The Human Medicine

A week ago, I spent some lovely time with friends, and I wanted to write about it here. Perhaps, when I revisit this post someday, I will smile remembering that simple, happy day.

We often go about our lives caught up in work, responsibilities, and the many things that need our attention. Days pass in a familiar rhythm, and before we realise it, we have postponed the little things that bring us joy. Meeting friends is one such thing. We keep saying we must meet soon, and sometimes, when we finally do, we wonder why we waited so long.

That day reminded me of how good it feels to spend time with friends. There were conversations, laughter, and the easy comfort of being together. Nobody had to plan anything extraordinary. The pleasure was in the time we shared, in the stories we told, and in the way one conversation led to another.

There is something special about being with people around whom we can be ourselves. We don’t have to think too much before speaking or worry about how we sound. We can laugh at the silliest things, revisit old memories, and talk about what is happening in our lives. Even the ordinary things seem to acquire a little more colour when shared with the right people.

And then there is laughter. Sometimes, one funny remark is enough to set everyone off, and the laughter continues long after the original joke has been forgotten. For a little while, the day’s worries take a back seat. They will still be there when we return to our routines, of course, but we have had a chance to step away from them.

Friendship also gives us the space to talk about things that are not so light. There are days when we need someone to listen, without immediately offering advice or trying to solve our problems. We may not always find answers, but being able to speak freely has its own value. Not every conversation needs to lead somewhere.

As I thought about that day, I realised that we don’t need an entire day or an elaborate outing to create a happy memory. Sometimes, an hour is enough. A little time spent together can become a small pause in the middle of our otherwise busy lives.

Perhaps we underestimate these simple pleasures because they seem so ordinary. We look forward to holidays, celebrations, and special occasions, while the quieter joys often happen in between. A cup of coffee with a friend, an unexpected conversation, or an afternoon spent laughing can become the moments we remember most fondly.

I wanted to record that day here for that very reason. Nothing extraordinary happened, but I enjoyed myself, and I want to remember it as it was.

Some kinds of medicine don’t come in bottles. Sometimes, they come in the form of friendship, a shared laugh, and an hour in good company.

A week later, I am glad I took the time to write it down.

Memories live!

6th October

6th October is my most favourite day of the year, every year

Apparently, when I was born, there was a collective sigh of, “Oh… another girl.”

But there were two people who were genuinely happy.

My parents.

They were so happy that they distributed rasgullas to everyone in the hospital.

I think about that story every year.

And somewhere along the way, it became my little birthday tradition. Every 6th of October, I eat rasgullas—not just because I like them, but because they remind me of the love and trust with which my parents welcomed me into this world.

They didn’t know who I would become. They didn’t know what life would bring me. They simply cherished me, unconditionally, from the very beginning.

What a gift that is.

The Waves bringing abundance

So today, as I turn another year older, I think about that little girl who arrived to two very happy parents and somehow made her way through all these years.

There have been plenty of twists and turns since then.

I grew up, found my way through school and college, built a career, got married, started over professionally, welcomed motherhood and somehow ended up with three little people who now keep me constantly on my toes.

I have changed in ways I could never have imagined.

The shy girl who once thought twice before speaking her mind has travelled a long way. I have learnt to question, disagree, start again, make mistakes, laugh at myself and keep going.

I don’t have everything figured out. I doubt I ever will.

But I have a life that is full of people I love, children who keep me laughing, a family that stands by me and a partner who has been beside me through all the unexpected turns.

And perhaps that is what I want to remember most on my birthday.

So, to anyone still sighing when they hear, “It’s a girl”—especially when she happens to be the second daughter—please stop.

We are here to rock. We are here to rule. And we are certainly not here to apologise for being born.

Let’s not carry this generational taboo forward.

Let the sigh end with us.

And perhaps, let the rasgullas continue 🙂

Rasgullas

Here’s to another year of being exactly where I am—and seeing where life takes me next. ❤️

Now that you know why 6th October is my favourite day, you know what to do!!!

Cheers

Amritha

The Atom in Atomic

I have started reading *Atomic Habits*.

I haven’t finished it yet, so this isn’t a book review.

It is just one word on the cover that made me pause: **atomic**.

I went back to something I remember from school science.

An atom is tiny. Atoms can come together to form molecules, and those molecules go on to make up so much of the world around us.

One tiny unit joining with another can become something much bigger.

And somehow, that made me think about habits.

