Some festivals don’t end—they quietly live on as memories.

Pongal during my childhood in Tamil Nadu wasn’t just a festival—it was a lingering season of anticipation, gentle warmth, and deep-rooted belonging. Days before Pongal, even the air felt different—cleaner, crisper, quietly expectant. Homes were scrubbed until they gleamed, old calendars torn away with finality, and mornings began with the soft, rhythmic scratch of kolam powder kissing the earth. We counted days for Pongal the way one waits for something sacred, asking endlessly, “Innum ethana naal?” Every sunrise felt like a small, hopeful step closer to joy.

Before Pongal truly arrived, it began with Bhogi—in the darkest, coldest hours of the morning. Around 4 or 5 a.m., while the world was still wrapped in sleep, old things were gathered and discarded, set aflame in a small fire that crackled softly against the silence. We stood around it, hands stretched out for warmth, talking about the most mundane things—school, neighbours, nothing and everything at once. There was something deeply cosy about those moments: the cold air, the shared quiet, the flicker of firelight on familiar faces. Today, hardly anyone wakes up that early—let alone gathers together to mark beginnings that way.

The night before Pongal was magical in a way words still struggle to hold. Streets came alive after sunset—not with chaos, but with a hushed, collective purpose. Mothers gathered outside their homes, bent low to the ground, fingers dusted white with kolam maavu, creating patterns that felt more like offerings and whispered prayers than mere designs. Under flickering tube lights and tender moonlight, the streets transformed into open-air galleries of care, patience, and pride. My mother was always there—focused, calm, unhurried. And every year, without fail, she won the first prize. I remember the quiet swell of pride, the knowing smiles from neighbours, and the comforting sense that everyone was watching out for each other. That night felt like the true, beating heart of Pongal.

Pongal mornings began early. The familiar music of vessels clanging, milk bubbling and joyfully boiling over, and elders calling out “Pongalo Pongal!” echoed through the street like blessings carried on sound. The day began with enna thechi kulithal—oil warmed, poured gently, massaged in slow, deliberate circles. It felt ceremonial, like washing away the old year before stepping into the new. Pongal was cooked the traditional way then, in earthen pots balanced over firewood, watched closely until the milk rose and spilled over, marking abundance and prosperity. Everyone waited for that moment, voices rising together as it happened. Today, earthen pots and firewood have largely been replaced by pressure cookers and electric stoves—choices shaped by time constraints and a faster, more hurried life.

Before the clock strikes 11 a.m., without fail, our neighbourhood paati would arrive. She lived next door with her husband—a pair everyone associated with warmth, devotion, and tradition. After completing her Pongal pooja, she would walk slowly through the street, balancing neatly stacked dishes on her hands—sweet pongal glistening with ghee, crisp vadai, fresh fruits—bringing them home. We were always called out before 11, gently reminded that blessings had a time and rhythm of their own. That act felt sacred, as though the festival itself had stepped into our doorway.

She doesn’t live there anymore. After her husband passed, the house was sold, and the doors that once opened every Pongal morning now remain shut. The absence is achingly loud, in a way only memories can be. The streets back then were never empty. From morning till night, there were voices spilling into one another, barefoot footsteps, shared laughter, half-finished conversations.

Pongal also came with its share of excitement beyond rituals. New films released during the festive season were discussed endlessly—songs played on loop, dialogues repeated, opinions exchanged even before watching them. Television stayed on longer than usual, filled with special shows, debates, festive programmes, and reruns that became part of the background noise of celebration. My sister’s childhood friend lived just two houses away. He was part of our everyday life—our festivals, our games, our noise. Then one day, he left the city quietly, without ceremony. Years later, we heard he had settled abroad, chasing bigger fortunes and a different life. His house, too, changed hands. The street grew noticeably quieter, a little lonelier.

Maatu Pongal carried its own energy. We watched Jallikattu live on television, eyes glued to the screen, hearts racing with every charge and cheer. Even from our living rooms, it felt raw and powerful—tradition unfolding in real time, stirring pride and debate in equal measure. The best part of Pongal was going to our native place. Even the journey felt celebratory—bags packed with excitement, minds already there. Grandparents waited at the doorstep; blessings came first—warm, familiar palms on our heads, whispered prayers, plates filled before questions were asked. Those few days felt endless in the best way. We slept on mats, ate from shared plates, listened to stories that had been told a hundred times, and lived slowly, simply, deeply rooted in something real. Kaanum Pongal was about movement and connection. Relatives were visited, homes were entered without formality, meals were shared, conversations stretched long. It was a day meant to see and be seen, to hold on to relationships beyond routine. And then it would end. School would reopen. Bags were unpacked reluctantly, uniforms ironed with heavy hearts and lingering reluctance. We returned home with frowny faces, already counting days for the next leave, carrying village mornings and our grandparents’ love quietly folded inside us.

Today, Pongal still comes, but the streets feel different. This year, hardly three houses made rangoli. The rest stayed quiet—doors shut, lives rushing elsewhere. The street that once felt like a living, breathing organism now feels paused, waiting for people who may never return. I realise now that I don’t just miss the celebration. I miss the people—our favourite paati, the neighbours who felt like extended family, the friends who grew up alongside us and then gently drifted away. I miss a version of life where everyone mattered, where festivals were shared, and where childhood was shaped by faces that felt permanent. Pongal still reminds me of joy—but it also reminds me of loss. Of time passing softly but relentlessly. Of people moving on. And of how some seasons don’t just celebrate harvests, but quietly, tenderly harvest memories too.

