When you can’t relate to someone, it’s like speaking a language you don’t understand. The words make sense, but the meaning doesn’t sink in. You try to listen, you try to respond, yet it feels like something is missing.

With some people, it’s effortless you talk and they just get you even without explaining everything. The conversation flows, the silences are comfortable, and you feel lighter just being around them. That’s when you know you’re speaking the same “language.”

But with others, no matter how hard you try, the rhythm is off. You explain yourself but they don’t see it. They share their thoughts but you can’t quite grasp them and it’s not anyone’s fault it just means you’re wired differently.

The truth is, we won’t connect deeply with everyone we meet. And that’s okay. Not every person is meant to understand us, and we’re not meant to understand everyone. What matters is finding those few people who make you feel understood without effort because with them, you don’t just talk, you truly connect.

Teen: Mom, Wi-Fi is slow.

Me : Wi-Fi? In my time it meant waiting one week for the postman. That’s buffering, kid.

Teen: I can’t find the remote!

Me: When we were your age we were the remote. Dad would shout and we would run and  change the channel.

Teen: Ugh, my phone battery is already at 10%.

Me : In our times our battery was called sunlight. If it got dark, you stopped playing.We had play time just like you have screen time.Simple.

Teen: I can’t do my zoom call without Wi-Fi.

Me: Wi-Fi? Please. In my time, our connection was yelling across the street, ‘Oye, come outside! Instant group chat.

Teen: Why do you save every plastic bag?

Me: Because in our times, we didn’t have ‘aesthetic totes.’ We had the holy plastic bag that was reused till it disintegrated.Collecting plastic bags was an emotion then.

Teen: Why do you write lists on paper when Notes app exists?

Me: Because when my paper list got lost, nobody hacked it. Try losing your phone—half the world will know your secrets.

Teen: Why do you keep newspapers?

Me: Because our recycle bin wasn’t digital—it was covering schoolbooks, cleaning windows, and packing gifts. Google that.

Teen: Why do you keep telling me not to waste electricity?

Me: Because in my time, if one fan or light ran too long, dad would turn into a CBI, auditing the electric bill like it was a national scam.

Teen: Why do you keep all these random plastic containers?

Me: Because, child, in our times every ice cream tub became a lunchbox, and every biscuit tin held sewing supplies. Recycling? We invented it.

Teen: “Mom, my AirPods are gone!”
Me: We had earphones too—in the form of neighbors blasting Bollywood songs at full volume. Shared by the entire street.

Teen: That’s noise pollution!
Me: That’s called community listening, kid.

Teen: Let’s order pizza tonight.
Me: Pizza? My mom gave us bread with ketchup, and we felt like we were dining in Italy.
Teen: That’s sad.
Me: That’s called imagination, my love.

They teach me reels, I teach them real life—and somehow, it works.

It has been 26 years since my father passed away, yet the void he left has never really gone away. Time may have moved on, but grief and love don’t follow calendars.They live within us every single day. Over the years it has only deepened my realization of what he meant to us — as a father, as a guide, and as the quiet strength of our family.

I often wish, even now, that he could return just once, even for a moment, to see his children doing well in life. I want him to see that the values he worked so hard to instill in us have not faded. They have become the foundation of how we live, how we raise our families, and how we walk through this world. His lessons were never loud or forceful; they were gentle, woven into stories, into small examples, into the way he lived his own life. Those lessons stay with me, and I find myself repeating them to my children, almost without realizing it — as if his voice is still guiding me.

It is one of my biggest regrets that my husband and children never got to meet him. But they know him. They know him through me, through the countless stories I’ve shared — of his discipline, his love for learning and his unique way of explaining even the most complex things with such simplicity. His grandchildren feel his presence even without having seen his face. My son, especially, carries a part of him — his love for mathematics, his logical mind, and his quiet curiosity. When I see that spark in him, I feel as though my father has left behind a piece of himself to live on in the next generation.