We often look for big changes in life. We wait for the right time, the right Monday, the right year, the right motivation.

But perhaps change works a little more like science.

A small action.
Repeated often enough.
Joined by another small action.

On its own, none of it feels particularly significant. But over time, those little things can become part of something much bigger.

Looking back at my own life, some of the biggest changes didn’t begin with dramatic decisions. They started quietly—a small choice, a new routine, a conversation, a little courage to try something different.

I didn’t know what those tiny choices would eventually become.

And maybe that is the beauty of starting small.

As we come closer to welcoming 2027, why not make a start?

Not with a long list of resolutions that we forget by February.

Just one tiny thing.

Something small enough to actually do.

And then do it again tomorrow.

Maybe that is how we begin building the things we want to see in our lives.

One atom at a time. ❤️

Happy Birthday – my forever ❤️

When I look back at the 23 year old girl who married you, I sometimes wonder if she could have imagined the life waiting for us.

A new home, a new country, Europe, three children, countless adventures, disagreements, laughs, difficult days and so many ordinary evenings that slowly became our life.

You have seen me grow through all of it, and somehow you have remained my safest place.

You are the person I call when I am unsure. The person whose opinion I genuinely want to hear. The person I know I can talk to when my head is full and I cannot quite figure out what to do next.

But that really was how I felt. I would often run things by you before making a decision. Sometimes you agreed with me, sometimes you made me look at it differently, and sometimes you simply said, “Go ahead.”

Over the years, you have become such a natural part of how I navigate life that I don’t even think about it anymore.

You are simply there.

And somewhere along the way, our marriage became this partnership where we figured things out as we went—moving to Germany, becoming parents, handling work and family, making decisions, travelling, arguing, laughing and then getting on with the next thing.

The two people who started this journey could never have imagined the life we have today.

Happy birthday!

Today, on your birthday, I just want to say how grateful I am that I get to share all of this with you.

Now, when I look around at the life we have created, I sometimes smile at how different it is from anything we could have imagined back then.

It is full, noisy, busy and occasionally completely chaotic.

And I wouldn’t want it any other way.

Today, on your birthday, I just want to say how lucky I feel that it is your life I get to share.

Happy birthday, Krishna.

Here’s to whatever comes next. ❤️

Musing

I have a lot of ideas for blog posts that I never seem to make time to write. There is an urgency to write for a few hours, or even a couple of days, after I stumble upon an idea. And then, somehow, the urgency disappears. The idea gets pushed aside, life takes over, and I hate knowing that all that potential writing and thinking is slowly getting lost.

In fact, a post about Mother’s Day is still lazily sitting in my drafts. I finally decided that I might as well post it next Mother’s Day!

Somehow, over the years, this blog has slowly become a place where I sincerely record birthday wishes for my babies. Perhaps birthdays are one of those everlasting, important events that make me stop, take a breath, and actually sit down to write.

But it can’t be the only reason.

There are so many little moments, thoughts, observations and stories that deserve to be written down too. Not because they are grand or profound, but simply because they mattered to me at that particular moment.

Today was one such little moment.

While returning home from work, I decided to take the bus. My husband had insisted that I take a cab, travel comfortably and reach home without the hassle. But somehow, I still wanted to take the bus. So I boarded it.

And to my luck, I got a window seat.

And then came the little surprise — the ticket was free!

The bus ride

I was delighted. It felt like the universe was quietly telling me, Yes, you made the right decision. I am with you.

It was such a small thing. A bus ride. A window seat. A free ticket.

But sometimes, joy doesn’t need a grand occasion.

The bus ride also took me back to my high school days, when I would occasionally have to take the regular city bus back home. There was something familiar about that feeling of simply getting on a bus and making my way home.

And then I remembered my college days, travelling from the railway station to college, often in a sleepy, half-awake state. I had somehow trained myself to recognise where I was by smell. There was a very distinct metallic, almost burnt-sugar-like smell that told me I had arrived. Even without fully waking up, I somehow knew.

My college had a distinct smell too.

It amazes me how memory works. Years later, a simple bus ride can bring back not just places and people, but smells, sensations and tiny fragments of a life we thought we had forgotten.

And of course, there was the smile that crossed my face.

I love travelling anonymously.

There is something so freeing about sitting by the window, watching the world go by, and simply being with myself. No one recognised me — not that I am some celebrity who is constantly recognised! But there is a strange relief in being just another person on a bus.