The Cold That Felt Warm.

Winters during my childhood felt like a different lifetime, almost as if the season itself has changed since then. The cold arrived quietly, without announcements or weather apps warning us days in advance. One morning you simply woke up and knew—winter was here. The air felt sharper, mornings darker, and getting out of bed required a kind of bravery that only children seemed capable of summoning half-asleep. Blankets felt heavier, warmer, more protective, and leaving them felt like betrayal. The floor was ice-cold, and every step reminded you that comfort had to be earned.

Mornings began slowly. Bathing was an act of courage, often negotiated with parents, delayed until the sun rose just a little higher. Warm water felt like luxury. School uniforms were layered—vests under shirts, socks pulled up higher than usual, sweaters that always felt slightly oversized. Those sweaters carried a familiar smell: cupboards, old paper, mothballs, and home. Some were hand-knitted, slightly itchy, but worn proudly because they were made with care. Gloves never matched, caps slipped over ears, and breath turned visible for the first time, making us feel oddly powerful, like tiny dragons.

The sun in winter was different—soft, pale, almost shy. It didn’t scorch or glare; it warmed gently, the kind of warmth that invited you to sit still. Afternoons were spent chasing patches of sunlight across terraces, verandas, or school playgrounds. Elders sat basking in the sun, talking slowly, sipping tea, while we played nearby, pretending we weren’t cold anymore. Time moved differently then. No one was rushing. Winter allowed pauses.

Food tasted better in the cold. Hot breakfasts felt more comforting, steam rising from plates, hands warming around cups. Evenings meant something special—hot milk, soups, roasted snacks, the smell of something warm filling the house. Kitchens felt like the heart of winter, always alive, always warm. Families gathered closer, not just physically but emotionally. Conversations lingered longer. Stories were told again and again, and somehow never got boring.

Nights were my favourite. The sky felt closer, quieter. We slept wrapped in layers, sometimes sharing beds, sometimes sneaking closer to siblings just for warmth. There was a deep sense of safety in those nights—the kind you don’t realise is precious until it’s gone. Outside, the world felt still, almost hushed, while inside everything felt held together.

What I miss most about childhood winters is how uncomplicated they were. The cold didn’t feel like an inconvenience; it felt like a shared experience. There was no urgency to escape it, no constant attempt to control it. We adapted, adjusted, and lived within it. Winter taught us patience—how to wait for warmth, how to appreciate it when it arrived, how to slow down without feeling guilty.

Now, winters come and go quickly. We warm rooms instantly, layer efficiently, complain endlessly. But back then, winter felt like a season you lived through, not just endured. It shaped days, routines, relationships. It made homes warmer, conversations softer, and memories stronger.

Those winters still live somewhere inside me—in the smell of old sweaters, in the comfort of hot drinks, in the quiet joy of sitting in the sun. They remind me of a time when life was slower, warmth came from people more than appliances, and happiness was found in the simplest rituals of the season.

Now, winters feel shorter, faster, almost impatient. Rooms warm at the press of a button. Life doesn’t pause anymore. But a part of me still longs for those childhood winters—for the durries on cold floors, the glow of firewood, the smell of woollen sweaters, and the quiet joy of sitting together with nothing to do. I miss childhood winters deeply, not just for the season itself, but for the life they held—a time when warmth came from people, days moved slowly, and happiness lived in the simplest moments. 

Life In A Metro

Every person is emotionally attached to the place they grow up in or had spent a chunky majority of their lives at, be it a small hamlet or a cosmopolitan city, but the hometown always and forever remains the closest to one's heart. And then there comes a place that embraces one and all (the native people, the expats, the migrants and the people  from other cities) like a warm cosy hug on a cold day.

Seeing a friend of mine posting a picture on Instagram with a cute caption for marking his one year at Bangalore aka Bengaluru, prompted me to pen this down to give the city and acknowledgement for being the city that showed me joy of being independent, dreamy and content and obviously the luxury of round the year balmy climate. 

Of what I could remember from my memory, I started visiting Bangalore as kid. I guess I was ten or so! I remember me being in awe looking at the city with josh and amusement seeing the city look like a dream, like an illusion with amazing roads with trails of giant trees that shed yellow pink and lavender flowers in spring, what's fondly known as our very own Bengaluru cherry blossom, the few malls that were there looked so neat and polished, the quaint little cafes and their melt in the mouth cakes (i had my first black forest at Bangalore), the sparking  enormous high rise buildings of the IT companies ( IT sector was emerging, slowly starting to flourish back then), huge spaces of greenery that got the city the title of "garden city", the very Indian cafe coffee day that were found in nooks and corners of every area, the Victorian architecture and what not, that would entice you to enjoy the beautiful facades of the city. 

I had not known anyone that has lived in Bangalore and has not had a secret affair with the lovely dovey extremely cheesy weather that makes you gulp down cups of garama garam chai, eat pakode curling up into a ball inside the blanket!

