A girl in specs with a pen and a notebook!!

 This morning, while the steam rose from the pans in my kitchen, a thought flickered in my mind like a quiet flame.

Why not reach back to my roots in Odisha? I thought about a non-profit initiative I’ve followed—a group of professors from my homeland dedicated to bridging the English communication gap for rural students. My heart said, "Spend just one hour a week. Give back. Draft the email now." But as the morning progressed, the domestic chores—the inevitable "Mixed Bag" of a mother’s life—faded that thought into the background.

Or so I thought.

Later, I prepared for a demo session with a young girl from Assam. I went in with a singular mission: to give her everything I could in that one hour, regardless of the "system." But language is a tricky bridge; she spoke neither Hindi nor English, and I don't know Assamese. Our connection remained a silent hope, a thought that couldn't yet reach fruition.

But the universe wasn't done with me.

My next session was with an 11-year-old girl. Her parents spoke to me in a gentle mix of broken English and Hindi. I expected a standard request—perhaps help with grammar or preparing for school exams.

I was wrong.

This little girl, peering through her spectacles with intense focus, didn't want to pass a test. She wanted to conquer a fear. She wanted to deliver a speech with confidence.

What moved me to my core wasn't just her ambition, but her preparation. She sat before the screen with a pen and a notebook. When I showed her how to introduce herself, she stopped me. "Ma'am, please pause," she said.

I watched, mesmerized, as she carefully noted down every sentence—not just for herself, but for her parents. She was scripting a new identity for her entire family. In that moment, this "class topper" and only child became a bridge-builder, carrying the weight of her family’s aspirations on her small shoulders.

At the end, she looked at me and asked if we would have another class. My heart ached to say, "Just ping me, let’s connect on Google Meet, I will help you for free." The corporate system has its rules, but my soul has its own.

I wanted to tell her: "I see a bright future for you. Your dedication is your superpower." Today, I realized that even if I haven't sent that email to the Odisha non-profit organisations yet, the work has already begun. Every time I pause for a girl with a notebook, every time I respect the "broken" English of a hopeful parent, I am building that bridge.

The "Mixed Bag" of my day might be heavy, but it is filled with the dreams of children who are ready to cross over. And I am honored to be the one holding the light.

Current Mood: Humbled.

Thought for the Day: You don't need a formal title to be a missionary of education. You just need to notice the girl with the pen.

Finding "Rhapsody" in the routine!!

 Lately, the days have felt like a crowded room. Between the "Mixed Bag" of household chores and the high-energy demands of a new professional chapter, I’ve found myself standing at a crossroads.

I’ve spent the last few days connecting with people from all walks of life—some who carry the weight of their struggles in their voices, and others who look at life through the lens of pure logic. In the middle of it all, there is a "system." Every system has its glitches, its targets, and its noise. It’s easy to feel like just another cog in a machine, especially when you’re fighting a physical cold or the exhaustion of a long Sunday.

But this morning, something shifted.

I looked at my son as he came home from his first independent "big boy" errand with his father. I realized that the time I spend away from him—focused on my screen, my words, and my "students" in life—is not time lost. It is an investment.

I didn't quit my journey after he was born because I wanted him to see a mother who is a North Star, not just a shadow. I want him to understand that a woman’s voice has a rhapsody of its own.

I’ve stopped working for the "result" and started working for the Impact.

Whether I am helping someone find their confidence or simply holding a mirror up to a child’s potential, I am no longer doing it for a "target." I am doing it because I know what it feels like to be on the other side of a language barrier or a closed door.

We often worry if our children will see a "busy" mother. But today, I believe my son is seeing a confident mother. He is learning to be brave because he sees me navigating my own "Mixed Bag" with a smile, even when the cup is a little cracked.

The noise of the world is loud, but my purpose is louder.

Reflections for today:

Presence is about quality, not just hours.

Every person we help is a bridge we build for our own future.

Sometimes, the best way to teach bravery is to be brave yourself.

How to Organize Your Drawers for $0 (and Save the Planet)

 

Let’s be honest: those sleek plastic drawer organizers add up fast. But what if the best solution is actually sitting in your recycling bin?

​I’ve started organizing my drawers using sturdy leftover boxes—think iPhone packaging, gift boxes, or shipping containers. It’s a win-win-win:

1. ​It saves money by avoiding unnecessary purchases.
2. ​It saves the planet by reducing plastic demand and reusing waste.
3. ​It’s guilt-free. If a box gets worn out or dirty, I don't feel bad tossing it because it was free!