No need to smile because I recognise someone. No need to stop and make small talk. No need to acknowledge anyone or be anyone other than myself.

I can simply sit there, enjoy the ride, look out of the window and be lost in my own thoughts.

It is not that I am anti-social. I love people, conversations and connections. But every once in a while, I really enjoy this little pocket of time where nobody knows me and I don’t have to engage with anyone.

Just me, the window seat, the road ahead — and my thoughts for company.

And that, in its own small way, felt like joy.

Perhaps these are the moments I want to write about.

Not just birthdays and big occasions, but these little flashes of joy and memory that appear in an otherwise ordinary day — and disappear just as quickly if we don’t stop to notice them.

And that’s how I ended up completing this blog post too.

A small moment. A passing thought. A bus ride that brought back a few memories — and, this time, I actually stopped to write it down before the feeling disappeared.

Maybe that’s all I need to do.

Write when something makes me want to write.

Before the urgency fades.

A Student Again

After ten glorious years in one organisation, I am a student again.

It feels strange to write that.

For ten years, I knew where everything was. I knew the people, the systems, the rhythm of the place. I knew whom to call, how things worked and, most of the time, how to get things done.

And now I am back to taking notes, learning new processes, remembering names and occasionally wondering whether everyone else received a handbook that somehow missed my desk.

I am enjoying it.

Perhaps because I know this feeling of being new much better than I did before.

The moment feels surreal when I think about the little Meerschweinchen I once was—the shy girl from India who would think twice before asking a question, disagreeing with someone or saying that she wasn’t comfortable with something.

That girl is still somewhere inside me.

But Germany introduced me to a version of myself I hadn’t met before.

A version who asks.

Who questions.

Who doesn’t automatically say yes.

Who can walk into a room and say, “I don’t think this is right,” without spending the next three hours wondering whether she should have kept quiet.

It took years to get here.

And perhaps that is why starting over feels different this time.

This Independence Day, I have been thinking about freedom in a slightly different way.

We usually speak about the freedom of a country—the freedom that was fought for and won. But as we grow older, we discover smaller freedoms too.

The freedom to find our voice.

To disagree.

To change our minds.

To leave what no longer fits.

To begin again.

Ten years in my previous job gave me experience.

Germany gave me a voice.

And this new job has given me the chance to become a student again.

I think I am going to enjoy this chapter.

The student is new.

The woman walking into the classroom isn’t.

.

Thank you

If your future self could send you one sentence, what do you hope it would say?

Thank you for being strong, resilient and not quitting when things didn’t go your way.

You were never as alone, as late, or as lost as you believed you were.

Still side by side

Some friendships don’t stay frozen in the place where they began. They grow quietly alongside us.

Today I attended my children’s annual day.

Beside me sat Saranya, who had also come to watch her daughter perform on stage.

As the lights dimmed and the children waited behind the curtains, I suddenly became aware of how extraordinary that moment was.

We were no longer two girls sharing a hostel room in 2006.

We were two mothers sitting side by side, waiting for our children to walk onto a stage.

What made the evening feel even more special was that it came only a few days after another moment that had quietly reminded me what this friendship means.

Earlier that week, I was stepping into a new professional milestone, feeling nervous in the way one does before entering an unfamiliar space.

That morning, Saranya called me before I left.

She wished me luck and then, in her usual matter-of-fact way, said,

“Anything you need, I’m just a call away.”

“Don’t sit there worrying.”

“If you feel awkward during the break, if you don’t know anyone yet, call me.”

“I’ve even rescheduled my meetings for you.”

“You’ll definitely do well.”

I remember smiling after the call ended.

It was such a simple conversation, yet it carried the same reassurance that had existed in our hostel days — the feeling that someone was standing quietly in your corner, ready to show up without being asked.

And then, at the annual day, she did it again in another small way.

She had thoughtfully brought a brownie for my five-year-old, knowing that sitting through a long school program could be difficult for a child. He sat beside me happily nibbling it while watching the performances, and I found myself smiling at the familiarity of the gesture.

Some friendships change their form, but not their instinct.

In 2006, we shared snacks in a hostel room.

Today, we share encouragement before important meetings and brownies for each other’s children while sitting side by side in a school auditorium.

There was another small moment that made me smile.

That day happened to be Saranya’s birthday.

I had carefully packed a few chocolates to give her at the annual day function.

Typically, I took a short nap before leaving for the event.

And equally typically, I forgot the chocolates at home.

The moment I met her, I confessed my crime.

