Burning of Holika… happened when Hiranyankashapu wanted to destroy his son Prahalada the old wives give it a simple good wins over evil hue. There are people who give it profound philosophical depth about burning the negatives within us, and going to the “morally superior” plane. To the sceptic in me it occurs, that okay we collect all the winter dry debris and burn it, garbage gone, dull and dried out… and welcome spring which is all about procreation and energy.

After recovering from 40% burns, through sheer willpower and grit, reference to three things I would like to burn seems like flagging a red cape before the bull. But maybe so, because the colour red exciting the bull is all bullshit..

Peas porridge hot, peas porridge cold, palak paneer in the pot nine days old… the young shop assistant looks at me aghast …I possibly could not confess that i left this cooker on a burning stove and went out to the market!!

Hey interesting isn’t it when stove burns it contains the fire; it uses fuel, gives out heat, that is another usage of the word burns. I definitely think twice something that consumes fuel and gives off heat… after all resources are not squandered. .

Burn is also combustion… like the engines of various vehicles, well would I want to do that I do not have the technical knowhow, and having dealt with my own personal spontaneous combustion I think I rather give it a skip,  think about this lingering bottled up anger… it never reveals the true colours of an individual then it slowly gets all mixed up, rotten, confused, and becomes, very volatile unstable and combustible then one small ignition and boom the explosion occurs totally foreign and different to the natural self… yes we definitely skip it.

When the stove burns it contains the fire, this helps to cook, to keep warm whatever, we are all born with the fire within us, do,  should we contain it like the stove or do we let it out free for all… containing it would mean experiencing discomfort like burning with jealousy, shame or whatever we choose to call the cinders, or we could burn with ambition, give it fuel, let the light and heat out and accelerate to action, so that the human doing will manifest as the powerful human being.

It’s okay  if the burn down as occurred like a burnt down houses, it’s not a burn sentence on an electric chair, one can rise from the ashes like the phoenix and fly to different vista’s at different altitudes.

The Kabala has a beautiful philosophy, which is each week comes with its own unique opportunities for transformation. When we do connect with the energy of the week then we transformed, we are empowered and the major shift occurs. Maybe the belief that transformation happens when we are ready for it has been burnt too deep into me, so I think this musing over three things which would burn… flags the connect. However the bottom line, things I would burn

  • The stove to cook the food that nourishes.
  • Incense that cleanses and takes the staleness away.
  • Body fat to make myself more aesthetic.

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.’




Do Not Undo

What I didn’t do this week end,

“What have you done Cleopatra” is a refrain we use to practise emotions in our theatre rehearsals.

But here is the query…what didn’t you do…

Kids these days have not really faced this, moms squinting, raising an eyebrow, which a Natyashastra scholar would call,”Utkshipta” and the vision would penetrate right through the seven secret doors, the trolls, three headed dogs, flying keys, magical potions, or monstrous chessboards that Harry potter had to cross to reach the mirror that tells your inner most desire just turn impotent here. This look was perfected by mother, and teachers, and then question would be popped rather menacingly, “What did you do”

After such harrowing experience “what didn’t you do” should technically be a breeze, but buddy, now that I have began to pound the laptop, I realize, there is a catch, I am posed with choices,

  • The checklist—that is I am supposed to do these things but I have not done it,
  • I have done what I was supposed to do, and what are the hypothetical things I that could have done and I did not do.

If I go with the first then logical query would why you not did…Were you procrastinating…evading…escaping or just were you just not aware that were to do the task.

If I were to go with the second then the issue is are talking of knowing something that you can do, but did not do, it can be done in any case, or are we talking about things that we do not know that we can do… this whole question turns rather complex.

I now empathize with my patients, what should I say that sounds right, or what is that the doctor really wants to hear.

What I normally do when I am unclear is I check the dictionary… Merriam Webster is my favourite check out what exactly the word means, then I figure how it would pan out in my place. I did not it this weekend. I decided to check out the quotes many times I get clarity of vision there, the book on quotes some made it about right and wrong.

It was the round robin we play…”king of the palace lost his cap

Some say this and some say that I say it is Cleopatra.”

