say they fascinated me would be a big understatement. I have read the Mahabharata many times, through various authors, and listened to many narrations of it. Every single time, I walk away with a new meaning. Kri...
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Krishna, Dharma, and the Mahabharata I Thought I Knew

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Krishna and Arjuna at Kurukshetra When I was growing up, I used to listen to so many stories from our epics and mythology—whether it was reading Amar Chitra Katha books or listening to my paati narrate tales of bravery and valor, the purpose of the divine, and the importance of adhering to dharma. Stories of Shiva and Vishnu found their way into my life through various forms. As a child, it was fascinating to see the power wielded by the Gods. And the message I took away was very simple: if you are devoted to the Gods, no harm can befall you. The Mahabharata, Ramayana, Nala-Damayanti, tales of Muruga and Ganesha, Draupadi, the Pandavas, the Kauravas—the army of characters was endless. To say they fascinated me would be a big understatement. I have read the Mahabharata many times, through various authors, and listened to many narrations of it. Every single time, I walk away with a new meaning. Kri...
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Ākāśāt Patitaṃ: Many Forms, One Reality

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Adi Shankara: The image that's stayed with me forever Sanskrit and shlokas have always fascinated me. The sheer vastness of Sanskrit literature is humbling. There are enough verses, texts, commentaries and traditions to occupy many lifetimes, and still leave one feeling that one has barely scratched the surface. But I didn't think much about any of this when I was growing up. I would recite shlokas in the morning and evening without fail. They were simply part of life. The words were there, the rituals were there, the temples were there—but much of it happened in the background. I was busy with academics. There was no time for Sanskrit or Vedanta. At least, that is what I used to tell myself. Of course, time was never really the problem. I could spend five days watching a Test match from morning to evening and somehow consider that perfectly legitimate use of my time! The truth was simpler: Sanskrit and Vedanta had not yet become priorities. Gr...
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A Week Without “Appa”

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Quiet. How I'd like it to be sometimes. I went to the temple almost every day. I didn't have anyone asking me, “Appa, are we done?” I could just cement myself there, without hurry, for a few hours. I could recite the Rudram without somebody tugging at my sleeve. And yet, every now and then, I would think that it would have been nice to have the kids there too. I didn't have to worry about picking up Akhil or Sahana from somewhere. I didn't get messages from my wife asking me to make a pit stop at the Indian store or Costco. I didn't have to look at the clock and suddenly remember that someone had basketball or tennis. It was as though life had come to a standstill. And I liked it. In the middle of a normal workday, I could be in an important meeting when Akhil would come charging into the room. “Appa, please approve.” For a brief second, I wouldn't even understand what he was asking. Then I would realize that I had absentmi...
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When the Building Came Alive

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Kasturi Dhama Apartments — the play area where many evenings came alive. The lights would go out without warning. For a brief second, the entire building would fall silent. Then, from somewhere in Kasturi Dhama Apartments, a chorus would erupt. “Yayyy!” It is difficult to imagine children celebrating a power failure today. But in the Bangalore of the nineties and early 2000s, a power cut did not always feel like an inconvenience. Especially in the late evenings, it felt like permission. Permission to stop whatever we were doing, leave the darkness inside our homes, and step into the building outside. Before Kasturi Dhama became home, we had moved through a few different parts of Bangalore. My family had begun in Srirampuram and Vyalikaval before gradually cementing ourselves in Malleswaram for the next few decades. My earliest memory is of living in a vatara —a Kannada word loosely used for a building or a cluster of homes—on 15th Cross, near Karur Vy...
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What Once Stood There

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There comes a day when you return to your childhood neighborhood and realize that you're the only one who still remembers what once stood there. For me, that neighborhood is Malleswaram. When people think of Malleswaram, they think of CTR, Janata Hotel (it's common in India to call a restaurant a hotel), Veena Stores, Sai Shakti and the other iconic eateries that continue to thrive. I think of the ones that quietly disappeared. Button Idlis from New Krishna Bhavan. Bangalore is famous for its darshinis—quick, self-service eateries where people stop for a bite before getting on with their day. When we were living in Kasturi Dhama Apartments, I would invariably find myself at Sahyadri, located near the 8th Cross bus stop on Margosa Road. The fluffy idlis, the steaming hot sambar with just a hint of jaggery, the freshly made coconut chutney, and the potato palya that accompanied the dosas had a way of pulling in anyone walking past. My favorites were always the idl...
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We Knew

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It was our three-month ultrasound. We thought it would be like the movies, where you look at an ultra hi-def screen and the baby is crystal clear. It felt like a big moment. I had left work early that afternoon and was hoping to get back quickly. After all, it was just a routine visit, or so I thought. We checked in and were shown into the examination room. The nurse asked Hema to lie down on the bed. She applied gel and began moving the probe across her abdomen, looking for a heartbeat. Her reaction made us realize something was wrong. Hema and I looked at each other. The nurse didn't say anything. She simply said she would be back in a minute. We knew. The doctor came in, repeated the scan, and after a few moments told us that he was unable to detect a heartbeat. It was one of the lowest points of our lives. Three months in, we had already started imagining birthdays, schools, and family vacations. When you experience a miscarriage, it feels as ...
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Everything Else Is Rubble

