The contrast of roles!!

 The fluorescent lights of the mall were too bright today. To anyone passing by, Suman was simply a woman fulfilling her weekend duties—browsing through racks of cotton and linen with her husband and son. But as her fingers brushed against the fabric of a man’s shirt, a cold, familiar ache settled in her chest.

She wasn't looking at the clothes in front of her. She was looking for him.

She found herself reaching for things Abhinav would have loved, her heart momentarily forgetting that his wardrobe stopped growing fifteen years ago. Her mind drifted to that white jacket—the one she bought him back when time felt like an infinite resource. She can still see the faint, ghostly smudge of her own pink lipstick  from their last hug. A tiny, permanent mark of a girl who thought she had forever to pamper the man she loved.

People talk about "moving on" as if grief is a destination you eventually leave behind. They say you forget. But Suman knows better. How can she forget a soul she intended to walk beside for a lifetime when she still remembers the faces of casual school friends?

The grief doesn't fade; it just learns to hide. It hides behind the school runs, the grocery lists, and the "wife" she has become. Sometimes, when the day is loud and busy, the feeling retreats into the shadows. But in the quiet of a shopping trip, it resurfaces—fresh, raw, and as loud as a heartbeat.

She lives in a strange, silent duality. If she had been married to him for even a single day, the world would have allowed her the black clothes and the public mourning. She would have been a "young widow," a title held with somber respect.

Instead, she is a widow of the heart. She performs her daily duties with grace, but her soul keeps a secret altar for a life that only exists in the "what ifs." She carries an emptiness that has no name in any language. It is a beautiful, terrible grief—neither black nor white, but perhaps the color of that old white jacket: a pale memory stained forever by a single, loving mark.

The woman from the future!!

 Seven or eight years ago, during a leadership summit, a senior executive shared a reflection that I simply couldn’t grasp at the time. Instead of empathy, I felt a flicker of skepticism: What is the point of dwelling on something you cannot change?

Today, I find myself standing exactly where she stood. Looking back, it feels as though she had traveled from the future to offer a warning—one I wasn’t yet equipped to hear, and so, I chose to ignore it, unknowingly discarding the wisdom of others until my own body forced me to listen.

In our twenties and thirties, our ambitions are towering. We push ourselves to meet every professional milestone, often at the expense of our physical and emotional needs. But as we enter our forties, a subtle shift occurs. The curve of external ambition begins to level out, and our intellect finally gains the clarity to see everything we pushed aside in the name of "progress." In that newfound space, a quiet realization emerges: the feeling of a missing presence.

This shift is most palpable during the low tides of our hormonal cycles. In those moments of physical vulnerability, the armor we’ve spent years polishing feels heavy. You find yourself wanting to drop the defenses and simply be seen—not for what you do, but for who you are. You crave a presence that recognizes your soul.

Yet, habit is a strong master. Just as we’ve done with so many other desires, we whisper the old mantra: "This too shall pass." We tuck the longing away and keep moving.

But as I stand here now, reflecting on that leader’s words, I am learning to challenge that silence. I wish, instead of waiting for the feeling to fade, I could finally tell myself: "Not this time."

Is Hope Just a Survival Patch?

 I have been thinking about human existence lately. We are the only animals with a heightened brain power that enables us to think for ourselves and others. But lately, I’ve started to wonder: Is it possible that we created "hope" just to convince ourselves to hold on when life gives us those "out of syllabus" moments?

​No other animal spends its life contemplating "before birth" or "after death" scenarios. We’ve built entire spiritual architectures and philosophies around these unknowns. There is no physical evidence for any of them, so why did we create them? What purpose does it solve?

​Perhaps it’s functional. It gives us the courage to stand and face the chaos we live through without a manual. It’s the "survival patch" we install when the reality of the world becomes too much to process.

​Readers, you might be wondering why I’m saying the complete opposite of what I normally post. In my bio, I mention that I love the motivational stories from our scriptures, but I’ve always struggled with how faith is used to divide us.

​When I hear news of the current bloodshed and the ongoing wars in our world, I quietly ask myself: If God exists, why can’t this be stopped? Is it really necessary for a grand Avatar to descend to save us? Could help not come simply by changing our collective perception—shifting our thoughts from the inside out?

​Sometimes my logical mind and my spiritual mind clash with each other. I truly don't know who wins; they just coexist. In the end, we all seem busy selling hope to one another just to get through the day.

​What do you think? Is hope a discovery of something real, or is it just a beautiful tool we built to survive the unexplainable?

The Pedestal Paradox: Are We Expanding Our Joy or Our Pain?

 

Every International Women’s Day, we hear the same poetic refrain: Women are the ultimate multipliers. They take a house and make it a home; they take a seed and make it a life. Even the periodic table gets recruited for the cause—Fe-Male, the "Iron" human.

​It’s a beautiful sentiment. But as I sat with it, my curiosity began to itch. If a human—specifically a woman—is a natural expander of whatever she receives, we have to ask a terrifying question: What happens when she is given nothing? Or worse, what happens when she is given lack, silence, or suppression?

​In many cultures, including here in India, the "pedestal" is often a cage. We praise the strength of women while failing to provide the support that sustains that strength. If the inherent quality of the feminine is to expand, then:

• ​Neglect becomes a deep, hollow void.
• ​Silence expands into a lifetime of suppression.
• ​Hardship becomes a generational weight.

​Is it fair to call someone "Iron" and then leave them out in the rain to rust, simply because we assume their nature is to endure?