She looked at me for barely a second and laughed.

“You forgot them, didn’t you?“

I stared at her.

She had guessed it immediately.

Then came the familiar calm response that has remained unchanged for years.

“That’s okay.”

No disappointment.

No teasing.

Just that easy, unhurried understanding that exists only in old friendships.

As I sat beside her in the auditorium later that evening, watching our children perform on stage, I realised how comforting it is to have someone who knows your habits so well that even your forgetfulness no longer requires an explanation.

From forgotten chocolates to rescheduled meetings, from hostel-room conversations in 2006 to annual-day photographs with our children, the friendship has travelled through many versions of our lives.

And somehow, it still feels wonderfully effortless.

That, perhaps, is what growing older with a friend truly looks like.

Friendship, I realised, had quietly expanded to include each other’s children too.

When the program ended and I went to pick up my twins, I caught a glimpse of her daughter. We exchanged a quick smile, managed a hurried photograph, and for a few seconds the four of us stood together—two generations connected by a friendship that had begun long before they were born.

Before we could talk any longer, the teacher gently interrupted and guided the children back to their places. The meeting lasted barely a minute.

Later, I shared the photograph with Saranya on WhatsApp.

She replied with a smile.

And somehow that tiny exchange stayed with me for the rest of the day.

Hostel life feels like another lifetime now.

The late-night conversations, shared snacks, borrowed clothes, exam stress, dreams about the future—we had no idea where life would take us. We only knew that we were young and that the world seemed impossibly large.

Twenty years later, the world feels smaller.

Not because life became easier, but because certain people continue walking through its different seasons with us.

Today, while watching our children perform, I realised that friendship has changed its shape.

It is no longer measured by how many hours we spend together.

It lives in small moments.

A seat saved next to each other in an auditorium.

A quick photograph with our children.

A smile sent through WhatsApp that carries years of shared history.

From hostel roommates in 2006 to parents cheering for our children from the audience, life has travelled a long way.

Yet some friendships still feel wonderfully familiar — thoughtful in the smallest ways, present in the moments that matter, and quietly sitting beside us through every stage of life.

And perhaps that is what makes old friendships so precious.

They quietly witness every version of us.

The girl we were.

The woman we became.

And the mother who now watches another little life step onto the stage with pride.

Kuku

Kuku is not a word.

It is a country.

Population: three.

Kuku wasn’t a place anyone else could see. It didn’t appear on maps or in family photographs. It existed in the quiet space between my mother and me.

To everyone else, Kuku was simply my mother’s nickname.

To me, it became home.

It wasn’t built with bricks or walls.

It was built one ordinary day at a time.

In the little bargains children make without saying them aloud.

I learned to tie my own shoelaces, however crooked they looked, because if I could manage one small thing on my own, my mother would have one less thing to worry about. I packed my school bag the night before. I learned not to ask for help unless I truly needed it. Somewhere along the way, I stopped being just a child and quietly became her teammate.

It was built in train journeys instead of flights.

In birthday dresses that appeared without us ever knowing what had been given up to buy them.

In shopping trips that made us feel like the luckiest children in the world.

In evenings when she came home exhausted but still wanted to hear about our day before speaking about hers.

In music that drifted through the house.

In birthdays that always felt magical.

In mother-daughter dates.

The world looked at us and saw a single-parent family.

Inside Kuku, we were simply a family.

People often reacted with sympathy when they learned my mother had raised us alone.

I never understood why.

Sympathy belongs where something is missing.

I never felt that.

Whenever friends spoke about their fathers, I never thought, I wish I had that.

I simply thought, My mother does that too.

Not because she was trying to become someone else.

Because love simply showed up wherever it was needed.

There was no ceremony when we became a team.

No announcement.

Just thousands of ordinary days in which she carried more than anyone should have to, while making sure I never felt the weight of it.

Children don’t notice sacrifice.

They notice safety.

Mine looked like seeing my mother waiting outside my classes so I never had to wait alone.

It looked like birthday dresses, train journeys, warm meals, and the certainty that someone would always come for me.

I thought that was ordinary.

Only much later did I understand that someone had worked very hard to make it feel that way.

She never let her burdens become my inheritance.

She never tried to give us a perfect childhood.

She gave us something far more enduring—a childhood in which love was always louder than loss.

A country built by one mother who quietly did her best to ensure its only citizens grew up measuring their childhood by love, never by what was missing.

The older I grow, the more I discover how much of her lives in me.