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The administrative office in front of the main building. In this age of endless information, I sometimes pause and realize something strange. I am drowning in information, but starving for memories. Every day, my mind absorbs hundreds of headlines, messages, videos, opinions, and notifications. Most of them vanish without a trace. Yet when I stop for a moment, memories from forty years ago return with astonishing clarity. Today, for some reason, my thoughts wandered back to my school and its teachers. I remember my kindergarten teacher, Ms. Carol at Little Angels. She was Anglo-Indian, impeccably dressed, and absolutely determined that every letter I wrote should sit neatly within the four lines of my notebook. Not touching the ceiling. Not falling through the floor. Perfectly contained. I don't remember what I had for lunch three days ago. But I remember those four lines. My first-grade teacher, Ms. Alice at BP Indian Public School, was...
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Partly Yours, Partly Lost

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Some places stay with you long after life has moved elsewhere. There is something strange about destiny. You just cannot overcome it, but at the same time, you cannot simply do nothing because something is destined to happen. In India, it is not uncommon to have your horoscope charted about a year after birth. Grandparents wait with bated breath to hear how well the stars were aligned, and what remedies might be needed to appease the Gods. So when I was a year old, my grandmother took my birth date and time to Dharmaraja Ghanapadigal, one of the most revered astrologers in Pudukkottai. He apparently told her that I would do reasonably well in studies, travel to multiple countries, and eventually live abroad. Here was an old lady asking about her grandson from a small town. My parents were then living in Gobichettipalayam. This was the eighties, long before economic reforms had changed the country. My grandmother thanked him politely, but quietly wondere...
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I Thought I Was Moving Forward

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I still remember the moment I decided not to learn Sanskrit. I was in seventh grade in Bangalore, choosing between Sanskrit in the State Board and Hindi in ICSE. I asked my father what he thought. His answer was simple: “Why do you want to learn Sanskrit? It serves no purpose.” That was enough. I dropped it. It felt like a smart decision. Hindi seemed more useful. I even convinced myself I was choosing the “national language”—not realizing India doesn’t have just one. Looking back, the decision wasn’t about language. It was about how I was thinking. I chose utility. Whatever moved me forward faster. And for a long time, that worked. I moved to the U.S. Finished my Masters. Found a job. Built a life. There was always something more urgent—visa timelines, work, responsibilities. Life ran on schedule, and I stayed inside it. But something else was happening quietly. Distance was doing its work. When I visited the Kanchi Mutt in Malleswaram, ...
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What I Missed While Walking Past the Kanchi Mutt

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A place I passed every day without really understanding it. As a kid growing up in Malleswaram, devotion wasn’t something we discussed — it was just in the air. The smell of agarbathi in the evenings. The noise of vendors lining up on 8th cross before a festival. The quiet expectation that you showed up, bowed your head, and moved on. Ganesh Chaturthi. Varalakshmi Vratam. Deepavali. Janmashtami. Ugadi. The calendar moved, but the pattern stayed. The Kanchi Kamakoti Peetham in Malleswaram was part of my daily route to school. Not something I questioned. Not something I deeply understood. Just… there. Every morning, on my way to school, I would slow down for a second in front of the Mutt. Just enough to bow my head toward Kanchi Kamakshi from outside the gate — and then hurry along before the school bell. It was a ritual for as long as I can remember. I don’t know if it came from devotion. I did it because my parents did it. The street...
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Dhurandhar, and Why It Felt Personal

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     I had stopped going to Hindi movies in theaters. Not suddenly — just gradually. A trailer would come out, I’d watch it, feel mildly interested… and then do nothing. Maybe I’d tell myself I’ll catch it on OTT. Most of the time, I never did. Somewhere along the way, watching a movie stopped feeling like something to look forward to. It started feeling like a gamble — and more often than not, not worth taking. Even the shortcuts didn’t help. I’d skim through reviews, scroll past reactions, try to get a sense of whether it was “worth it.” But none of it really made the decision easier. If anything, it just reinforced the hesitation. The hesitation followed me even after Dhurandhar Part 1 released. I didn’t rush to watch it. In fact, I waited almost a month. But then something interesting started happening. The reactions didn’t line up. Most of what I was seeing was positive — people seemed genuinely excited about it. But there was also a noticeable pu...
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The House in Gobichettipalayam

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Sashtiapthapoorthi Function — Me in the front (with eyes closed) My summers were spent in Pudukkottai and Gobichettipalayam — Gobi, as we called it. Away from school and homework, those months were filled with the easy warmth of grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins. Summer was the time to let loose. Gobi Home We would take the overnight train from Bangalore to Erode, and from there a bus to Gobichettipalayam — Gobi. We usually arrived early in the morning at Seethammal Colony. My paati, already awake and waiting near the door, would greet us as soon as she heard the metal gate creak open. The smell of freshly brewed filter coffee would drift out from the kitchen. I would run straight into her arms. “Vaada Kannu,” she would say, her eyes beaming with happiness. “Vaada Krishna, Vaa Raji,” she would call out to my parents. Slowly, the rest of the house would stir. People in the living room would wake, and within minutes the house would be buzzing wi...
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The House in Pudukkottai That Woke Up at 5AM

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By 5AM, the house in Pudukkottai was already awake. The old tape recorder would be blaring Pithukuli Murugados songs somewhere inside, and above everything else you could hear the steady creak of the wooden swing moving back and forth. My athai paati — my grandfather’s sister — would often be on that swing, singing “Gopala Krishna Swamy Gokulathiley,” a soft Krishna lullaby . She had been widowed young and lived the rest of her life in that house, and to me she always felt like someone straight out of an RK Narayan story. For us, summer meant Pudukkottai and Gobichettipalayam. A couple of days after the final exam, we would take the overnight Trichy Express from Bangalore, then a bus onward, and by the next morning we would be inside that long, bustling house full of cousins, relatives, and noise. Athai Paati with the kids on the swing The house itself stretched from one street to another, a lon...
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