December

August

Frozen Acts of Kindness

In this bustling world of chaos and fleeting moments, where thoughts scatter, people rush and time slips through our grasp like sand, there exists a mystical breed of souls who silently embark on a noble quest. They travel the vast expanses of our kitchens, armed with a single purpose — to refill the ice cube trays in the fridge and restore frozen harmony. These are the unsung heroes, the keepers of chilled bliss, the guardians of refreshment.

Their motives are pure, their hearts filled with a rare kind of compassion. They have no desire for recognition or rewards. Their sole purpose lies in the fulfillment that arises from the act itself. Each time they refill the ice cube trays, they send ripples of peace throughout the universe. What truly fascinates me is the quiet resilience of these individuals. Refilling an ice cube tray is a constant negotiation between hope and uncertainty. The knowledge that the cubes will eventually melt and that their efforts will be rendered invisible to the naked eye is a testament to their commitment to an act of kindness, a silent gift to the future.

In a world that often seems riddled with apathy, it’s often the little things that keep our spirits afloat. The ice cube refillers are the harbingers of hope, reminding us that compassion, no matter how seemingly trivial, has the power to transform lives. They engage with the world not through grand gestures or flashy displays of altruism but through the quiet reparation of the ordinary. In this humble act of refilling ice cube trays, I find a gentle affirmation of our capacity to care, love and replenish not only the cold voids in our freezers but also the quiet spaces of our souls. And for that, dear fellow ice cube refillers, I’m eternally grateful.

Savoring Studio Ghibli

It always makes me hungry whenever I see someone eat or cook in a Ghibli film. The way food is depicted is nothing short of breathtaking. For me, it’s the little details and touches of everyday life brought to life with such beauty and poignancy.

The food in these films is not just a prop but a character in its own right – one that elicits deep emotions, brings back cherished memories and whisks me away to a world where the ordinary becomes extraordinary.

It’s a reminder of the beauty of the simple act of cooking or sharing a meal with someone you love. And the power of food to nourish not just our bodies but also our souls and to bring us together in moments of joy, comfort and connection.

A Symphony of Senses

13 obscure words for emotions we feel but can’t explain

1. Vellichor: The strange wistfulness of used bookshops.
2. Occhiolism: The awareness of the smallness of your perspective in the grandness of the vast scope of the universe.
3. Kenopsia: The eerie, forlorn atmosphere of a place that is usually bustling with people but is now abandoned and quiet.
4. Monachopsis: The subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place.
5. Nodus Tollens: The realization that the plot of your life doesn’t make sense to you anymore.
6. Onism: The frustration of being stuck in just one body, that inhabits only one place at a time.
7. Jouska: A hypothetical conversation that you compulsively play out in your head.
8. Sonder: The realization that each passerby has a life as vivid and complex as your own.
9. Lachesism: The desire to be struck by disaster – to survive a plane crash or to lose everything in a fire.
10. Opia: The ambiguous intensity of looking someone in the eye which can feel simultaneously invasive and vulnerable.
11. Anecdoche: A conversation in which everyone is talking, but nobody is listening.
12. Ruckkehrunruhe: The feeling of returning home after an immersive trip only to find it fading rapidly from your awareness.
13. Presque-vu: The sensation of forgetting or not being able to remember something, but feeling that you could remember it any minute. It literally means “almost seen” in French.

Tea for Two

My grandma practically raised me. She was my childhood filled with warm summer days at home. She was there for my first words, first steps, first days of school, first heartbreak, the first day of work, and first everything for all the 27 years of my life. She was my safe place, favorite person, wisest teacher, and best friend. 

When I was little, and my parents worked during the day, Amma taught me how to do my hair, tie my shoelaces the right way, tell time on the clock, greet/treat people, and do long division. I really hated division, but she had a way of making everything in my life so easy. She would sit with me day after day, testing my spelling and my multiplication tables. I can still picture her sitting right across from me and correcting my pencil grip, so my handwriting got tidier. Amma taught me that learning wasn’t to be done lazily.

I fondly remember our daily tea ritual that began when I was about five or six. Besides sipping on Amma’s heavenly chai, tea time was sacred to me. It brought a real sense of joy to my everyday life. Even as a child, when I didn’t have any worries, this was a moment in time where I could allow myself to slow down for a bit and reground, thanks to my gran. 

Amma loved reading. She routinely devoured multiple newspapers and magazines. Back when there was no Google, I could ask her anything, and she would present a thorough explanation to even my most bizarre questions. With her infinite knowledge of literally everything under the sun, I’m pretty sure she could easily win any quiz show. 

In her time, women gave up work when they got married to become good wives and mothers. She was this, but she was also a gifted professor who taught Hindi and the first woman who inspired me to empower myself truly and live my best life. Amma always encouraged me to speak my mind, own my ideas, and chase all of my wildest dreams. She believed in me, rain or shine, and always was my biggest cheerleader. I learned from her every day, and I continue to realize how smart she was. She motivated my younger self to learn more, read more, and authentically build my imagination.

No matter what, Amma would be home after I got back every day – good day, bad day, terrible day, best day – she’d always sweetly ask me how my day went, and we would catch up on the day’s happenings. It feels strange not coming home to her because she is home, in all honesty. 