My love for travel began with hers.

My curiosity came from watching her keep learning, year after year.

My appreciation for beautiful things came from the way she noticed them first.

Even my kitchen carries her fingerprints in a recipe I still make almost every day.

She taught me that strength doesn’t have to be loud.

That generosity asks for nothing in return.

That laughter is always better when you can’t finish the story because you’re laughing too hard.

She taught me how to welcome people.

How to love deeply.

How to believe in someone before they believe in themselves.

She welcomed my husband as though he had always belonged.

She loved my children long before they knew how to love her back.

She was there when they entered this world, just as she had been there for every important moment in mine.

And somehow, despite the passing years, I am still her baby girl.

The older I grow, the more I realize she wasn’t trying to be extraordinary.

She was simply trying to make sure her daughters never felt that life had been unfair to them.

Today, the country looks different.

Its citizens have grown up.

They tie their own shoelaces.

Carry their own worries.

Find their own way home.

Your country is safe.

Not because life became easier.

But because of everything you quietly placed inside its citizens.

Your courage.

Your kindness.

Your resilience.

Your unwavering belief that no setback is ever bigger than the person facing it.

Whenever life places an obstacle in our path, we don’t just ask ourselves what to do.

We remind ourselves that we are citizens of KUKU.

We don’t give up easily.

We don’t let disappointment make us bitter.

We don’t stop showing up for the people we love.

The crown you placed on our heads was never made of gold.

It was made of courage, dignity, kindness, compassion, and quiet confidence.

Life will shake us from time to time.

But it will never take that crown away.

That is your legacy.

Your country is safe.

Its citizens will always find their way.

So perhaps, for the first time in a very long time, you can choose yourself.

Travel because you want to.

Buy the dress.

Take the longer route.

Learn something new.

Laugh until you can’t finish the story.

Wake up some mornings with nowhere to rush.

Simply live.

Happy Birthday, KUKU.

May this next chapter belong a little more to you than to everyone else.

With all my love,

Your favourite citizens.

Finding Courage in the Water

My 5-year-old loved water, but he was terrified of one thing — the big pool.

He was perfectly happy splashing around in the kids’ pool, but the moment we mentioned moving to the larger pool for swimming lessons, he would immediately say no. The depth, the bigger space, the sight of older kids swimming confidently — it all felt intimidating to him.

Around the same time, we started reading Be Brave Little Penguin at bedtime. It’s about a little penguin named Pip-Pip who is afraid to swim while everyone around him dives right in.

My son instantly connected with him.

One night he looked at me and quietly said, “He’s scared like me.”

That simple moment changed something.

After that, he became more open to the idea of swimming. Not suddenly brave, but curious enough to try.

Instead of saying, “I don’t want to go swimming,” he started asking questions:

“Will my teacher hold my hand?”

“Can I wear goggles?”

“What if I kick like Pip-Pip?”

When we finally signed him up for classes, the first two sessions were honestly hard. He didn’t get into the big pool at all. He sat near the edge fully dressed in his swimwear, goggles on, cap on, just watching the other kids. Sometimes he would splash the water a little with his foot and then quickly pull back.

A part of me wondered if we were pushing too soon. But we decided to give him time.

By the fifth session, things started changing. He slowly stepped into the pool, held onto the instructor, and tried a few kicks. There were still nervous moments, but there were smiles too. Real ones.

Now, he genuinely enjoys swimming. He looks forward to class, talks about his instructor all the way home, and proudly shows us every new thing he learns.

Looking back, I don’t think the book magically removed his fear. But it helped him feel understood. It showed him that being scared is okay, and that courage doesn’t have to happen all at once.

Sometimes kids just need a story that feels a little like their own.

And honestly, watching him taught me something too.

As adults, we often think courage means diving straight in — starting the new job, moving cities, speaking up, taking the risk. We admire people who seem fearless.

But most of us are more like my son sitting at the edge of the pool.

We show up nervous. We observe first. We test the water carefully. Sometimes all we can do in the beginning is sit there with our “goggles on,” trying to gather enough courage for one small step.

And maybe that still counts as progress.

What I loved most about this whole experience was realizing that bravery rarely arrives all at once — for children or adults. Confidence is usually built quietly, in small moments nobody notices.

A little penguin reminded my son that it was okay to be scared.

And somewhere along the way, it reminded me too — that positivity, patience, and belief can slowly turn fear into confidence, one small step at a time.