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The Comfort of Not Knowing

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Frankly, I wasn’t sure how to put this across. It almost felt like a flaw! This need to know the ending before it happens. But then I wondered, what if others do this too? Do they just laugh and move on, or do they ever try to change? Over the weekend, my husband suggested we watch The Glass Onion – A Knives Out Mystery . He’d already seen it the day before and said he didn’t mind watching it again with me. That itself felt like a glowing review. Who watches a suspense movie back-to-back unless it’s very good? So, we started watching. The kids were asleep (which meant the ice cream was entirely ours. No sharing required), and 45 minutes in, we both decided to call it a night. We blamed it on exhaustion. The “tired young parents” excuse. (Not because we’re old!) But here’s where it gets embarrassing. Instead of reading a book before bed, my nightly habit, I ended up reading the movie’s entire plot on Wikipedia. T he entire plot of a suspense movie! The next morning, when I tried wa...
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More Than a Paycheck: A Woman’s Journey Through Education, Work, and Motherhood

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Have we ever truly asked ourselves—what does education mean to us? Is it a degree? A paycheck? Or simply the joy of learning? Have you ever laughed at someone who said, “I want to study because I love it”? Have you ever even met such a person? After a high-risk second pregnancy and a 6-month maternity leave, my career hit an unexpected pause last year, and it took me time to find peace with that silence. It wasn’t easy. The hardest part? Accepting the “no-income” status. I applied to various companies, knowing fully well that I might not be able to take up a role if they asked me to come to the office—thanks to long commutes and Bangalore’s infamous traffic (yes, those stories are all true). Eventually, I broke down. The silence from recruiters became unbearable. I stopped the job search and turned to yoga and meditation again, grounding myself in the present rather than constantly mourning what I didn’t have. During that phase, I remember talking to my mother. I was venting abou...
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Talk to Me, Not at Me: What Language Can Teach Us

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A recent incident stayed with me — a bank employee in Karnataka lost her cool when a customer insisted, she speak the local language. Her resistance led to outrage for few groups, and eventually, she had to apologize and promised to learn Kannada. Watching this unfold made me uncomfortable. Not because she refused to speak the language, but because of how aggressively people demanded it. It’s not the first such incident. Social media has many similar stories, where people are compelled (sometimes bullied) to speak the local tongue. I come from a family that deeply respects our mother tongue — every pronunciation is taken seriously. My mother, though Telugu by heritage, studied in Kannada medium in Karnataka, as my grandfather was a tahsildar there. She married my father, who was born and raised in Anantapur and spoke Telugu fluently. He did his master’s at BHU, where college life probably gave him his Hindi. His first bank posting was in the Northeast. When they got married, my mothe...
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Hello? Anyone There?

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A not-so-silent exploration of what it means to talk, listen, vent, and sometimes just nod. Epilogue... or maybe the Prologue? What is communication, really? Is it just giving out information? Or is it talking, conversing, listening... sometimes just hearing? Or maybe it’s not hearing at all, just staring into space while someone rants about office politics or yesterday’s lunch. Is it about expressing your thoughts to unburden yourself? Or, plot twist—is it just being silent? To hell with definitions. Communication is many things, all at once. And none of them come with subtitles. 1. Information = Communication A friend helps you pack and move cities. You reach the new place and send a text: “Thanks. All settled. Will call you leisurely.” This is the 2020s version of the old-school Indian postcard: “Illu cheraanu. Ikkada antha kshemam.” (Reached home. All well here.) The technology changes, but the intention stays the same. Just letting someone know you’re alive, w...
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Bridging the Gap, Sharing the Dosa

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Whenever someone hears me call my mother-in-law “Amma” and my father-in-law “Appa” (which, yes, are literally what my husband calls his parents too), I can see the confusion flicker across their faces. It's usually followed by a slightly nosy whisper: “Wait… do you live with your in-laws?” By now, I’ve mastered the art of the mysterious smile-and-nod. But the real entertainment starts with the follow-up: “And you’re… okay?” “Like… really okay?” “No problems?” I usually respond with, “Who doesn’t have problems with family?” and laugh a little too enthusiastically. Their stunned expressions are nothing new—I’ve been collecting them since I got married. In fact, back then, a few people didn’t even wait for trouble. With that all-knowing grin and the tone of someone who has “seen things,” they’d casually ask, “Shuru aitha?” Translation: “Have you started fighting yet?” Because apparently, marriage comes with a countdown timer to the first argument. But the truth is, I h...
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Look who I met, Today!

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My father and I share a deep love for books. His favourite pastime at railway stations (and later at airports) was buying them. My mother, though not an avid reader herself, never discouraged us from reading. However, she often felt frustrated—not because she disliked books, but because she was the one packing and moving them every time we relocated. During one such move from Bangalore to Visakhapatnam, she finally declared that she would throw away all the books since she couldn’t manage the packing anymore. Reluctantly, my father and I decided to donate them to a public library. I visited three or four libraries, but none were willing to take them due to space constraints. Heartbroken, we had no choice but to sell 90 kg of books to a paper mart by weight. That was the heaviest weight I’ve ever lost—one I never wanted to lose. As a child, I always carried a book with me—sometimes even into the bathroom. I made friends at doctor’s clinics, while waiting for public transport, and on...
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Dr. Hema Malini: The Doctor Who Healed with Heart and Honesty

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  “Who is paying you to be thin?” That was the first question she asked me. I had visited the gynecologist after missing my periods for over 45 days. She happened to be my then-to-be husband’s friend’s mother. After listening to my story — how I was skipping meals, sacrificing sleep, jogging daily, and preparing for the CAT (race) exam — that was her response. I didn’t know how to reply, so I just offered a shy smile. “You will be healthy with the right balance of sleep, food, and exercise," she explained. "Sleep is underrated. Even if you walk 10 kilometers a day, lack of sleep will only worsen hormonal imbalances. And who is paying you to be thin? Strive to be fit and healthy — being thin doesn’t necessarily mean being well.” I didn’t appreciate the “lecture” at the time and thought I’d never return to her. But she prescribed medication for my immediate concern, and life went on. Years later, when my husband and I were trying to conceive, I found myself back in her ...
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