Even today, when I sit with my children and help them with their lessons, I find myself using the very same examples my father once used for me. Sometimes, I pause and smile, realizing that his wisdom is still alive — passed down, unbroken, from him to me, and now from me to my children. In this way, he is still teaching, still shaping, still present.

There hasn’t been a single day in the last 26 years when his name has not come up in our home. Sometimes in conversations, sometimes in memories, sometimes in quiet prayers. He has been gone a long time, but he has never been absent. He continues to live with us — in our words, in our choices, in our everyday life.

For me, his absence is not just a loss, it is also a reminder of the deep bond we shared. He may have left this world too soon, but his presence has never left me. It lives on in my heart, in my children, and in the legacy of values and love that will never fade with time.

A father, a teacher, a guide, a protector — all in one. And even after 26 years, still my strength, still my inspiration. ❤️

Miss you papa 💔 

Till we meet again 

Picture taken one week before he left us 💔

You’re running late, so you grab your favorite top, convinced you’re about to break the fashion world. Fast-forward a few hours, and—surprise—you’ve been wearing it inside out this whole time. And not just any inside out… the tag is in the front and center, and the stitching is like a neon sign shouting, “Help!” Every time someone mentions your “bold” look, you flash a smile, nod, and silently scream, “This is not a fashion statement, this is a disaster in progress!” It’s mortifying… until you finally find a place where you can wear it the right way.

In my family, there’s a sacred belief : if you wear something inside out, you must get a new dress. Apparently, adulthood doesn’t cancel out ancient fashion curses. Somehow, I’ve “honored” this tradition more times than I care to admit—which basically means my wardrobe is 50% accidental shopping and 50% stitches showing.

Anyone else experience this fashion fiasco, or am I the sole survivor of inside-out chaos?

Everyone has an inner voice. It’s calm, steady, and comes from a place of truth. It guides us, reminds us of who we really are, and helps us choose what feels right.

Then there’s the inner noise. That’s the clutter — the doubts, fears, comparisons, and overthinking. It doesn’t guide us; it distracts us. It makes us restless and pulls us away from our true self.

The difference is simple:

• The inner voice grounds you.
• The inner noise unsettles you.
• The inner voice comes from wisdom.
• The inner noise comes from fear.

With awareness the inner noise can be converted to inner voice -what seems like distraction can become guidance,doubts  can be reshaped into curiosity,fear can turn into caution that protects you and restlessness can become the push that drives you towards your personal growth.

Learn to stop and listen. Noise only grows louder when we keep running.

Ask yourself: Is this thought guiding me, or just scaring me?

Keep the part that teaches, release the part that weakens.

The more you listen to your inner voice, the more the noise fades into the background.

In the end, the journey is not about eliminating noise completely. It may always co- exist. The art lies in learning to recognize it and soften its power.

Choose the voice that truly knows you.

✨ When you learn to follow your inner voice, life feels lighter and clearer. Your inner noise is simply an untamed voice. Train it, and it will no longer distract you — it will start to guide you.

In our happiest days, there will always be someone waiting to bring us down. Sadistic people exist everywhere, lurking even where joy and contentment live. It’s so evident,they’re unhappy within themselves, so they cannot stand seeing others happy.

I sincerely pray for them, in the true Munna Bhai way: Get well soon.

If only the time and energy they spend trying to hurt others were invested in healing themselves, they could actually create something positive in their own lives. Instead, they choose to gossip, scheme, and spread bitterness.

Truth is—they desperately need a hobby, something meaningful to keep them engaged. Otherwise, they’ll stay stuck in misery and spread the same poison around.

Jealousy has no medicine. The only cure is self-love and self-growth.

So, to the toxic souls hiding behind innocent faces: take care, treat yourself, and stop trying to ruin what you didn’t build.

