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This post is written for Blogchatter Bloghop. Aryamba was at elevenses: ginger tea, khakra, and the firm conviction that civilisation had peaked sometime before mobile phones. Across the road an auto-rickshaw coughed to a halt. Out stepped Algasekharan, dark as roasted coffee and draped in black. He was returning from Sabarimala. For as long as Aryamba could remember, he had gone there every…

Forgotten Mothers and Silent fathers. A2Z of care and legitimacy Legitimacy beyound Care giving. Societies have a peculiar habit. They celebrate the people who arrive at the finish line holding the trophy while quietly forgetting those who carried the runner when he could not walk. We claim to worship love, sacrifice, and care, yet whenever inheritance, bloodlines, and surnames enter the room,…

June 4 has acquired a curious distinction in recent years. Somewhere along the way, it came to be observed as The Audacity of Hope Day, borrowing its name from the phrase made famous by Barack Obama in his book The Audacity of Hope. It is one of those phrases that sounds simple enough when first heard, but lingers in the mind long after the speech is over and the book is back on the shelf. The…

Two Old Men, Two Little Girls, and the Curious Business of Healing I recently reread Silas Marner and Heidi, and found myself wondering whether George Eliot and Johanna Spyri had accidentally written case notes. Not medical case notes, admittedly. No blood pressure readings. No MRI scans. No laboratory investigations. Yet there they are: two elderly men, both isolated, both suspicious of the…

Maybe Andaal could stand before a mirror and say “mirror, mirror on the wall, who am at all?” ‘ಹುಚ್ಚು ಮನಸಿನ ಹತ್ತು ಮುಖ’ would be the reply or maybe just an image from Shivaram Karanth’s museum would fllash. There are some people who enter a room as though they are carrying a secret. And then there are people like Andaal who enter a room looking as though they are carrying three overdue library…

On flip the coin day. Aryamba’s son was watching a cricket match with the seriousness usually reserved for budget meetings and heart surgery. The toss was on. The captain called. The coin went up, came down, and television experts immediately began discussing pitch conditions, dew factors, wind direction and perhaps, if given enough airtime, the mating habits of migratory birds. “This toss…

The Weight We Carry: Rewriting the Story of Multiple Sclerosis and Invisible Exhaustion World Multiple Sclerosis Day arrives every May 31st. For 2026, the global conversation is focusing on something that millions of people live with every single day, yet rarely see reflected in the mirror or on a clinical scan: “Invisible Exhaustion.” This isn’t the standard tiredness that comes from a long…

HERMIT ECONOMY AND MORE The experts are at it again. This time, they have discovered something called the “Hermit Economy.” I read about it in a heavy foreign magazine, the kind that costs fifty rupees and makes you feel illiterate by page three. It says that ever since the virus went away, people have stopped going out. They are staying at home, buying exercise bicycles they will never ride,…

Lockdowns, Media Memory, Polarization and the Rise of the Hermit Economy Ah, dear reader, lend me your ear (or at least the corner of your screen). Crises, like bad relatives, do not leave quietly after the tea and sweets are served. They plant themselves in the house and re‑arrange the furniture. When a whole society goes through a wrenching disruption, the leftover fear, grief, and…

There was a time in India when parents told children, “Beta, go out and see the world.”What they actually meant was: “Go out, become successful, but preferably within a 7-kilometre radius from home and return before dinner.” Today we have a full generation of adults who can perform laparoscopic surgery, write software for German companies, discuss cryptocurrency, explain attachment theory on…

Pip: Parwatisingari's Weblog is running a full diagnostic on the human interior — dreams, mirrors, chakras, and museums where the exhibits stare back harder than you do.Mara: That's the territory parwatisingari is covering: the surreal logic of dreams set in Goa, a monsoon-season reckoning with adaptation and healing, and what museums quietly do to the people who wander through them.Pip: Let's…

Andaal realized something had changed the day the rains returned. Not externally. Goa had always done this dramatic seasonal rebranding where everything suddenly looked greener, calmer, spiritually employed. But this time she noticed the change inside herself too. The noise in her mind had reduced just enough for her to hear her own thoughts clearly, which honestly was both healing and…

At 3:17 a.m., civilization collapses in stages. First goes dignity. Then rational thought. Then, inevitably, all functioning toilets. Andaal knew this pattern intimately now. Every night her dreams deposited her in some new impossible location — Venetian palace, underwater mall, wedding hosted inside a volcano — and every single time, just when her bladder reached DEFCON-1, every washroom…

What I like about museums is that they are full of dead people who refuse to mind their own business. You enter quietly, preferably after paying thirty rupees extra because you are carrying a camera nobody will ever use, and immediately somebody from the 2nd century BC starts interfering with your emotional life. An old brass pot stares at you.A sword with rust problems judges your modern…

Aryamba had begun to suspect that the universe possessed a wicked sense of humour and the timing of an underpaid stand-up comic. Just when she had finally started believing herself to be wise, self-aware, emotionally evolved, spiritually tempered by suffering and possibly one breakthrough away from becoming a mountain sage, her daughter looked at her across the dining table and declared: “Amma,…

I stand in front of my fridge like it’s a battlefield and I am losing territory by the minute. One more Mother’s Day cake shoved into the second shelf, one more cupcake balancing dangerously on top of yesterday’s leftovers, one more thermacol flower arrangement pretending to be sentiment while silently occupying prime real estate next to the pickle jars. Beautiful. Sacred. Maternal. I close the…