Journey of motherhood...

In the world of motherhood, the journeys are as varied as the individuals themselves. While some paths are strewn with the petals of luxury and peace, many are rugged, marked by the unrelenting pursuit of survival. This diversity in maternal experiences is profound, yet often hidden behind the quiet smiles of courage that grace the faces of countless mothers.

Consider the mother who benefits from a robust support system—a loving "village" that assists in raising her children. Her days might offer precious moments of solitude, brief pauses that allow her to recharge and reconnect with herself amidst the daily chaos.

However, right alongside her, there are mothers who navigate a sterner reality. For these women, motherhood is a balancing act performed on the tightrope of life’s demands, with little safety net below. Their routines are a juggle of responsibilities, their nights fragmented by the calls of a child or the pressure of unfinished tasks, their emotional reserves constantly tapped with little chance for replenishment.

It's important to recognize that the smiles you see on these mothers' faces don't always reflect serenity; often, they mask battles against exhaustion and overwhelm. These smiles are shields borne of resilience and strength, hiding the depth of their daily struggles.

This tapestry of motherhood calls us not to judge, but to understand—to hold space for all mothers, acknowledging the weight and worth of their experiences. Supporting a mother shouldn’t be about giving advice or drawing comparisons. Instead, it should be about offering a listening ear, a helping hand, or simply a presence that says, "I’m here with you."

To the mothers engulfed in the struggle for survival, know that your strength is seen and your challenges are valid. Your resilience is not unnoticed, and though the world may often seem indifferent to your trials, there are many who stand ready to offer support.

Let us, as a community, extend compassion and recognition to these silent warriors. Small gestures can mean the world—a cooked meal, a watched child, a shared coffee, all tokens of a much-needed break. Let's be the neighbors, friends, and partners who not only offer help but also advocate for societal support that eases the burdens of motherhood.

As we embrace these brave souls, we foster a more nurturing society, one that values and supports every mother's journey. After all, the fabric of our future is woven in the hearts and hands of mothers, and by supporting them, we nurture the next generation. So let’s give our silent warriors the recognition they deserve, not with judgment, but with the boundless compassion they need and earn every day.

Motherhood... Oh Motherhood...

 There was a time when your name flashed on conference calls.

You walked into conference rooms with purpose, emails followed your footsteps, and deadlines bowed to your will.
Your mind — sharp, focused, thriving on coffee and chaos — made decisions that moved teams, closed deals, and changed directions.
You were her — the go-to, the achiever, the one who could do it all.

And then…
You became a mother.

Not just a mother — but a full-time mother.
By choice. Or by necessity. Or maybe, by a little of both.

Suddenly, the daily metrics shifted. No more performance reviews. No quarterly bonuses. Just... a child’s needs. A sink full of dishes. A heart stretched across sleepless nights and soft lullabies.

And if you’re honest — brutally, quietly honest — you’ll admit:
You sometimes wonder where she went.
The woman you once were.
The one with the blazer and heels, whose name meant something in a room of voices.

You look in the mirror now — messy bun, eyes tired, hands full but heart unsure — and ask yourself a question that doesn’t leave easily:

“Who am I now?”

Let me tell you.

You are the same woman —
with the same fire,
the same brilliance,
the same strength.

But now, your strength isn’t applauded in meetings.
It shows up in the way you soothe your child’s fears at 3 a.m.
In the meals you make without praise.
In the stories you tell on repeat.
In the invisible labor of love that never gets a lunch break.

Yes, the world may not clap for diaper changes or tantrum negotiations.
There are no awards for making it through the day without tears.
But this work — this unseen, relentless, soul-giving work — is holy.

You haven’t lost your identity, dear one.
You’re remaking it.
Not because the old version was less,
but because this new season asked for more.

More surrender.
More softness.
More strength in stillness than in speed.

And I know it’s hard.
To go from being “someone” to being “just a mom” — as if those words weren’t a universe in themselves.
But hear me when I say this:

You are not “just” anything.
You are everything to someone.

You are the anchor of a child’s world.
You are the rhythm of a home.
You are becoming a masterpiece no corporate title could ever measure.

If you’re grieving the loss of your former self, let those tears fall.
But don’t let them lie to you.
You are not less now.
You are more — deeper, wider, softer, braver.

To every mother who traded her cubicle for chaos,
her stilettos for slippers,
her schedule for spontaneity —

I see you.
I honor you.
And I’m here to say: You are still her.

Just… transformed.
Not erased.
Expanded.

So when you feel small,
when the world forgets your name,
when your child clings to you like you’re their whole world —
remember: they know exactly who you are.

And maybe… that’s the truest version yet.

Walking through the fire and still singing lullabies...

 Not long ago, I sat in silence beside my child’s crib, watching the rise and fall of her breath in the dim light of early morning — a quiet contrast to the noise that still echoed in my mind: the pandemic alarms, the isolation, the endless 'what-ifs'.