​You can easily beautify these with some scrap cloth or pretty paper, but even bare boxes look a million times better than a messy drawer. Are you ready to give your "trash" a second life?

The Lesson of Letting Go!!

 Those few moments when you cared,

I can’t forget them even if I try.

It was like you could read my mind,

And knew the words I wouldn't say.

I always wanted to work, to be something,

But the world is harder than I thought.

I just wanted someone to understand that—

To tell me it’s okay to stay or to go.

You said exactly what I needed to hear.

And after you left, I never heard it again.

That is why the pain is so deep—

I found the person who knew me,

But I couldn't keep him forever.

Now, all the small things I wanted to do

Are just wishes that never came true.

I didn’t find another "you,"

And  I never will.

I wanted to learn so many things,

To see the world and experience it all.

But instead, I only learned one thing:

How to let go.

I detached myself from my dreams,

The big ones and even the tiny ones.

Life is just a list of responsibilities now,

And I am just walking through it.

If ever you find this somehow,

Never feel guilty for caring for me.

I let you go when I realized

That you couldn't be happy with me.

And I cannot feel any better

By knowing that you are sad for me.

The Divine Riddle: A Conversation with the Architect!!

 

A Note on "Mood Swings"

​Before you tell me that women have mood swings and it's visible in my posts, let me warn you: I have great competitors like Mr. Trump and Mr. Macron. One gives a statement and backs out in a single day, and the other says, "Let’s go on a trade bazooka!" Then there's our nearest neighbor, constantly highlighting a trade surplus of billions in China while the ground shifts beneath them.

​So, don’t blame just me for being a woman. I see more mood swings in men with power these days than in any "High Value" algorithm.

​Sometimes, though, the "mood swing" isn't about politics or digital traps. Sometimes, it’s a quiet conversation with something much higher than a world leader. It’s the moment when the digital deception fades, and you’re left looking at the signs carved into your own life.

A Conversation with the Architect:-

Lord, years ago, You wove a thread,

Of coincidences I misread.

A trail of breadcrumbs, soft and fine—

I followed them, thinking, "This is mine." But the path was hollow, the signs were skewed,

A grand redirection I hadn't pursued.

And when You finally turned the wheel,

The courage I needed wasn't real.

You watched me struggle, You watched me fail,

As I walked the wind and braved the gale.

Each phase a mountain, each step a test,

I carried the weight, hoping for rest.

I told myself, "The end is near,"

While wiping away the grit and fear.

Now, years have passed, and the silence is gone,

The same old signals are turning back on.

But my heart is weary, my eyes are wise,

I see the trap beneath the disguise.

And now, that number stands in wait,

Carved in stone beside my gate.

Is it a promise? Or just a design?

I used to beg for a tangible sign.

But I am tired of the maze and the "nearly,"

Of waiting for You to speak to me clearly.

So, I’ll leave the riddle right there at the door,

I won’t ask for meanings or maps anymore.

If the silence is Your answer, then let it be deep;

I have promises to myself I must keep.

Whether it’s a gift or a trick of the light,

I’ll trust my own soul to get through the night.

For the peace that I feel when I stop seeking "why,"

Is the only true signal I need to get by.

YouTube Thinks I Need an Upgrade (And My Ego Has Some Questions)!!

 

​I opened YouTube today, expecting a recipe or perhaps a relaxing video of a cat playing a piano. Instead, the algorithm slapped me in the face with a video titled: "How to Become a High Value Woman."

​Excuse me?

​First of all, YouTube, who gave you the right? Second of all, what does that even mean? Is there a stock market for women now? Am I currently trading at an all-time low? Do I need to wait for a quarterly earnings report to see if my "value" has gone up?

​The Algorithm’s Identity Crisis

​As a content creator, I understand how algorithms work. They track your every move. So naturally, I spent the next ten minutes spiraling: What did I search for that made a robot think I was "Low Value"? Did I look up "how to get stains out of pajamas" one too many times? Did I linger too long on a video about DIY 5-minute crafts?

​As a High Value Woman, I did the only logical thing: I closed the app and sat with my own thoughts. No scrolling. No binge-watching. Just me, myself, and my "un-certified" value.

​The Great Value Deception

​We live in a world where everyone wants easy money and even easier fame. The digital world has turned into a marketplace of flesh and fakes. If you want billions of views, apparently you just need to show some skin and talk about "psychology" while actually tearing people down.

​These creators love to give you a checklist to "scale" yourself.

• ​Do you walk like this? +10 points. * Do you speak like that? -5 points. * Do you have the IQ of a toaster but the confidence of a runway model?
• Congratulations, you’re Elite!