In the beginning, the city looked pretty like a dream on earth, I saw no misery, no pain. I wondered and wandered in admiration for I had never seen lives this perfect! While visiting Bangalore was an occasion of sorts for us back then, I started coming to the city more often right when my sister got her first job offer at Hewlett-Packard at Electronic City. I also had the privilege of staying at Bangalore for a phase of my life for professional purposes/ reasons.

 That's when I truly could get closer to the soul of the city, and boom! The darker side unraveled itself. I saw a cluster of cheerful faces, residing in a concrete jungle among the crowd, bearing balked souls and deserted minds. I could well relate it to the Bollywood movies "Fashion" and "Life In A Metro". There are extremely determined youth population struggling to discover themselves in a crowd, as a portion of innumerable corporate commercial giants, that fill you with perks and foreign money.People were equipped themselves with the latest technology, formulating new devices and achieving at it, giving it the title of "the start-up capital".The city appreciates food like no other place,  right from the traditional donne biriyani from Shivaji Military Hotel, thatte idly with Udupi chutney with filter coffee in CTR to the latest Bo Tai, Soda bottle Openerwala to Magnolia, this city is ever open to new experiences, experiments and a diversity of tastes, and has been the most welcoming to almost all cuisines, sweeping the title of "the food capital"... While I could draw my conclusion, I feel this adoration and obsession for anything food is the lack of other comfort zones like Beaches and the stress that makes you want to find respite through culinary options. The fundamental fact here being, everybody wants to feel good in comfort but fail to explore their path to what true happiness is. In the attempt to unearthing it, most of us end up conquering even the littlest of things that supplies us with comfort and richness, nevertheless, there still are certain luxuries in this whole wide blue world that cannot be procured with all money, like togetherness, love and mental peace. I saw souls with yearning eyes that were always in a hurry, I saw shattered smiles that never hesitated to smile back, I saw lonely crowds with empty hearts.

All Sorts Of Food Nostalgia❤️

Food to me, is an emotion, is an ecstasy!

I abbbsolutely adore people who are fluent in languages and literature, Likewise, I freaking love people who make and appreciate good food! ❤️ From what I ve heard from my family, I started cooking as early as when I was eight!  

My maternal grandmum and aunts still say that I would chop up the potatoes by myself, put a stool in front of the kitchen slab where the stove was placed, and make my own "uralakizhangu fry", the very first recipe I've ever cooked!! 

Coming from a family that has a sweet tooth with humongous fondness for culinary sustenance, my very early memories are that of those times spent with my cousins at my maternal grandparents’ place during vacations and festivals. It meant all the eight of us sitting together in a circle and eating hot food as my aunts served us and having "nila choru" (dinner under the moon lit sky) talking stories while we gobbled up delicious food. 

I don’t in my strongest memory, remember a day when there weren’t at least ten people eating at meal times in that house. There was food available at all time for anyone who bothered dropping in and irrespective of the time of the day.

My maternal grandmum was/is no less an Annapoorni, used to make us amazing telugu delicacies (as she was from andhra), one of sister's most favourite was sugantulu, a crispy on the outside yet soft on the inside sweet balls made of cooked green gram dhal mixed along with sweetness of jaggery dipped in a flowy white batter of rice flour and deep fried till crispy. A lot of holidays and weekends were spent there where we would spend our days cycling around the locality, wander endlessly and play plenty of games. The day would invariably begin with a tumbler of boost or horlicks with milk bikkis (in a glass jar) for dipping. Lunch was simple South Indian fare with sambar, rasam with vegetables and the likes. I can almost taste aunts' sambar as I think about it now. It was always less spicy than my mom’s and had a touch of tartness to it as aunts add tamarind and mum doesn't! We also grew up eating keema meat balls so delicious that the taste still lingers on my tongue sold by a neighbourhood paati at my grandparents village back then. 

My love for chopping vegetables started when I used to offer amma help, to chop up veggies as she went about cooking ten different things for the four of us in lightning speed before she headed to work, and over time chopping vegetables became a favourite! Our weekend meal at home always consisted of a staple menu as kids. Saturday mornings always had the waft of fresh ghee with s subtle hint of hing in air along with the splutter of curry leaves that got tadka-ed over the mushy pongal, paired with kathrika gosthu (a humble lentil based savory staple made using moong dhal and aubergine).

And Sunday lunches were invariably meant for spicy rich biriyani either made at home or bought from the legendary Arcot star biriyani, a quaint little shop that would sell out the biryani in no time. Arcot biriyani is a nawabi delicacy where the short grains of slow cooked jeeraga samba rice is cooked on dum along with the spicy marinated meat gravy making it the ultimate comfort food, eaten accompanied by what's locally called as the kathrika pachidi, yet again, a tangy rather thick gravy with an egg plant base and an onion raita. 