I wasn’t just a new mother.
I was a new mother during a global crisis.
And that changes everything.

There was no textbook for this.
Not even my years of scientific reasoning or operational planning — trained to solve, predict, calculate — could prepare me for the sheer unpredictability of this.

The world had stopped. But inside me, life had begun.

And while the headlines screamed of viruses, death tolls, lockdowns, and new variants,
I held a newborn, a heartbeat, a breath of innocence in my arms.

But joy wasn’t the only thing I held.
I carried exhaustion, the raw kind that blurs days into nights.
I carried fear — not just for myself, but for this tiny girl who had entered a world that felt, frankly, unrecognizable.
And silently, I carried postpartum depression, that quiet thief of light — one that no one could see because I still smiled in the photos.

I smiled — because I was supposed to.
Because mothers are expected to be strong.
Because science had taught me how to be resilient.

But motherhood?
Motherhood taught me how to be vulnerable.

I wrote a few pages not as someone who had the answers, but as someone who needed to write herself into remembering.
Remembering that my worth is not measured by perfectly timed feeds or clean kitchens.
That grace is not earned through doing — but through simply being.

So if you are that mother today — the one with tangled hair and a thousand tabs open in her brain,
The one who doubts her instincts, who feels guilty for needing a break,
Who wants to be both everything and enough —

This is for you.

You are not alone.
Not in your tears. Not in your exhaustion. Not in your quiet strength that no one applauds.

You are not behind.
You are not broken.

You are a miracle in motion, even when you don’t feel like it.

This post _ the one I scribbled in midnight feeds, in whispered prayers, in moments of despair and defiance —
I do so because I know: someone out there needs this today.

Maybe it’s you.
Maybe you're waiting for permission to rest.
To forgive yourself.
To hold your child without holding onto perfection.

Take this as that permission.
Take it as a hug from one science-bred, spreadsheet-loving, control-seeking mother to another —
now softened and scarred by the sacred wildness of motherhood.

If your heart whispered “this is me,”
my inbox is open — not just for an appreciative mail,
but for connection.

To every mother still learning to breathe, to be, and to believe she’s enough —
I see you.
I am you.

And I promise:
Even now, especially now — you are not alone.
And you are more loved than you know.

And dear heart, that is enough !

 In the quiet moments when the world is still, when the noise of tasks unfinished and expectations unmet settles into a dull ache, there lies a truth that too often we forget: your worth is not measured by what you do.

We live in a world that praises hustle, glorifies the endless grind, and equates value with output. “What did you achieve today?” has become the unspoken question that shadows our every sunrise. Yet in the sacred silence of your soul, a different voice whispers — one that does not demand, but gently invites: Come as you are.

You are not the sum of your accomplishments.
Not the productivity charts, not the cleanliness of your home, not the emails replied to, or the errands run.
You are not your ability to hold everything together when you're breaking inside.

In moments when you pause — not because you want to, but because you must — know this: your need for rest is not a flaw. Your tiredness does not make you weak. You are not less for slowing down. You are not failing when you admit you're human.

So often, we believe love must be earned. That to be worthy — of kindness, of affection, of divine grace — we must prove ourselves first. But God’s love is not a prize to be won.
It is a promise.
It is a presence.
It is unshaken by your fatigue, unbothered by your imperfections, and unchanging through your darkest hours.

He loved you when you were full of energy, charging ahead with dreams and confidence.
He loves you now — as you sit in the silence, feeling the weight of all you carry.

So breathe.
Put down what feels too heavy today.
Let your soul stretch into the grace of the moment.

You don’t need to be strong to be seen.
You don’t need to achieve to be accepted.
You don’t need to strive to be safe.

Your life was never meant to be a performance. It was meant to be a presence — held, cherished, and deeply known.

Even here, even now — you are loved.
Not for what you do.
But for who you are.
And that, dear heart, is enough.

In sacred remembrance of Dr. Rajkailash Mohan (1993–2015)

An open letter from your sister, living with a fractured sky

It has been ten years, Kailash.

Ten years since the world folded inwards, since time began to stutter in my veins. Ten years since laughter learned to echo instead of bloom.

They say time heals.
But what they don’t tell you is this: time doesn’t heal, it simply hushes the pain into quieter corners of your soul, where it waits—poised, patient, and sharp. Sometimes it murmurs through photographs, other times it roars through anniversaries like today. And today, I am listening to the silence that has your shape.

Your absence is not a void. No, it’s a presence. It is the loudest thing in every room. It trails behind me like a shadow that does not want to be left behind. People ask less now. The calls stopped long ago. Even grief, I suppose, must follow a social expiry. But I have not moved on—I have moved with. With you. With your memory stitched into every heartbeat.

You are still my first thought in the morning and my last quiet whisper before sleep.
You are still the unspoken name in every family prayer, the echo in every dream I refuse to wake from.