Cleopatra replies, “I sir,”

“Yes sir,’’

‘’No sir””

“Who then sir”

“I say it is Harry Potter” this game can go on… but it did not give me a solution. What next…? Let’s look at the opposite of doing, since if I did not do… then something had to be done…which was undone, and not doing something about my not doing anything…

Let’s not confuse issues, to learn and not do actually about not learning, and to know and not do, is about not knowing. Somewhere we mistake activity for achievement, so at the end of the end, I have concluded, I do not know what I have done, or what I have not done… what remains is I have not undone.



Life Sentenced

Describing my in 10 sentences….

Just a minute I need to contact my junior Jeevan Rego who was asked to write five sentences on his mother in the 2nd standard here is what he wrote with the numbers in place.

  • My mother is my mother her name is Amma.
  • My mother is also my brother Santosh’s mother.
  • My mother is very pretty and she has many sarees.
  • My mother is studying in fislogy (physiology for you and me) department.
  • Then my mother married my father.

This was shared by our teacher. As for my life, I have been writing… stories since the age of five,as most people could not comprehend my spelling I earned first academic gold star.. it was in story telling… what I did before that i am clueless but I like to pass it off as research. During my teenage years appropriately educated by the Marx and Groucho’s I went about life,rather purposefully looking for the leak in the gas pipe with a lighted candle.

My sainted aunt the ryder is story  in 10 sentences… do I pronounce a judgement on the criminal activities I have done like hanging a picture or killing time or massacring language…I think I will stick to the conclusions I have come to after deliberately not deliberating…  the story of my life in ten sentences as decreed

  1. I was born on the precise date I was to parents who loved me.
  2. I am not dead, so I can have my coffee in peace.
  3. Physiologically a little fatigued but fit and fine… no sentences of hypertension, or diabetes as yet.
  4. . well a little unstable fond of adventures sentenced to periodic evaluation by Sir Roderick Glossop.
  5. Pathology hidden sentenced to excavation.
  6. Socially contradictory has the potential to absolutely crazy if the right catalyst present but by and large tends to be a wet blanket…sentenced to a ten minutes happiness tracking therapy every day.
  7. Spiritually uplifted… with steady feni flow.
  8. Intellectually challenged by the constant company of Lord Emworth’s sister I have just enough intelligence to open mouth when I have to eat.
  9. Everything I like and is fun to do is immoral, illegal or just fattening.
  10. Once I thought I heard the call of love, fortunately for me, it was the wrong number.

PS    i am not always good and noble, but since I am the hero of this piece , I get to hide my off moments.

Now that the sentences have been delivered, after conclusions drawn… Merriam Webster has the third interpretation for the word sentence – which I think is obscenely tedious any way let me share it –as sentencea word , clause, or phrase or group of clauses or phrases forming a syntactic unit which expresses an assertataion, a question, a command, a wish, an exclamation, or the performance of an action, that in writing usually begins with a capital letter and includes with appropriate end punctuations and in speaking is distinguished by characteristic patters of stress, pitch and pauses.

‘This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.’


With Thanks to 2016

Dear Universe,

Looking Back on 2016 thank you for a wonderful year that I had.

This is one of the most disliked topics I have, it actually reminds of our clinical pathology posting, where we have to do stool examination. Essentially that is what the past is about, experienced digested, some assimilated and some thrown out. Part it we forcefully hold on to, through photographs and memorabilia.

The past could be beautiful or painful, but it is done finished and gone, it is like a ruin. I have been visiting lot of these ruins through in clinic, not mine but others. This time round I decided to let flow.

I loved travel, and 2016, was definitely an year of travel, Jamnagar, Hyderabad, Bangalore, Kolad, Kocchi, Delhi, Bombay  modes of travel differed too, road trips, bus travel, train travel flight travel. I discovered that the Delhi airport was the dirtiest, and the most lax when it came security. I discovered food on tracks which was great fun. People, culture food everything was great. I also learnt at the end of the day I needed by Mosaranna. (Curd rice)

Kolad and Karwar outdoors really brought home the fact that I was quite fond of outdoor physical activity needed to connect to that side of me.