At school, we’d all sit together under the shades of those large trees, share food during lunch break watching the trucks and buses that pass by! My mum's tamarind rice aka puli sadam and vegetable pulao along with potato fry/banana fry was a huge hit among my friends. One in the gang used to bring yummy Chinese style fried rice, the other marwari friend used to bring some paratha ( i don't remember the name of it even remotely) along with boondi raita, my god, it used to a blast of flavours! I've never seen or eaten that parata anywhere else ever,i guess it would be a family recipe, no? Snacks during our childhood were even more special, sister and I love snacks more than meal. Post school, there hadn't been a day where we've not stopped the thallu vandi thatha who used to sell snacks. My picks were plain pori, kadalai (plain rice puffs with fried channa) and wheel chips while sister's would be masala pori with a sprinkle of onion over it, pattani (fried peas) and pori urundai. We'd buy aloo samosas, matar kachoris and pani puris sold by our neighbourhood bihari bhaiya. Dad also used to buy us mutta bondas and chicken bondas from a local shop here. All of us in the family have a sweet tooth, so dil pasand always used to be in stock at home along with bread, homemade jam, butter and butter biscuits that mum would make on her free time. Not to mention the melt in mouth pudding cake and Japanese cake bought from DVP bakery that's been running since 1875!!

Chennai, fondly called Madras then, was visited as often as every two weeks, the renowned Spencer plaza was just a five minutes walk from my aunt's apartment, we went there whenever we felt like, that was the first place where I ve had my first pizza, my first burger, my first softie cone ice cream, so on and so forth! Infact, Spencer's was one of pioneers that sold western food, then came our very own papa johns that sold the bestest pizzas in town!

Moving to Chidambaram to persue medicine, the town was so distinct and different in its culinary  heritage both by preference and by culture, The town has amazing eateries that sells finger licking food. It's fascinating how such a small temple town has eateries that sells traditional thinai arisi dosai to Chinese szhewan chicken to cheese pizza to choco lava cake! I explored many amazing places like udupi sreekrisna bavan (the bestest podi dosas and kathrika gothsu), haja biriyani that my friend and I used to visit every Sunday, a small eatery called chick punch that sold amazing Chinese dishes, moorthy cafe that used to a place where birthday treats were given to friends, apple bakery that sold lovely cold sandwiches and baked items, Sharadharam where unit treats were given, Dubai restaurant which sold creamy shawarmas, etc! 

I candidly remember those days in the first year where my roommate and I order every Sunday night and eat together, that was our favourite part of the weekend.

Moving to Thrissur for a while after my UG, made me fall in love with subtle aviyal and creamy ada pradhaman that the kerala cuisine had to offer! And moving to Bangalore for another temporary phase, trying the Thalassery biriyani made me fall in love with the malabar cuisine to the point that I've mastered the art of making it! (if I can say so myself😉) and hands down to the best dosas one could ever find in this world, is undoubtedly from Bangalore! 

Being locked at home during the pandemic made me a baker of sorts I could say! That's when I truly started having my me-time along with my adrak chai post dinner. 

Even now, when I visit Bangalore or when my sister comes down to Chennai, hunting down and heading to every dessert joint that is newly opened in the city is an activity I thoroughly enjoy including the occasional fancy-ass buffet lunches with family and cousins.!

Now, at this stage of my life, my love for food has grown much much more, so has, my cooking skills! I've started exploring the world of food tasting and trying out new flavours and cuisines. 

I love to cook for people I love. To me, food is a love language, and after all this, my mum's biriyani and sambar sadam with potato fry was, is and will always be my comfort food for the rest of my life. What's yours?

Those were the days

On one lazy Sunday evening, i was peeping out through the window of my room after our usual tea time watching the blues of the sky dim down to grey, greys dim down to a huge downpour with quite specks of flickering of the street lights.. Along with the muddy earthy smell when the first shower of the season hit the ground, came back a rush of old memories.! 

It was quite hard for me to grasp those massive changes my quaint town had gone through over the years. I wanted to pen those memories down before it fades away into oblivion. 

On the whole, it was so distinct back then, both in terms of the people it housed and the outlook of it. I vividly remember this place being a such lush greenery - little bangalore as my sister and I would fondly call it. For every household having a minimum of seven to eight trees along the sides of their houses and the backyard filled with medicinal herbs to flowering shrubs that bloomed with jasmine, kanagambarams and chrysthamems, every house had atleast one plantain. Vibtant tubular yellow flowers and melange of fiery orange and red gulmohars, pillowy light pink flowers, those mauvy whitish flowers that had long stalks that bloomed only during the monsoons had their own specific aroma had carpeted the streets. What protected people who walked through the streets from the extremes of temperatures ( be it the scorching sun or a downpour) were those luxuriant growth of enormous, bendy branches of Albizia saman, or what's locally known as the thoongu moonji maram, Indian beech and neem that enclosed like a huge green umbrella. 

A typical day started with a perumal chant that was being played on Jaya tv in the wee hours of  the morning, At five what made its way was the dring - dring along with the thud which indicated  newspaper waala in his bicycle, crossing past the house.. It was cacophonous, the pomping of horns made by the milk men, vendors bringing out freshly plucked seasonal veggies and greens with their distinct earthy smell intact, from their farms in a thallu vandi around 6.30 - 7ish every morning. What would follow was an old grandma in her late 60s, with her basket full of diary like home made ghee and butter and curd.

4. 30 pm was for the pori uncle in his mid forties,  who came pushing his thallu vandi displaying his home made pori (rice puffs) and the accompaniments that's added to it, snacks like wheel chips, pori urundai, kadala mittai, pattani and so on. There hadn't been a day where sister and i missed buying his snacks. Then would come a retired security guard thatha in his bicycle who's now a flower vendor, with strings of malli and mullai and samanthi flowers made into balls, calling out 'maa' when he was about to reach the houses of ladies who bought flowers from him everyday.

