Skip to main content

Posts

How One School Healed a Memory Another One Broke

Again, the intention is not to compare but sometimes experiences redefine standards. When Kidzee Sayajipura sent a notice about the annual concert, something inside me tightened. It was a paid event. No compulsion. And the class teacher personally asked us if we wished to enroll her. That itself felt different. Respectful. Thoughtful. A big tick. Practice Without Pressure The practice schedules were always within school hours. Only once was it on a Saturday — and we were informed well in advance. Yet deep inside, I was frightened. I was anxious. I had bad dreams. There were moments when I wanted to withdraw her from the program. I wasn’t ready to face another technical failure. I wasn’t ready to relive another invisible performance. I wasn’t ready to fail her again. Every day when I picked my daughter up from school, her class teacher would gently tell me, “She danced well today,” or “She needs a little more practice.” That communication meant everything. The childre...
Post a Comment
Read more
Recent posts

When a School Event Broke a Mother’s Heart

The intention here is not to compare. But the wound is so, so deep that I had to pen this down — hoping that writing it might help me forget… or at least move on. Today, I received a video from Kidzee Sayajipura and saw my daughter dancing in full swing. It was beautifully captured by the school’s professional videographers. Watching her made me happy. But it also triggered something. It pulled me back to those dreadful days — the ones that still haunt me and quietly hurt me from within. Her first performance in Pre-KG was something I eagerly looked forward to as a mother. Like every mother, I was excited beyond words to see her dance on stage. We were seated far from the stage, but we managed to watch her perform. We clicked a few long-distance photos and videos on our phones. The event was live-streamed, and we were assured that a professional HD copy would be available online. We returned home tired but excited. We opened the video to relive the moment. And that’s when my hear...
Post a Comment
Read more

Mars and Venus

 That was the name of the first house we stayed in after our marriage — in beautiful Mangalore. Mangalore was magical. Lush greenery everywhere. From our balcony, I could see endless coconut trees, swaying gently in the breeze. The view felt alive — peaceful, fresh, comforting. It was a simple two-bedroom, semi-furnished flat. It had almost everything we needed. More than the furniture or the space, it held our first memories as a married couple — learning each other’s habits, sharing laughter, building routines. I loved staying there. My mom visited us there once. I can still remember her presence in that house — her voice, her warmth, her quiet approval as she saw me settle into this new phase of life. But after she passed away in May 2015, something changed. The same house that once felt full began to feel empty. I started having nightmares. I missed her so deeply that every corner reminded me of her visit. Her absence echoed louder than the silence. And I realised somet...
Post a Comment
Read more

The Day I Realised I Wasn’t Just a Wife, But Responsible for a Life

This happened around the 18th of July, 2014. We were newly married, still learning about each other, slowly trying to become friends before anything else. My husband usually returned home around 8:30 or 9:00 PM. So when the doorbell rang at around 6:00 PM, I casually assumed he had come home early. But when I opened the door, it wasn’t him. It was his colleague, Sharma. He handed me my husband’s mobile charger and casually asked how he was doing. I was confused. I told him my husband hadn’t returned home yet. That’s when he said something that froze me. “There was a small accident at the office. Something fell on his head. He left in the morning itself.” My heart stopped. I didn’t know what to think. Tears started flowing instantly. Seeing me cry, Sharma tried saying something to calm me down and left. With trembling hands, I kept calling my husband. After a few attempts, he finally answered. He said he was at the guest house with his friend — the place where he used to stay ...
Post a Comment
Read more

A Small Bowl of Green Gram & 12 Years of Quiet Love

In these twelve years of marriage, as far as my memory stretches, my husband has never once told me what he wanted to eat. Never asked for a special dish. Never made a request. But on 10th February 2026 , something changed. For the very first time in twelve years, he said he wanted to eat green gram gravy. And I don’t know why… but it felt so incredibly special. On one hand, I was already running out of ideas about what to cook. And on the other hand, this man — the man I love so deeply — had finally asked me to make something just for him. There was no grand celebration. No dramatic moment. Just a simple request. I hurried into the kitchen with a smile I couldn’t hide. I prepared the green gram gravy with extra care, and for a change, I even made urad dal rice — something I was trying for the first time. The entire process felt different. Warm. Meaningful. Personal. It wasn’t just about cooking. It wasn’t just about food. It was about being needed. It was about being asked....
Post a Comment
Read more

A Birthday Between Tears: The Day Grief and Love Held My Hands

I am someone who loves celebrating my birthday. As a child, it was exciting. But after becoming an adult, it became something deeper, a day I consciously set aside for myself. A day where I felt special. A day where I allowed myself to enjoy the little things that make me happy. But in August 2025, my birthday carried a different weight. On the 28th, my father-in-law passed away. It was one of the most devastating moments of my life. He was not just an elder in the family; he was my guide, my guardian, someone whose presence anchored us all. His last rites were planned for the 29th. My birthday. I was shattered. I was grieving. I felt lost. Gowri Athai was with me throughout. She picked me up from the Chennai airport, brought me to Cuddalore, and took care of me like my own mother. In that moment, when I had lost someone so significant, she became my quiet strength. Even while I was mourning, my phone kept lighting up. Friends and relatives were calling and messaging to wish me....
Post a Comment
Read more

The Last Packet of Chilly Powder

It feels strange to even write this in the past tense. I am a below-average cook. I say that without hesitation. The curries I make taste good not because of my skill, but because of a secret ingredient — a special chilli powder. But this wasn’t just any chilli powder. It was formulated by my father-in-law. Ground in his own mill. Packed in his own shop. Made with precision, patience, and pride. Traditional South Indian Kulambu milagai podi,  but to me, it was simply mama’s masala . After I got married, I never worried about buying chilli powder from outside. All I had to do was make one phone call. “Mama, milagai podi venum…” And he would prepare it fresh for me. My brother-in-law Suresh would carefully pack and courier it. If someone travelled from Cuddalore to Mangalore or Chennai, I would request them to bring a packet. It travelled across cities with me like a silent family member. I must thank my father-in-law for this — whether I learned cooking or not, his masala n...
Post a Comment
Read more