Skip to main content

ABOUT

I think life is all about the little things - listening to music with the window wide open late at night, or going on a really long drive with no destination in particular, or being super absorbed in your math problems that you haven't realised that it's been three hours since you've started, taking that first sip of filter coffee early in the morning and *feeling* the caffeine kick in, or sitting by your bedroom window thinking of all the places life is going to take you - it's honestly just the little things, along with a frightening ambition and passion for what I do that keep me going. That's exactly what my blog is all about - the beauty of the underrated "little things" that we often look past.

I do believe that life is an endless pursuit of knowledge. Sometimes the thought that I could learn, and learn and learn, and still wouldn't know all that there is to know, is highly overwhelming. My parents, and most people who've known me for long enough, describe me as "the most inquisitive, curious little thing alive, brimming with energy and an immense passion for life." While I doubt whether I'm energetic or passionate about life, I am indeed a "little thing", shorter than the average Indian woman by a few inches.

I come from a simple Tamil family. I grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area, then we moved to Chennai. This resulted in a number of unique life experiences: I had attended six different schools by the time I hit the seventh grade. Both my parents are engineers, and I have a sister who's six years younger but six thousand times sassier (we all know I'm amma and appa's favorite child).

Santa Barbara, 2014

It became evident very early on that I was inclined towards the sciences, but the arts have always been a highly significant part of my life: whenever I have a bad day, I turn to the artists for their music, or for their writing. I write a lot myself, mostly to make it through those days that seem nearly unconquerable. 



Some of my friends are also great bloggers:

crazylittlerowling by Shashvathi
A Million Thoughts by Divi
Crispy Crumps by Smrithi










Comments

Popular posts from this blog

For a moment, I am home

In the quiet of the morning, before the sun   spills over rooftops and drips through leaves,   on Besant Nagar’s sleepy streets,   dawn breaks to the pulse of Suprabhatham It begins in stillness, as boiling water spills gently over coffee grounds,   a fragrance rises, familiar, rich and deep. Appa tips the milk into the waiting tumbler,   where it meets decoction,  warm, bittersweet, layered, frothing to the brim Steam curls around my fingers, feathered, light,   and I sip, tasting roots and reverie.   In this cup, there is something more than morning,   so much more than milk and sugar; it is quiet grace, comfort brewed from patience. Here, though, in Boston, worlds and worlds away, mornings break cold, unadorned,   yet somewhere in this cup, this warmth,   for a moment, I am home, in Besant Nagar, where winter is a stranger  and the air is sweet.

an old madras love.

My love for Chennai stems from the multitude of experiences I've had in this city. Third main road, where I've lived for a significant fraction of my life. The apartment complex, where we'd chase each other down playing tag or ride our bicycles at breakneck speeds. Pushpa Ice House, where  appa  would buy me bottles of cold  goli  soda. Metro, the shoe shop Keerthana and I used to frequent to look at the Siddharth Malhotra cutout. Adyar Stationery, where my parents swear I've spent a small fraction of their wealth. Kamal Stores, where I bought notebooks in bulk, each one filled with math problems by the year's end.  Padmanabhaswamy  temple on a chilly  Margazhi  morning, the warm pongal that nearly puts me to sleep, andthe  perumaal  idol, the only witness to my good days and bad. Pondy Bazaar, where Shreya and I roam the streets and buy silver  jhumkhas . GRT, the jewelry store where the  achari  will give me a withering ...

A high school graduation like no other

As a young girl, I always envisioned the day of my high school graduation to be a somewhat grand, honorary ceremony. I had grown up imagining an electric atmosphere, a massive auditorium packed with thousands of people, giving the valedictorian speech, a flurry of colour and movement as caps are thrown into the air, graduates cheering and shouting as they revel in the freedom of the moment – something along the lines of what graduation was like in Hollywood movies.  The actual event was a much more humble affair.  As I walked down the familiar street, on the path I’d taken all those years to school, it was almost as though nothing had changed: the pookaramma’s veined and knotted hands moved swiftly as she expertly strung together strands of jasmine, there was the little pillayar kovil , deserted in the afternoon sun, except for one or two particularly determined devotees, Kumaran Stores was overflowing with a sea of schoolchildren in green and white buying themselves drinks....