Street used to be full of people anytime time of the day! For i got familiarised with people on their way during their morning walk just by a grin through my sleepy face as i hastily finish up my math homework.

Everyone in our street knew everyone else of respective households. People entered each others houses without a bit of hesitancy, people took care of neighbours kids and fed their pets like their own if they had to return home late for a day or two! Insta hearts, facbook thumbs ups or digital balloons, that wasn't how wishes were conveyed. 

Three of our neighbours were very close to us.

The first one was an elderly couple who were nothing short of adorable and are here since the time my parents bought our house. The thatha was a retired police officer while the paati was an extremely active home maker. The elderly couple spends the time playing snakes and ladders for we could hear them roll the dices in between their giggles. She was the one mum trusts completely and to whom she'd have given the house keys in case it was a long day at work.

The second one was a my sister's then best friend's house, who always stays at our house past the play time, finishes homework along with us, sits and chats afterwards and never leaves until his mom finds our way to ours at dinner time calling out his name loud.

The third one were my mum's students family that consisted of six people, who would never fail to call us and wave a bye or hi when they walked past our house and the ones who always drops us Christmas goodies at our doorstep..

They were cheerful people who talked and laughed their heart out. When i go for my usual fifteen minutes walk after  dinner, the old uncle and their daughters would engage in conversations with me. Uncle who lived his youth in Bombay, now Mumbai used to tell how things were back then in 50s and 60s.

I candidly remember him mentioning that a cup of coffee at Taj costed over 100 bucks even back then! After all those wise cracking discussions about life, politics, and etc, what one would finally hear before calling it a day half past 11 pm was a black and white bollywood, mostly of kishore kumar's or mohammed rafi's number sung loudly by the Bihari bhaiya who sells finger licking panipuris, aalo samosas and bhel puris at the entrance of our local community bus stop.

The locality is topsy turvy now. There are no more trees the cover up the pavement from the sun and the rain, people do not know who lives the next door, the houses that had people who used to bring instant smiles from my face were demolished and rebuilt into modern houses, the house where the elderly couple lived is now abandoned and locked, the paati now stays with her daughter and grandkids after the demise of her husband. My sister's friends parents had gotten separated due to familial issues and the kids have now fled to different countries for a better fortune. The appearance of the newspaper waala gradually stopped over time because reading newspapers is hardly a habit now,  everything in is readily available at the touch of our phonescreen, neither does the vegetable vendors, insta swiggymart and big basket has replaced them all. 

And its the same with every other person, either they've left the town or the world. I had no answer to the ‘why’ I kept asking myself time and again, that's when i realised that life moves on no matter what and time keeps changing things every now and then!! 

2021...A Rewind ❤️

I was scrolling through my gallery for the last picture(s) to post on the last day of this year, it has brought me such myraid of memories : the house-warming of our new apartment that had been getting procrastinated months together for abrupt reasons, the certain second wave that hit us leading to postponement of my very anticipated exams, the countless number of times I tried to chocolate banana cake to get the perfect recipe with its crumble texture that melts in the mouth, yet another lockdown birthday I celebrated with family as I grew a year older, juggling between two cities for varied reasons, infinite pictures clicked against the soft montelimar wall of my sister's room, taking physical and mental health into consideration and making baby steps to make it better each day,  hording coffee mugs of all shapes, sizes and colors because it made me happier, taking the 20 minutes of "me time" with my mug of chai when it's almost twilight whilst those birds chirping, making their way back to nests, independently handling those restless events and acing it like a pro amidst the incessant downpour that lashed the city day and night in mighty digits (1044.35 mms), the number of phonecalls I've made to my close friends seeking for comfort whenever I felt down.. 

This year has had its ups and downs & I'm fortunate enough to have broken even with it all.

I've suffered in a way I never hoped to again, I've made some amazing friendships who've become too close to my heart. 

What lies ahead in the coming year are new cities, new worlds, new people and places. I would wish to go into. 2022 as the same irrational & suspicious spirit, with some short tempered sass on the side, with a silly sense of humor & witty personality, the person that always finds joy in unusual places, they always sees a glass never empty, that finds positive in any given situation, that occasionally needs a swift kick in the ass to get going, that who still love stranger, spread kindness and try my bestest to be one hell of a human that I always wanted to be.

Here's to the best pictures of my 2021

Wishing everyone a healthy, wealthy, joyful and prosperous 2022🎉🎈

Aromas of Nostalgia

Isn't it strange how  certain smells become a part of your being and any time, you even remotely encounter them, you pause by for a moment and recollect moments that bring back memoirs of time when growing up was all about us basking in the simplest pleasures of childhood.

The heady lingering smell of the Mysore sandal talc, that my mum has been using for ages now, its sweet, warm, rich, woody persistent whiff gives me a sense of comfort and belongingness, almost like a cozy hug. The smell of the earth following the first rain of the season - so invigorating and so full of hope. 

The divine aroma of freshly made sandalwood paste,  kumkum, incense sticks leaving out scented wavy fumes as they dissipate in the air as they burn, camphor, diyas burning in ghee, chrysanthemums and marigolds inside the temples that make the whole environment so serenely beautiful, reminds me of those childhood times when sister and I along with mum visit the Ayyappan temple nearby our home every evening as a daily ritual. 