By and large I do not look back, as I do not intend going that way. So 2016 I just decided to write a gratitude journal, instead of journaling and writing morning pages. With the morning pages I realized how much I was clinging to the past, with journaling and the gratitude journal brought a whole shift.

I really had a lot to thank for, wonderful daughters who actually my spirit guardians, the insights they give and the support they give me is amazing. A supermom, who backs me. Friends who stand by me unconditionally.

2016 also put  Jan Sky Mehak Sethi and Vandana Shah into space. Vandana particularly it was as if the universe told me, enough of this “abla naari syndrome” pick butt and move on. Conversation with Vandana was like; okay we all have similar narratives, it is mandatory to be us, the person who we were meant to be. I am reminded of Indu Sundaresan’s epithet of Jahanara… she did not rebel, or fight the system. She was a woman and she achieved all that she had despite the restriction of the zananna she just grew, beyond it, despite being rooted deeply within.

The final epiphany for 2016 was the demonetization. Not to be judgemental… somewhere we got so caught up with the problem we didn’t share solutions. Yes, it is a bad move, inconsiderate, deep down I do think it is a diversion tactic. But when we worked from the space of scarcity we landed with lack.

2016 has also been a great year of personalization, with my Friend Sadhana helping me with reinventing my wardrobe, to make me look and feel good, Zivame consultation of lifestyle, body structure and picking up clothing, or Tea-box  counselling me to the kind of tea that is customized for my taste. Finally having the courage to get my personalized domain. The biggest surprise was my daughter analyzing fragrances and helping me to choose the appropriate one.

At the end of the year, 2016 has been about adventures, and discoveries, be it the Free Money Day, the Rafting at Kolad, the event presentation at Kocchi(which was disastrous) experimenting with Bhuta kola for Hayavadhana  each has been great.


 ‘This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.’





On Giving and Receiving

Joy of giving…

Is there joy in giving, of course, the day gave it back verbally to a figure of authority who persistently put me down, was so empowering, I gifted myself the permission to reclaim my self esteem. The day gave the physical blow to my abuser I gifted myself liberation from feeling a victim. But that is not what you are talking about right, here we talking charity

Somewhere we were told the giving hand is more powerful that the receiving hand, the receiving  hand is weak, we were taught it is better to give than to receive. So each time I received the hand me down from a cousin who out grew her clothes, or an aunt because she outgrew the fashion, a part of me would feel happy, that I was trendier than the rest, but it also told me I was insignificant, I did not merit having anything new.

What I figured is most of us fear and pain, that we give more than we receive, if we receive more than we are being compromised, as humans we stand an infinite soul yet we go ballistic about not receiving in proportion to what we give, our view point kind of gets clouded, in our own eyes we become become some kind of drawing on the pad of the universe… and the race evolves, I give x and receive y, this equation is so fearsome, and we are surrounded by that fear without realizing it we internalize it.

While actually the nature of giving , loving or living is all the same it is reciprocity, we are told to be the guest is to receive, to be the host is to give, but maybe it is the other way round, I do not know, what is the guest who gives to the host and host who receives? With each guest we get to welcome, feed and revel in the energy of someone we love and honour. Maybe the connect of the guest and host is like the connect of the giver and the receiver, a mutual exchange of gifts predicated on respect and joy…?

We are so busy about being generous, learning how to give…give gracefully…give proportionally…etc. etc. we have forgotten the art of accepting a gift.  Accepting is more difficult because accepting is perceived as the space of scarcity while giving is perceived as the space of abundance. When we accept a gift we are allowing some to express their feeling.

Until we learn to receive with an open heart we can really give with an open heart.

The big question here is what am I giving to the universe… only that will come back.

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda


Celebrating Life

Every month 25th-30th I am at Manipal I have my hypnotherapy clinic.  Last time I went there our it Aunt Kasturi’s 70th birthday and her niece Jyothi had a party for her, the previous day, as we were dinner, Aunt Kasturi mentioned “I am told old for all this birthday party and things like that.”