Maya Angelou once said: “At the end, people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” These words rang even more true the moment I lost my grandma. When someone you love dies, the permanence of it all is so hard to grasp. We want one more hug, one more sound of their voice, one more laugh, one more moment – but, I guess, that’s what love is – never being ready ever to say goodbye. The grief only strikes harder when I see her empty bedroom, the empty chair at the dining table, and her empty spot on the living room couch.

My grandma was to me, in one word: comfort. She was my warmest hug and my biggest smile. Amma’s presence and her impact on my life were so significant and so remarkably powerful that I feel her absence so much – to the point that even her absence feels like presence. Does that make sense? 

Amma loved greatly and showed it to us in a billion selfless ways. I remember her sweet voice as she called me to come eat. I remember her always seeing me off from the balcony and waving goodbye to me until my car was out of sight. I remember how good her fruit jams and pickles tasted. I remember how she always made sure I was warm and covered me with a blanket if she found me sleeping without one. I remember how she never let anyone leave the house without having at least one bite or taking something with them to enjoy later. I learned some of my biggest and littlest life lessons from her.

I truly feel like the lucky one because not everyone is fortunate enough to have a chance to bond with their grandparents. We not only connected, but I grew up watching Amma every day with immense awe and admiration as she endlessly cared for everyone around her.

Amma was the strongest woman I know. She touched the hearts of all who knew her with her absolute goodness, compassion, warmth, humility, genuine concern, and kindness. She even got to meet and play with her great-grandkids, which is kind of a rarity. It’s a rather true saying that in the end, we all become stories. My grandma was a legend, and her story is one that I will forever marvel at and treasure. Plus, I gotta say,  “Great Grandma” is a pretty cool title in anyone’s book.

At the end of 90 years of life, Amma was surrounded by those who loved her deeply and wanted nothing more than for her to feel that. For her to feel the peace and comfort, she gave us all. 

Amma, thank you for existing and having given me the privilege to be your granddaughter. There hasn’t been a single day in my life that I didn’t enjoy spending with you. I hope you are someplace happy, sipping a cup of warm tea.

Now

 

I’ve been going through some teachings of J. Krishnamurti and these are a few things I deeply connected with.

Here’s what stayed with me:

Your life is in this present moment. I see myself, and everyone around me either dwelling in the past or worrying about the future. And I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with that. This habit, in fact, is very real and very natural. It’s human.

But, here’s the thing: your experience is rooted in THIS specific moment – the one that’s currently unfolding in front of you. Everything you can possibly experience (be it: joy, pain pleasure, etc) has to be in this moment. On the other hand, your ‘thought’ (that you often depend upon) comes from memory. The process of thinking is a mechanism that stems from your storehouse of memories, your past experiences, your childhood, the society you grew up in and so on. ‘Thought’ is inherited and acquired, so it is always limited. Do you think you can relive or experience a moment from the past? It resides in the past; it floats there – in the form of a thought. Also, you can’t think about a person or a place, if you’ve never met them or have never been to said place – it is unknown to you. All you’ve got is this present moment – it is, what it is, and above all, it is unique and exclusive. Your mind is the experience: it is what we call ‘the known’. And because we are human, our mind is always looking to experience continuity. But your past experience shouldn’t be the medium to experiencing. Why? Because ’experiencing’ is a state that is free of experience (the past.)

Here’s the point: Don’t let the shadow and weight of experience affect you from experiencing this very moment for what it simply is. It is nothing but a hindrance to experiencing the utter rarity and newness of it: “In the present is the whole of time.”

Of course, you need thought to create marvelous things and survive as a species. Krishnamurti says: “thought is the movement of knowledge.” Thought must function – but more objectively and impersonally so you don’t end up miserable and anxious. Rather, you remain mindful and aware of what you presently have, which is right now.

Does that make sense?

Liminal Spaces

 

I’ve been thinking about liminal spaces a lot lately.

It’s an incredibly intriguing concept: a liminal space is essentially a transitional space. Think of it as a waiting area – you land here to cross over to another point in space/time.

’Liminality’ comes from the Latin word ‘līmen,’ meaning “a threshold and is the quality of ambiguity or disorientation that occurs in the middle stage of rites (according to wikipedia.) – Think of it as the in-between stage where you’ve left something behind but you haven’t quite reached your destination.

I had a strange feeling hanging in the airport terminal at 3 AM, waiting for a flight, half-asleep, sipping an okay cup of coffee. And as I wandered through the empty stores and the deserted lobby, nothing felt real and every responsibility felt like it was miles and miles away. I liked that weird energy. It felt like I was quietly floating in this limbo we call “existence.”

I also love the space between wakefulness and sleep. That moment where the world starts dissolving, reality begins to warp and my dreams start to take over.

And just off the top of my head, time flows so differently in these spaces/settings:

• Highway food-stops at/after midnight when you’re on a road trip
• Highways after dark
• Bridges
• Empty parks after sunset
• Abandoned parking lots
• Sunday nights
• A theater stage with no one in the audience seats
• My roof after it just stops raining
• A petrol station in the middle of nowhere

If you’re simply aware of this glorious concept, it adds a certain magical essence to your life. It may feel kind of unsettling when you land in a liminal space, but if you can make sense of the idea, and open up to it, it can be a doorway to some wonderful, eye-opening experiences and revelations.

It’s nice to slow down, pay attention and learn something new when I’m hanging here. This space is an ultimate teacher to me despite (or because of?) all the confusion and anxiety I tend to sometimes feel when I’m here.