The smell of books, I love rustling through the pages of new books and breathing in deep into its aroma. I don't if many do but I  love the pungent chemical smell of petrol for it reminds me of those days I used to accompany my dad to the petrol station to get our bike tank filled.  

The smell of hot oil in which fluffy pooris are being fried till golden brown, the smell of pastry straight out of oven always reminds me of coming home to fresh bakes. The smell of washed line dried crisp clothes that encompasses the whole of summer and childhood in each wonderful breath.

The mystifying floral fragrance of tree jasmine that makes me reminisce playful and worry less school days during monsoon, the waxy sweetness of a new box of crayons - exactly how my nose knew it was the first day of school, I loved watching my mom’s winter regime which always ended with, her slathering Pond’s cold cream on her face every night before going to bed. I can still recall the clean, strong, flowery smell, deeply refreshing and satisfying.

Masala chai that carries nostalgic memories as if the past has infused itself into the drink. The warm, sweet, milky tea laced with aromatic spices and ginger brings back memories of cozy and lazy winter mornings and long chats on rainy holiday afternoons. The heavenly waft that's imminent from melt in the mouth ghee laden sweets holds the promise of extravagant delights and festive banquets. The smell of chalk on a blackboard have always transported me to my early school days. The aromas from our very own kitchen's masala box is another treasured smell. The zingy cumin , sweetness of cinnamon , oomph from those murky mustard seeds, intense smell of peppercorns , robustic flavours from the bay leaves , the punch of garam masala and spiciness of chillies that evoke a sense of home , comfort and delight which is just so Indian. 

Rainy evenings ushered in the spicy aroma of onion, plantain and aloo pakoras sizzling in hot oil brings a smell that warms your belly and soul, pleases the olfactory and salivary glands alike. The smell of tadka, as the spices hit the smoking oil is so satisfying to the soul that reminds me of being welcomed home after a long day and of wonders that are homemade. 

Aromas are so distinct, so humdrum and so meek. 

As an adult, it's overwhelming to be taken aback to those moments, reliving the happiest and most cherished parts of life through memories and the fragrances I associate with them. I believe all of us have this tiny bundle tucked in somewhere that takes a teeny tiny bit of sniff of all these aromas and fastens them in cautiously. On some days, the bundle presents you a peep into it and you lazing in your pyjamas, sifting through profuse memories while the pleasant aromas of nostalgia take over. 

A Lifetime Of Memories

Soooo this morning, I was lost in thoughts on how the first five months of the year hurried in a whip whilst lounging on my balcony swing, having my dose of mid-morning sulaimani chai. I was quite taken aback down the memory lane by those moments that played out as reminders of stories I had almost forgotten. Hence I decided to give it an acknowledgment.  

Memories gushed down like a breath of fresh air pondering how a typical May-end - June used to be, not soo long ago when my sister and I were school kids & how the kids today who are locked in their homes for almost two years now, reluctantly made sit in front of a laptop attending their online classes are missing out in their life!

A major chunk of the school kids inclusive of us would find their way back home only by the last week of May.

The following days till the commencement of the school used to be so boisterous. 

Sister and I always and forever had got brand new school supplies each year (grateful for the parents we're born to). Right from going on a shopping spree and picking up our essentials such as bags that are new in the market, lunch boxes from the Tupperware which always had vibrant colors to choose from, water bottles that had pictures of favorite cartoon characters on them, with all glee and giggles amidst a dilemma if to choose the blue or the red one, to carefully choosing the name labels, to getting the bounded textbooks delivered home, to helping mom and dad by cutting up bits of fancy adhesive tapes that had to be stuck on the corners while they're gingerly wrapping up our notebooks with crisp glossy brown sheets (and smelling them - I love the smell of new books, don't you?).

From getting our new pinafores stitched from the local tailor to packing our stationery pouches with glossy glitter pens and Parker pens with ink cartridges, to planning the lunch menu for the first day of school. The night before the first day of school had always been a melange of emotions - a tiny bit of distress that you got to wait a whole year to get another holiday this long, a whole lot of elation because you're going to meet up with your fellow mates, with a bit of anxiousness (that you shouldn't sleep off snoozing your alarm clock😜) and run late on the reopening day!

The first day of school would be nothing short of a celebration for us.

Mum would wake us up a bit early since it was the first day - she'd make sure we get ready on time, eat a proper breakfast, do a little pooja of sorts at home and visit the Ayyappan temple nearby our bus stop. It used to look so lovely with bunches of pretty kids, here and there with their colorful uniforms, waiting for their school buses. The day at school would start with a prayer meeting where The Principal addresses, welcoming their children back to school for yet another successful academic year. 

As soon as it gets over, we'd rush back to our classrooms, excited to know who our new class teacher was, also to know who all have left the school, and of course to eagerly meet the newcomers.

What would follow are - introduction of ourselves and how we spent the vacation. The lunch scenes used to resemble more like a potluck, each of us, bringing their mum's signature dish (my friends' most favorite dishes of my mum were - pulav with spicy potato roast.) and sharing it with everyone. Of course, the evenings remained the same, of us going back to our homes and sharing every detail of what happened in the class with our mum and dad. And the routine continues...