For which Jyothi replied “Kasturi-akka, this is celebrating and thanks giving, for all the love and care you have given me,”

The next day Aunt Kasturi invited us for lunch, saying it was because she wanted to thank the universe for all the joy and richness she received in her life. Jyothi had altered our perception of birthday, it was not looking at one year gone without any achievement to show, but it became a reminder to celebrate life and to update.

Then there was grandma Parwati, who refused aggressive treatment to deal with her 80% cerebral tumour, her argument was I am 74yrs old, I have had a great life, I would like to go  gracefully and thank my maker.

It is interesting when I deal with clients who have issues with money, it translates to wanting abundance, yet abundance is already there in every breathe,”I don’t have money” “My mother-in-law does not like me” “I am not good enough” we are abundant in acknowledging our lack.

Somewhere people who write journals me included we only document our grievances, and we land up empowering negativity. Actually I put my clients on the 12 week recovery program both for tobacco addiction or creative block one of the major things we do is ask people to write five things they are grateful for each night and five things that made them happy during the day.

It is amazing, how this simple exercise opened up an entire world of abundance and richness for me.

I could look at the wonderful supportive parents I had, I could appreciate the tremendous inner strength that developed in me because I wanted to stay true to myself and the support I received for it from my grandparents and parents, the wonderful teachers who taught me, not just skills but also life lessons. The emotional safety network that was provided by the extended family that we connected into through our community and profession. The birth of my daughters, their smiles, the fact that they are beautiful young women, I think I do have abundance in all sections of my life, that calls for celebration, acknowledgement and gratitude.


this article is an excerpt from my NANOWRMO writing.

all that is requited is a shift in perspective, great healing can be achieved by just one small shift. Life offers two options, one is as though everything is a miracle, the other is nothing is a miracle, no matter what we choose there is wonderment.

‘This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.’


Fill In the Blank

She opened a blank page, in her note book, if she had to be honest Narmada would confess, the entire book was blank. Each day for the past two months she has been sitting to think of what to write, there were things that set her arse on fire, but putting them on paper gave her headache, she reckoned somewhere she twisted her face, with an attempt to think, but only landed up feeling stupid, instead she walked around with a blank mind hoping something from somewhere would fill it up.

She called her therapist up, the therapist told her you need to get up each morning as write 3 pages, long hand, no spell checks or grammar checks, and most important do not read it.

Narmada was furious, here I am telling her that i cannot write and she tells me write. Entire week of resisting, demanding the therapists attention with indirect tactics, but her therapist stayed firm.

“You are supposed to help me,”

“Narmada I am here to help, not to spoon feed you or step in for you.”

“Can’t just give me a pill to deal with depression”

“I can, but I won’t” the therapist for was firm,”I do not want to be the next peg for you to hang on.”

Narmada, eventually agreed to do what the therapist said, write the three damn pages as she woke up in the morning, it was crazy the therapist was clear no thinking just write what ever words float, strangely words did not float, what floated were images of a blue snake, of a woman walking on the road in blue.

A week of writing was really bad, then came the realization the story that set her butt on fire was a lingering bottled up anger, it was the authentic story that wanted to emerge, on the contrary it had become mixed up, rotten, confused, and was highly combustible, it could burst out and bring out a very different narrative than what was supposed to come out!

As she came into the 4th week of writing the morning pages, Narmada realized creation was one the strangest acts.

As a writer for it was a blank page or note book for her, it could have been a block of stone, or wood or a silent musical instrument that beckoned.

With the morning pages the prison guard “Mary Kutty” had weakened and angry dragon within was exorcised she could now look inside herself.  She could now through the bait and fish around for that elusive  cloud vapour fish, that made her live in clamour and reshape it or even fit it in where she wanted it to be, she could latch on things, and bring forth things out of head like Zeus brought forth Athena.

This abstract will-o-wisp could take tangible shapes and forms.

People in the support group said, it was as if images emerged on the canvas, or the musical resonated on its own.


this article is an excerpt from my NANOWRMO writing.

The morning pages had given her cohesion, and brought forth something, her mind had ordered and succeeded in manifesting something beautiful out of nothing, it was like a glimpse of the divine.