​I want to know where these people get their confidence. It must be a lack of intelligence—it’s much easier to be confident when you don't have enough brain cells to realize you’re being ridiculous.

​The Storm vs. The Status

​Here is the truth the digital world doesn't want you to know: You cannot measure a human being on a sliding scale. Your "measuring scale" might track status, height, weight, and bank accounts, but it has no setting for "Storms Weathered." It can’t measure the strength it took to survive a bad year or the dignity of someone who works a "low-status" job to feed their family.

​A certificate of "High Value" from a YouTuber with a ring light and a script is worth exactly zero.

​Final Thoughts

​Digital world, I am officially frustrated with your deceptions. You try to make us feel like we’re "low-tier" so we’ll click your links and buy your courses.

​But here’s a free tip for the Mystery Eaters and the Algorithm Architects: My value isn't a stock price. It doesn't fluctuate based on your "tips." I am the one who decides my worth, and I’m currently not for sale.

Agent 420(the tiffin taster)!!

 If my marriage had a soundtrack, the percussion would be the sound of Tupperware lids clicking shut, and the lead melody would be my husband saying, "Hey, have you seen my lunchbox?"

Most people lose their keys or their phone. My husband? He loses lunchboxes. It is his superpower. He treats lunch containers like disposable tissues. Ever since we got married, I’ve watched a steady parade of high-quality plastic enter his office, never to be seen again. At this point, I’m convinced there is a secret underground society in his office building made entirely of his "lost" water bottles, helmets, and lunchboxes.

But last week, the universe threw us a plot twist.

The Great Pre-Lunch Heist

Usually, he loses the box after eating. This time, someone snatched it before lunch.

He called me, sounding like he’d just witnessed a heist. "It's gone! Someone took it!"

While he was panicking about his missing calories, I was actually flattered. I started laughing. My cooking is so legendary that we now have corporate spies stealing it before the noon bell? I told him, "Look on the bright side—someone finally appreciates my hard work enough to commit a crime for it!"

I told him to go buy lunch. For the first time in history, he didn't come home with a brand-new box. I think he knew that if he brought one more "mismatched set" box into my kitchen, I might lose it. My cabinets are already a chaotic museum of "The One That Got Away."

In a building with over 5,000 employees, the odds of seeing that box again were zero. We all know the drill: you assume someone took it by mistake because they have the same generic blue lid, or you quietly blame the "system."

But then, the miracle happened.

Today, the box was returned to security. Not just returned—cleaned. I have so many questions for this Mystery Eater:

Did you enjoy the spices?

Did you find the salt levels adequate?

Did it take you a full week to "muster the courage" to drop it off at security, or did it just take that long to scrub the turmeric stains out?

A Missed Bollywood Opportunity

Honestly, I’m a little disappointed. This could have been a real-life The Lunchbox movie moment. I was half-expecting a handwritten note tucked inside: "The dal was life-changing. Please send more Jeera rice on Wednesday. Sincerely, Cubicle 420"

I wouldn't even have been mad! If the Mystery Eater is reading this: I’m open to starting a private "Dabbawala" service just for you. I’ll even send an extra box with my courier (aka my husband) every day.

The only catch? It’s going to be chargeable. And for the love of all things holy, please don't make me wait a week for the box to come back next time.

P.S. To the Mystery Eater: If you’re reading this, thank you for the dishwashing services. Next time, leave a review! 4 stars? 5 stars? Or was it just "better than the cafeteria food"? My husband is already prepared to be your daily delivery driver—for a small fee, of course.

Honestly, you should probably just give me a 1-star review and be done with it. I know the complaints already:

The "Sambar" Scandal: You probably thought, "Who puts raw papaya and potatoes in sambar?!" It’s a total identity crisis, right?

The Flavor Gap: Not enough salt, zero spice, and absolutely no tamarind.

The Bean Fry Fiasco: Again with the potatoes! And without coriander powder, does a dish even legally count as "tasty"?

But here’s the thing: That wasn't your standard South Indian meal—that was authentic Odia homely food.  In our kitchen, that’s exactly how we love it! Whether it stands up to your idea of "proper" sambar or not, it’s a taste of home for us. Never mind, though—I hope you enjoyed the change, even if you missed the cuisine memo entirely!

However... if you happen to be a fellow Odia who actually enjoyed the Dalma and the simple flavors—then you are more than welcome! Feel free to place your regular dabba service order with us, yet I warn you salt will be in lower side as that's my signature style.