And when my musings were interrupted by the horn of the truck that passed by the street, I realize that nostalgia makes us feel something that we haven't felt in a long time & we just feel back at home and that it reminds us of people, of childhoods, of random forgotten moments and of things that would stay with us, as a part of us ❤️

A Treasured Reminiscence

The aroma of freshly brewed filter coffee, the gorgeous azure bay of Marina, the finest dainty little cafés of beasant nagar crouched by the sea, the pleasant devotional songs that are played in those ancient temples, “The Higginbothams”- the book house that is known to hold almost every book from nook and corner of the world, the central railway station, a coat of arms since early British period in madarasapatinam, known for its infamous crowd and noise now, the hustle and bustle of the Koyembedu market and mainly chicken 65 (why? Because the recipe originated in Chennai😉) and what not.? The list is extensive to be penned down on a piece of paper or a blog! The aforementioned scrap the surface barely amongst the multitudinous things that flash in my mind when I hear the word Chennai, or rather Madras.! 

Being ruled by the British for almost over two centuries, the English men had truly left their influence upon the city through their colonial grandeur and a melange of architectural elements that give buildings of Madras, a historical aura with the antique touch of the British! Be it the Madras high court, or the St. George's Fort, the first English British fortress built in India or one of the archetype examples of neoclassical architecture, the Ripon building, the cathedral built by the Portuguese, the famous San Thome Basilica or the ever dynamic Spencer plaza, where everyone bounces along for shopping ( the one which you're going to hear about). 

When someone states that it is difficult to find your way out of the mall, I would bet a dime on it confidently! Being built in Indo-Saracenic style of architecture, Spencer Plaza is nothing short of a maze! I have been to that plaza innumerable times, yet I would stammer when asked for directions in a jiffy!! 

There was a time, not so long ago, when this mall was the only mall and the most happening place in the city! It grew to be the most loved hangout spot for “the madrasis” (as always addressed by the rest of the states) and slowly developed to be the entry point of discussion on the advent of Western culture in the city!

This mall housed the shops of almost all prominent brands including that of foreign brands way back in late 1990s and early 2000s. It had these countless tiny shops that were confusingly laid out across the walls selling antique silver earrings, quirky nose pins and so on. There were also shops that sold imported leather goods at affordable prices that catered to all classes. The mall also had Kashmiri handicrafts sold across the mall. Along with some emporia, pashmina shawls, small wooden carvings and rug carpets. Gujrati handicrafts and Kutch pieces also would line the windows if several shops. 

What would welcome us at the entrance of the mall would be large air-conditioned doors with a gush of fresh air. Many a weekend or rather majority of my holidays were spent wandering through its castle like labyrinthine corridors, sitting in the atrium and devouring Bombay/Calcutta chat items, engaged in some wide eyed window shopping; Sometimes it would be jay walking through the book stores with my sister and cousins or lazing around the basement and queueing up for sloppy softy cone ice creams enjoying its warm, vintage charm. The plaza holds numerous memories that everyone who had visited the mall would hold as souvenirs. I guzzled up my first pizza rich with cheese there; My first jaw-widening burger bites were in the mall; My first escalator ride was also in the same plaza. 

The interior of the mall used to be filled with lovely people, who are neat, well mannered, gentle and pretty helpful that one can’t help but fall in love with each one of them instantaneously. One can effortlessly spot NRIs and foreigners who never cease to pause and smile back at us or even have a chit chat at any given point of the day for it was their go-to places in Madras. 

Weekends used to be chaotic. The guards used to shut the gates of the entrance and open only at regular intervals because the mall used to get over crowded instigating intervention of police a lot of times. Harry Potter books were launched there and countless music albums were released at the same plaza including the film openings that used to come there for movie promotions. Cricket teams used to stay in a nearby star hotel called Taj Coromandel and would visit the mall to shop!

Just when people were lazing in the fame of the mall, it had a major fall. Newer, fancier and larger malls mushroomed across the city in a span of 3-5 years, making the major brands and retailers move their businesses out of the mall in the wink of an eye. In addition to this slow decline, there was a major power crisis in the city that brought the mall all negative publicity, which the mall wasn't prepared for (since it was built many years ago, and it had no alternative situation for that kind). 

Time whizzed away, most of the mall's gleam were lost, with the place even considered bordering on dodgy.

I still believe, till today, there are things over there that are commendable but gets obscured by whatever gold painted coals are laid around!

The mall that was once a totem, that once had only foreign visitors right after they land in Chennai, has lost its lustre! The lesson that everyone can infer along with its memories and sail-through epoch would be that everything fades away eventually; the name, the fame and the honour if not valued in the most pious manner is bound to be whisked away like a will-o’-wisps.