​Logic tells me this isn't just a gendered issue; it’s a human one. We are biologically wired to seek the "feel-good" dopamine of expansion. We want to grow our wins. But when life hands us a negative, we face a psychological fork in the road. Do we:

1. ​Expand it? (Letting bitterness or trauma grow until it defines us.)
2. ​Absorb it? (Internalizing the pain until it affects our health.)
3. ​Detach from it? (The spiritual "survival mode.")

We are told that detachment is the cure. But for a social animal, detachment is a double-edged sword. It is the art of surviving by yourself, within yourself. Is that a victory, or is it just a very sophisticated form of loneliness?

​I don’t have the answers. I am not standing on a stage with a microphone; I am standing at the back of the line, observing. Perhaps "doing better in life" isn't about having the answers, but about having the courage to keep asking the questions.

The Invisible Blindfold: How Words Shape Our Reality

 We often think of our abilities as fixed—like a muscle or a skill we’ve mastered. But psychology suggests our "inner world" is much more fragile than we admit. It is constantly being built, or broken, by the voices around us.

Imagine a basketball court. On one side, a professional player; on the other, a girl who has never held a ball.

When the girl tries to score, she misses. But then, she is blindfolded. Every time she throws, the crowd erupts in cheers, shouting that she hit the target perfectly. She hasn't—but she believes she has. When the blindfold is removed, she steps up and sinks the shot. The "fake" confidence became a real skill.

Then, the professional takes his turn. He is blindfolded, and even when his shots are perfect, the crowd groans in disappointment. They mock his "misses." When his blindfold is removed, the expert—the man who has done this a thousand times—misses the basket with his eyes wide open.

The takeaway is chilling: Constant discouragement can dismantle even the strongest talent. Our results are not just a product of our strength; they are a product of our environment.

This isn't just a theory; it is the ground reality for millions. Just recently, a heartbreaking video emerged from my home state that felt like a haunting scene pulled straight out of the movie "Homebound."

In the film, we see the crushing weight of systemic exclusion. In our reality, a young woman from a scheduled caste finally secured a government job as an assistant helper (Sahaika) in a primary school. For many, this is a dream realized—a stable step toward a better life. But the very next day, the "crowd" gathered. Not to cheer, but to tear her down.

Village members from the upper caste filed a formal complaint. Their grievance? They did not want their children eating mid-day meals prepared by her hands.

There is a bitter hypocrisy at play here. We often hear loud protests to abolish reservations once a family reaches a certain level of wealth or "standard." The argument is always about "merit"—that jobs should go to those who work hard.

Yet, here is a woman who did exactly that. She worked hard, reached the post, and was ready to serve her community. But suddenly, "merit" doesn't matter anymore. To these protesters, her hard work is invisible because of her birth.

Does caste change the nutrition of the food? Does it change the effort she put into getting the job? No. But prejudice acts as a permanent blindfold for society.

It is 2026. We are living in an era of rapid progress, yet we are still fighting battles over who can stir a pot of lentils in a village school.

We often say, "These things take time to change." But as we saw on the basketball court, words have an immediate, crushing effect on a person's spirit. While we wait for society to "slowly" change, how many more people are we intentionally causing to miss their target?

Change should not take this long. It shouldn't take us another generation to realize that a helping hand has no caste.

#CasteDiscrimination2026

#PsychologyOfEncouragement

#MidDayMealControversy

#SocialReinforcementExperiment

#SystemicPrejudice

#HomeboundMovie

A Saree, a Rose, and a Poem!!

 

The first Women’s Day celebration I ever took part in was in 2007, shortly after I joined my first organization, IBM. I had only been there for two months when an HR email arrived, mandating that we join the celebration in the cafeteria. There was even a dress code: a saree in shades of yellow, green, or pink. Since I didn’t own any sarees back then, I attended the celebration in the same yellow dress I had worn for my interview.

​Every "first" experience holds a special space in our minds, and I remember so many details from that day. I met several inspiring women leaders heading our department; they shared their journeys with us while we enjoyed delicious treats.

​Later, at NTT Data, the celebrations felt different but equally thoughtful. We were greeted the moment we arrived at the office with roses, beautiful cards, and chocolates. However, not every workplace follows these traditions; I don't recall any specific celebrations during my time at Wipro.

​Time flies so quickly. This year, I received a surprise I never expected: a poem written by my brother, dedicated to both our mom and me. I had actually forgotten it was Women’s Day until that beautiful tribute arrived in the morning. It doesn't take much to make a difference, but I do wish the men around us would make our journeys a little easier—even if just by acknowledging our presence and our struggles.

Woman eats vada during eclipse but sky forgets to fall!!

 Every time the moon dares to cross the sun, it triggers a peculiar festival in my hometown. The 'Gatekeepers of the Galaxy' issue a 100-page manual of Do’s and Don’ts: Don't cook, don't eat, don't look up, don't breathe.

We call it a restriction, but for the Odia kitchen, it’s a marathon. We aren't skipping meals; we are frantically frying Puri and Dum Aloo to beat the Paka Nisedha (deadline). I’m still waiting for a nutritionist to explain the celestial logic where steamed rice is 'dangerous' but deep-fried dough is 'divine.'

Then there are the Hetuvadis(rationalists). To prove the moon is just a rock, they go on a 'Mutton-Biryani' offensive, while news channels host shouting matches that would put a fish market to shame.​It’s fascinating—a mere shadow can turn our bustling cities into ghost towns more effectively than a global pandemic lockdown.​

So, what are we? Superstitious? Rationalists? Or just hungry? Today, while the debate raged on TV, a Muslim neighbor offered me a Vada she had prepared for Iftar. I ate it. No lightning struck; the sky didn't fall. Call me what you want, but in a world of rigid 'cults,' I’ll choose a warm Vada and human kindness over the melodrama every time.

#lunareclipse #blindfaith #superstition #india2026