It’s been a long time since I celebrated Onam in India with my extended family and relatives. For me, the very mention of Onam brings back the fragrance of vibrant floral carpets (pookkalams), the elegance of the kasavu saree, and the joy of the sumptuous sadya served on fresh banana leaves. I can still picture the entire family sitting together to finalize the menu—endless discussions and playful arguments over which payasams to prepare, before deciding who makes what. Eventually, we would all gather in one house, like a beautiful potluck, to enjoy the sadya together.

I fondly remember my mother-in-law waking up at dawn to perform the Pooja of Thrikkakara Appan (Lord Vishnu in his Vamana avatar). At home, Thrikkakara Appan was made as a small pyramidal clay structure, placed near the pookkalam for worship. Resting on a peetham over a plantain leaf, with a sacred kalam drawn in rice batter beside it, this simple ritual filled the air with divinity and reflected the true spirit of Onam.

Onam is truly magical—it binds families together, awakens nostalgia, and celebrates the essence of Kerala’s traditions, food, art, and culture. Even when celebrated far away from home, it carries with it the fragrance of flowers, the rhythm of vallamkali (boat races), and above all, the warmth of togetherness.

Wishing everyone a very Happy Thiruvonam ❤️

Balancing love and responsibilities between your parents and your children is one of life’s most heart-wrenching challenges. Your parents are your roots—the ones who gave you life, shaped your values, and sacrificed silently for your happiness. Your children are your wings—the ones who carry your legacy, depend on your guidance, protection, and love as they grow. Life doesn’t give equal moments to both; sometimes your parents need you in ways that tug at your heart, other times your children demand your full presence and patience. Prioritizing is not about loving one more than the other—it’s about showing up intentionally, with care, respect, and honesty, knowing that the time with your parents is fleeting, while your children’s formative years pass in the blink of an eye. True balance comes not from equal attention but from being present, wholeheartedly, whenever and wherever you are needed most.

“Between the hands that raised you and the hands that reach for you, you discover that love is never divided—it only grows heavier, deeper, and more sacred.”

There are some people in this world who have a rare gift—no matter where they go, they blend effortlessly with everyone around them. They can walk into any gathering, big or small, and adapt to the energy, the crowd, and the surroundings with such grace that it feels almost magical.

I call such people salt. Because just like salt, they are simple yet powerful. Salt is the one ingredient that can transform a dish completely—without it, flavors feel incomplete. In a savory dish, it enhances the taste, and in a sweet one, even the tiniest pinch has the power to uplift the sugar and bring balance. That’s exactly what these people do. Wherever they go, they add value, they lift the mood, and they make everyone around them feel comfortable and complete.

These people are rare—precious gems hidden among us. If you are fortunate enough to have someone like this in your life, never take them for granted. Treasure them, respect them, and hold on to them tight, because they are the ones who make every gathering warmer, every friendship richer, and every life moment more beautiful.

“I could name them, but why ruin a perfectly seasoned story?”

Some flavors are meant to stay a mystery ❤️

Some people have this rare, God-gifted talent—you could show them the Eiffel Tower, a diamond necklace, or even your new pair of socks, and within seconds, their mouth blurts out the most predictable line ever: “How much?”

It doesn’t matter if you’re sharing a heartfelt story, a once-in-a-lifetime experience, or just casually mentioning your dinner—they are less interested in the “what” and “why” than the “how much.” I sometimes wonder if they were born with a built-in barcode scanner instead of curiosity.

Conversations with them are basically price audits. You tell them about your vacation, and before you can finish describing the sunset, they’ve already asked, “Ticket kitna tha?” You wear something nice, and before “Wow, looks good on you,” comes the inevitable: “Kya rate hai?” Honestly, if there was a World Championship for price-checking, these people would bring home the gold every single year.

And the funniest part? They don’t even remember the answer later. But for them, asking the price is like breathing—automatic , very annoying.

“Boss, everything has a price… except my tolerance for your stupid questions. That one? Priceless!”