My quaint little town

Right after I got my hands on my UG admission, I was quite excited about my new hostel, experiences and everything that the medical life had to offer. My roommates and I were just the same when it came to our affinity towards the family...
I could still reflect back to those vivid memories to that crazy evening of 26th July 2011..
We were those 18 yr old kids who bid bye with a toothy grin like we finally set our foot on a place where we really belonged! Alas, all that we got back from the parents' side was a intensely emotional teary bye...
But then, exactly ten minutes after they left back home, we came to the realisation that our parents had left us in a really new environment. All that my roommate and I did was to look at each other frown faced still managing to console each other..
We were really really homesick..but owing to the hectic medical school schedule and long tiring travel hours, I could go home only when I got more than a couple of days leave, putting up the majority of my days in the hostel!
But the super pampered kid that I was and still am, my parents never miss an opportunity to come down and meet me, which was a mandatory ritual on every birthday.!
As days went on and on and on.. Tadaah, 4.5 years had gone by, the same way.. There were those days I enjoyed being with the bunch of people who got the same ambition as mine, there were also the days were I  ended up sobbing and sick for being far from home..
Somewhere down the lane, I thought that it would change by time , but then I was proved wrong.
Everytime I went home on a vacation and returned back, I had this strange feeling of not wanting to go back but had no option!
Then I realised, I wasn't troubled by homesickness, rather town sickness, maybe!
Many a times, people do ask me as what made me wanting to flee home and never go anywhere but stay there during holidays..
Well, I was born and brought up in a typical suburb, which is very famous for its silk weavers and bamboo home decors since eternity.. Where, a mere walking down the busy hustling bustling road infuses your nostrils with the aroma of the coffee beans that get fried and powdered by an old thatha whilst gingerly adjusting his glasses in that quaint little coffee shop that's been running for almost eight decades now, the concurrent clinking sound of the glass chai cups along the flavourful aroma of the beautifully brown hot ginger chai getting poured in the local rajasthani shop, also the appetizing spicy aroma of the yummy seekh kebabs and drool worthy tandoori chicken and fried chicken... And ofcourse , fragrance of the freshly plucked and tied flower strings!!
My place is just a thirty minutes drive from the main city and a couple of hours away to the most happening cosmopolitan hitech cities of South India.
The feeling I get here is something that I would never get on any other place and believe that this quaint town has got life than any other place on the earth. Like any typical suburb, people from all social classes are in peace.. It is place where you can never get lost because the roads werw constructed in a way that they are at 90 degrees to each other. This town still houses streets, ancestoral homes and temples that are there for more than two decades!!
I've ran through the streets of this town making my mom run behind me while feeding food. I've fell down and still cycled the whole residential town stopping by and collecting bright orange gulmohars blooms and fiery red hibiscus and what not! I've grew up eating the pani puris and kachoris sold by the marwaris inherited as their family businesses who were here since their ancestoral period. Trust me, I've been to Bangalore , Mumbai and so on.. But no where could I find the taste that matches with this. !
Summers here are scorching hot where temperature shoots upto  40 degrees, Monsoons are always the bestest for they fill up the rivers and you can also spot brooks if you're lucky enough! In winters, the temperature drops almost upto 13 degrees where a typical winter day would be gloomy with fog and mist swarming your way in the mornings and mild breeze during the noons..
Everyone has a happy place in their life as this  is mine, as someone rightly put it in a song that goes - sorgame enralum adhu nammoora pola varuma..!

International Men's Day

The day conceived in 1991 and inaugurated in 1992, was initiated on the grounds of 6 pillars, namely
mental health awareness among boys and men, promote positive male role models, focus on men's health ranging from able bodied syndromes to well being of physically challenged to improve gender equality (that means FEMINISM)
to create safer, better world for boys and children to grow in the future
to applaud men's contributions to the improvement of social, economic and political stature.
This year's day has been promoted for creating awareness about MENTAL HEALTH ILLNESS AND RISING SUICIDE RATE AMONG TEENAGE BOYS & positive male role models along with awareness for Testicular cancer.
Sadly most of the men out there lack this fundamental knowledge on why this day was instigated. Most of them cry out this day as an equal agenda that marks international women's day. How pathetic! Women's day was born out of the embarkment of women into  political, social, economical ladder against all odds and Oppression forced on women by society, that was and is predominantly patriarchal.
Now they feel the need to eschew this symbolism by pertaining to a desperate hope of establishing a men's day and calling out all the unfair justice or increased suicide rates in the recent past, which are not be comprised at any cost. However the reason for all those were not women. It was the patriarchal narrow society that the very men found that has grown into a ginormous rat trap that is self mutilating the society. Now they want to have a men's day.
It's the common popular cis-crocodile tears; crying for the supposedly unfair one parking spot allot for the differently abled people despite having the entire parking lot at their wake.
This men's day was established to fight against TOXIC MASCULINITY and thereby the patriarchal society that defined HOW A MAN SHOULD BE TOUGH AND HARD AS STONE WITHOUT CRYING .
International Men's day was one of the many calls that has been blow to support that MEN CAN BE WHOEVER THEY ARE. MEN AND WOMEN ARE EQUAL. MEN CAN CRY AND STILL BE MASCULINE. THAT MEN DO NOT, AND SHOULD NOT HAVE TO HIDE THEIR VULNERABILITY AND ACT TOUGH BECAUSE OF SOME SOCIO-ECONOMIC ABSTRACT DEFINITION OF GENDER THAT HAS SURPASSED THE PURPOSE OF DEFINING AND RATHER TORMENTED MEN FOR AGES TO ACT ACCORDING TO BASELESS AXIOM
So, my fellow men, May you have a very great international men's day!!
But please oh please know why it is celebrated for?
Fight against Toxic masculinity
Fight for equality
Create awareness for mental health illness, that the society has triggered for boys and men create awareness for testicular cancer
Know what and why you have a day assigned for you.
Happy International Men's Day.