A blank page now told her, that there was infinite potential, every page, like every moment contained possibilities that she could possibly not imagine, every day, came with a blank page, it was for her to fill with the most beautiful feelings, it was for her to create the space for the story, for the drawing.

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.’

An Unfinished Story

plinky the end2I am listening to this tape on decluttering by Cheryl Richardson, about this woman who wanted to clean up place but each time she did so, the stuff came right back. So she put all the clutter in the centre said a prayer to it, and asked why was it refusing to go, what came back to her was somewhere in that pile was a story that she had promised to say, but had forgotten.

In his play Nagamandala, Girish Karnad talks of a story that was trapped within a man, taking the form of beautiful woman and causing discord. The actual story unfolds from there. coming to think of it, the greatest agony, is having an unsaid story within us, and the scariest moment is just after we take a decision to narrate the unsaid story  but just before we start. May be a good way is to jump of the cliff and let the parachute open, or let the winds carry us wherever.

Here I am looking through the various starts, various ideas trapped systematically but just frozen in my notebooks, the stories I always wanted to write. I have decided to brush aside reasons that I have used to mask my fear, like house work lack of research or whatever. After all stories need to be told.

The battles that were fought, the wars that were won or lost, the pirates who raided the high seas before the merchants could land at Bhatkal, and then how the pirates became landlubbers, dragons, that ate their foes for breakfast maybe with a nice cup of Lapsang Souchong, all these tales need to be told. They are magic, each listener or reader will experience it differently, with each render they mature and their flavours and fragrances vary, the effect of which is totally unpredictable. From mundane to profound, from profound to divine the listener empowers the story to transform the listener  by residing in their soul, it becomes their blood and self purpose. The tale moves them and rives them to know what they might do from what they have learnt from the story. That is the role of any story teller, the gift, to shape… thought beyond what an astrologer would predict. The story teller is the magician.

By the way one could write about anything as long as we have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise and deal with that great dragon that lies within called self-doubt. Between you and me, writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia.

As I go through these drafts I find the first mile of the journey is well covered, well even an infant could do it, but none of the stories made it to the finishing line,  actually I always wanted a perfect ending, eventually I learnt things albeit the hard way just some poems do not rhyme, some stories do not have a clear beginning, middle and end,  for what are stories they are but mirrors we hold up to our fears, it is in our darkness that we create our stories. Life is all about these dark and light cycles, knowing, having to change taking the moments and making the best of it, without knowing what is going to happen next, this ambiguity makes life deliciously adventures and story worth narration.


this article is an excerpt from my NANOWRMO writing.

I think I shall take Barbara Sher’s advice  “Start small.
Start now.
Start everything.
And don’t bother to finish any of it.”
― Barbara SherRefuse to Choose!: Use All of Your Interests, Passions, and Hobbies to Create the Life and Career of Your Dreams

Sharing my story —

‘This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.’


Thank You My Friend

disguisehello oldest friend…

Thanks for being there,

I know my letter to you would come as a surprise since I rarely mention or acknowledge your presence in my life. But yes, you have always been with me.

But when sister Greta is spanking poor Roger for insisting that Spiderman visited him at night, and wanted to keep a slice of birthday cake for Spiderman, I knew it was time to reconnect with you.

the constant ongoing conversations we have allows me to disengage with the rest of the world.

i know our friendship was often threatened, sometimes when another friend came by, like Sue did, I remember how upset you were when Sue in her Royal blue “Stretch Pants” and white and blue primrose top extended her hand, with all solemnity of 7yr.old and asked me, ”Sam will you be my friend.” Sue w as my first ever real friend and we stayed friends till Sue got married 15yrs later.

You refused to talk to me, until you realized that you were still my best friend, and each night before I went to bed, I spoke to you, mom really thought I lost it, so I did the next thing wrote in a book, so that you could read and reply and we could converse at our own time and space.

The time we climbed up Auntie Kenny’s roof and were gorging those fruits that we had picked reading Enid Blyton the afternoon was wonderful, but mom wanted to meet you after that, and that was definitely breaking the code. You are my friend and I do not like anyone else in that space.