And what of them—Amma and Appa? They are quieter now. Not just older, but emptier. Your name lives in their silence, your face flickers behind their weariness. I try to be their strength. I try to carry the three of us forward as if my own heart weren’t shattering piece by piece with every passing year. I have learned to mask devastation with poise, sorrow with grace. But some nights—some cruel, collapsing nights—I unravel into the ache of a sister who lost her axis.

I wonder sometimes—had you lived, would you still chase the stars or heal the world from its invisible wounds? You were made for more, stupid. I just . So much more than this. You were the question that had answers for everyone else. The voice that soothed, the eyes that understood. You were my compass, my calm, my contradiction. You were—and you are—irreplaceable.

What they call 'grief' is far too sterile a word. What I carry is an ache coded into my DNA. A grief that’s fluent in silence, an elegy I hum to myself as I go about the business of being strong. Everyone expects me to be strong. And I am. But not because I am healed. Because I have learned the art of standing on fractured ground.

There are days I still see you. In the crimson blush of the sky at dusk. In the scent of sandalwood and old books. In a song that slips past the radio without warning. You are everywhere and nowhere. You are the warmth I still search for in cold winds.

I miss you, stupid—not just who you were, but all that you would have become.
A son. A healer. A brother. A legacy unfulfilled.

I have tried, in my own quiet way, to keep your spirit alive—not with monuments or rituals, but with stories, with service, with silent strength. Your memory is my rebellion against forgetting. You are the reason I speak gently to the hurting, listen deeply to the broken. I try, in fragments, to be the goodness you embodied.

Ten years - A whole decade.
And yet, somehow, today feels like day one. The ache is still raw, still real. I’m still trying to make peace with a world where you no longer exist. Still trying to become someone you’d be proud of.

They say grief is love with no place to go.
So I send mine skyward, where I hope it finds you—whole, luminous, eternal.

Wherever you are, know this: you are loved fiercely. You are remembered endlessly.
And you are missed beyond measure.

Forever your sister,
Who still walks the earth with a piece of her heart missing.

In precious memory of,

 Ten years. A decade of winters and summers have passed, and yet, dearest brother's absence remains an ache—a wound neither time nor tide has managed to salve. The world around me is but a moving spectacle; within, my heart is a chamber of echoing silences. Your voice—once so familiar, so reassuring—has long faded into the mists of memory, yet your presence lingers in every breath I take, every dream I dare to dream.

The very utterance of your name is a prayer uttered in hushed reverence. There lies a heaviness, not unlike a thousand stones upon my chest, when the world marks today as another date—but to me, it is a gaping wound, reopened. Today, I do not count the hours, but the tears unspilled, the thoughts unspoken, and the memories that revisit like ghosts cloaked in the fabric of yesteryears.

You were not merely my brother. Nay, you are like the North Star of our family—steady, radiant, and guiding. Even as I pen these words, my ink quivers with the tremor of my grief. Do they know, how the house transformed the day you departed? The air, once alive with your laughter, hangs heavy now—like a violin unstrung, lifeless and mute.

I have worn many masks these ten years, dearest—some of duty, others of defiance. For Mother and Father, I must not unravel. I dare not let my sorrow swallow me whole, lest it drown them too. Each morning I rise, not because the sun bids me so, but because I must carry the weight of three hearts upon my shoulders. I have swallowed my sobs so they may breathe, and I have smiled through shattered moments so they may sleep in peace.

Yet, what of the nights? Ah, the nights! When shadows lengthen and the world retreats, I sit by the window that once framed our laughter and stare at a sky you once mapped with your dreams. The stars above do not shine as brightly now—for the brightest among them fell too soon. I yearn not for consolation, for what balm could soothe a sister whose soul was cleft in twain on that cruel day?

The world has moved on, they say. But mine has stood still, clock-hands frozen at the hour the heavens took thee. Friendships have waned, festivities dimmed, and amidst all gaiety, I remain an island—present in the flesh but adrift in thought. Every success I have tasted is tinged with the bitterness of your absence. For what joy is there in triumph, when the one who would have clapped the loudest is no longer there?

Still, I endure. I endure because you have asked it of me, and made me to endure it. So it is you again, who must give me strength. You, whose dreams soared higher than the mountains, would not wish for me to be anchored in despair. So I walk on, brother. I walk on with memories as my compass and your love as my light.

And yet, if I may make one plea to the Almighty—let your soul know, wherever it now dwells, that it is not forgotten. That your name is whispered in every prayer, etched upon every heartbeat. You live not just in framed photographs but in our every breath, every act of kindness done in your name, every tear shed in quiet corners.

Dr. Raj Kailash Mohan, my brother, my anchor, my shadow, my child, my everything in short —ten years may have passed, but not a single moment has found me without you in it. The world lost a brilliant healer that day. But I—I lost my childhood, my confidant, my forever companion.

Rest well, dearest soul. Till we meet again beyond the veil, I shall keep you alive—in ink, in memory, and in love that not even death could extinguish.