A message to all my readers When I first began writing down my stories in this quiet space, it was nothing more than an open diary. A place to put memories that needed somewhere to rest, reflections gathered over a lifetime, and thoughts that felt too personal—or perhaps simply too ordinary—to share in conversation. Conventional wisdom often suggests that personal musings rarely accomplish much on the wider internet. There are no frameworks here, no quick advice, and no polished agendas. Just the raw textures of life as I have experienced it: the sudden turns, the quiet routines, the moments of doubt, and the steady work of beginning again. Recently, as a small corner quietly crossed 30,000 reads, I paused to look more closely at the numbers. What moved me was not just the milestone itself, but where those visits were coming from. While some readers join from home here in India, so many of you are reading from entirely different corners of the earth—from Singapore across the seas ...
“She’s your daughter,” my husband’s acquaintance asked him when I met him for the first time while we waited for our turn at a shop. I giggled at his joke and marveled at his judgment of my age. That was when I was dark-haired. A few years later, my hair started to turn grey. We often visited a complex together regularly, so regularly that the guard could identify the two of us. The irony struck when my husband had to travel alone. Then the guard asked, “Mummy Ji has not come today.” I laughed at the cruel joke. It is not that I mind going old: I do mind looking old, so aptly said by someone, I thought. I had the usual concerns as someone in the fourth decade. I was beginning to hide that lock of silver hair so conspicuous on my scalp. It has been a source of pride for all the years spent well. I found myself reminiscing about the hair. I felt great about the comparisons I had. A decade later, I was going ahead with a natural balayage without a penny spent. The...