You have always been someone to whom I could pour the contents of my heart, be it chaff or grain, and sometimes both together. Knowing that gentle hands will take and shift, helping me keep what is worth keeping and with gently blow the rest. Interestingly you never walked either ahead or behind me, you were always with me. You didn’t keep my secrets for me, you help me keep my own secrets.

Yes, my own marriage ate into our friendship, I have kind of forgotten you, new environment, and new experiences brought a new companion who I thought was helping me deal with the rejection, the humiliation that came with marriage. Twenty five years now, as I my energy, and hope ebbed, thoughts of suicide was the only thing that carried me through at times, this new companion supported me, keeping me angry, and vigilant so that no barb stings, and if they do, I would fling it like a dart right back.

There were nights of exhaustion,  when not waking up seemed a better option, there were moments of oscillation between homicide and suicide, each time, despite the nudge from my new companion, somewhere I heard your soft whisper that said, hold on, my friend you are beautiful,  you are worth it, you are here because you make a difference.

you held my hand through my loneliness, you brought Louise Hay into my life, you are everything I needed, because your character has been moulded by my deepest wants and desires, you have been the Gibraltar that I leaned cried on, my companion when I laugh, you are still my hero, I need to believe that a hero exists for me.


this article is an excerpt from my NANOWRMO writing.

I am so thankful, I learnt to hide, my connect with you the first moment my mother decided that I was bordering schizophrenia, and had to go to a therapist. For most imaginary friends die at the psychologists clinic, where dreams go to burn and creativity goes to drown.

Good night friend, I am glad you are back in my life.

Lets meet over coffee tomorrow at the crack of dawn.

With love


‘This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.’

How late is it?

watchI was browsing through the archives of BlogAdda, suddenly I came across the winners for the social media vouchers, my name was one of them. I realized it was too late to retrieve that voucher, I had lost the opportunity to attend a prestigious social media meet. well for I moment there was disappointment, but then I felt maybe it  was not to be.

But this moment of regret, “It is too late now” has oft been uttered. Yet everything comes at the right time.

“it too late now,”  Sunita had lamented five years back when her husband had ditched her for another woman. “I am 55 what will I do?” it was scary, of course it is always scary to start over again, be it school, a friend or anything else, here she was at the end of a relationship.

“I should get a job, but who will give a job to a 55yr.old school dropout”. There was anger sorrow in her voice. The core of her identity as a mother, wife, everything telling her that things are not right she was feeling unsafe, a kind of desperate she was beating herself for not finishing school.

“Listen Sunita, you take care of my Calangute outlet,” offered Sunil a friend.

“I don’t know how to.” She replied, “I’ll guide you,” retorted Sunil.

Hesitantly she put a foot forward and took on the Parata Place, slowly and steadily.

Today five years later  at sixty she has married a widower, who used to eat regularly at the Parata place, her job still on, she is at peace.

I am hearing the same, ”it too late now” from another Sunita who is 40yr old lawyer despite doing 5yr. Law from National School Of Law she has opted to be a stay at home mom, donning the mantle of the good Agarwal bahu, one fine morning, she happened to log on to her computer when she chanced on her husband’s chat with another woman her entire world collapsed, self respect crumbled, she feels wasted.

“There is no place I can go” is her cry. Looking back the other Sunita didn’t even bother about it, she went to Manjushri who was in charge of a hire a women’s only hire a taxi, for three days she slept in the car used Sulabh facilities, then moved into a working women’s hostel till her finances were sorted and she could buy herself a place.


this article is an excerpt from my NANOWRMO writing.

Actually the linear time line is something that is our belief, there is no too late it always the right time, what is short is our leap of faith, yes if we are talking about an incomplete conversation or closures that we need to have again it is not too late, it can be done at anytime, what is needed is courage and conviction.

Yet I have seen just as many people who began their jog rather late, people who shifted streams, people who have decided to follow their passion, it is not about lateness leading to lastness, it is about beginning, do it just now do not push it further.

his post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.’

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