Confessions of a Writing Freak

Legends, lakes and long weekend….. Push that takes you to Pushkar….. All trains were choked, every seat taken, not a single ticket in sight. Who says our economy is dead—tourism seemed to be at an all-time high! With back-to-back festivities fueling the long weekend, wanderlust pulled me stronger than ever. When the railways shut the door, I took the plunge into my first-ever night bus ride—and my very first solo trip—to Pushkar. The adventure began with the ride itself: a surprisingly comfortable journey under a clear sky, with a half-moon and twinkling stars for company. Time slipped by so quietly that the trip was over before I could even realize it, as if the road had carried me along in a dream. Pushkar turned out to be larger, livelier, and more vibrant than I had imagined. The moment I set foot in the town, the unmistakable Rajasthani spirit embraced me. Its streets were flooded with visitors—many of them foreigners, probably arriving early for the forthcoming Pushkar Mela. Thei...

For many women, the very word menopause stirs a quiet unease as the mid-forties approach. Hopes of a smooth transition often clash with hormonal upheavals that feel anything but gentle. Life doesn’t end here—but it can feel like a pause. Not just from the menstrual cycle, but from the sense of well-being women once took for granted. The way estrogen bids farewell differs from woman to woman—sometimes irksome, sometimes downright nasty, often uncomfortable—but its absence always leaves an indelible mark. Perimenopause is the transitional phase leading up to menopause, when a woman’s body begins to gradually produce less estrogen and reproductive hormone levels fluctuate.It usually starts in the mid-to-late 40s (though it can begin earlier for some) and lasts several years, ending one year after the final menstrual period—that’s when menopause is declared . Along with it comes a whirlwind of symptoms. Mood swings bewilder families, as joy tumbles into worry, exuberance melts into melanch...

If you ever want to test the limits of your patience, just venture onto any random road in an Indian city. No amount of soothing music or mindful podcasts can steady your nerves once you’re swept into that chaotic river of traffic. It’s truly wheeling into the maddening crowd. If Thomas Hardy were alive today, he might be tempted to rewrite his classic as “Far from the Maddening Crowd—Delhi Edition.” Bumper to bumper, car to car, the city’s tangled web of roads can drain the cheer out of anyone’s soul. On my daily commute, I manage to finish an entire bottle of water, polish off the fruits and salad meant for lunch, listen to Osho, hum a few Jagjit Singh ghazals, scroll through sizzling political updates—and after all that, I’ve barely crawled five weary kilometres. Perhaps those driving automatics have a slight edge—their left foot and hand rest easy—but for those behind the wheel of older cars, every joint protests by the end of the ride. Locked knees, twisted ankles, stiff backs, ac...

Fasting during Navratri is a ritual I have followed since my college days. Back then, it wasn’t much about spirituality – it was about relishing the festive delicacies my mother prepared: a simple yet indulgent platter of nostalgia, deeply rooted in tradition. pasty aloo jeera, crunchy sabudana vadas, singhada fritters, and the occasional crunchy makhana or peanut. The flavors, even today, evoke little nuggets of nostalgia. As years went by, Navratri became more than just a culinary delight. The fasting brought detoxification and a spiritual cleanse of both mind and body. The devotional aspect crept in naturally – reciting verses from the Durga Saptashati while savoring the fasting treats. Yet, each year, the temptation of festival delicacies seems to grow stronger, teasing the palate and tantalizing the taste buds. And with age comes the sneaky arrival of extra adipose tissue. Now, fasting aimed at serves a dual purpose: devotion and dieting. I kick off every Navratri with lofty resol...

The Bittersweet Story of Sugar…. From nectar to nemesis…….🍪🍩🍧🍫🍦 Wishing you a Sweeter Diwali—With Less Sugar and More Heart❤️🪔 The journey of sugar is as fascinating as it is flavourful. Sugarcane—known in India as ganna or ikshu—was discovered on our soil thousands of years ago. From here, it travelled westward through Arab traders, reaching Central Asia and then North Africa, where it was cultivated along the Nile. There, people stumbled upon an intriguing discovery: when a supersaturated sugar solution was left in a clay pot with a thread inside, the evaporating water would leave behind glittering crystals clinging to the thread. This crystalline sugar eventually made its way back to India from Egypt, earning the name misri—or naabad, as it is fondly called in Kashmir—offered at weddings and auspicious ceremonies. Meanwhile, the Chinese too had mastered the art of crystallizing sugar. When their technique reached India, the product came to be known as cheeni. All derivatives o...

Six down, six to go… walking the divine Shiva circuit of Jyotirlingas !!! For the past few years, I’ve set myself a gentle goal—each year, to visit at least one Jyotirlinga, those twelve sacred shrines where Lord Shiva is believed to have manifested as a radiant column of light. This year, since I had planned a trip to Mumbai to spend time with my children, I extended it into a whirlwind visit to Grishneshwar Jyotirlinga near Aurangabad—one of the three Jyotirlingas in Maharashtra. ( Bhimashankar & Triyambkeshwar …being the other two) Tradition says Somnath should be the first one and this shrine should be the last in the circuit, but I am still midway in completing my Shiva journey. Be it random or out of sequence, I am not too rigid or fastidious about it. About 300 km from Mumbai, the drive itself was an experience. The Balasaheb Samruddhi Expressway, resembling a sleek runway, cut across the Western Ghats and made the journey enthralling. The road opened up to the lush green fo...

While travelling, I usually pass the time absorbed in books. But on a recent early morning flight from Mumbai, groggy and drowsy, I set them aside and let my gaze drift through the aircraft window. To my surprise, I had never found the fluffy, scattered billows of clouds—shifting endlessly in form—so deeply engaging and fascinating. While clicking those cloud pictures, I knew I was acting like an excited child , a first-time flyer, but there was something truly ineffable, inexplicable about the beauty of that cotton-candy sky. From above, the clouds gleamed brilliantly, bathed in sunlight, with rays dancing across their surface. Yet from the ground, the same sky appears dark, overcast, and gloomy. Perspective, I realised, changes everything. The magical expanse stretched like the kṣīra sāgara—the mythic ocean of milk, abode of Lord Vishnu—milky meadows of light that invited me to imagine Lakshmi at His side and the great serpent on which He reclines. As the plane whooshed past, the cum...

.. I am Yamuna — jamuna for  some, Kalindi  ( kaali nadi)for a  few, and Yami for those who knew me in my celestial days. My journey has been nothing short of a saga — from the brilliance of the skies to the dust of the earth. Born to Surya, the radiant Sun God, and Sanjana, I was cherished as “Surya Tanaya,” the beloved daughter, and fond sister of Yama, the lord of death. But destiny  had something else in store A discord between my divine parents led to a cruel decree, as a punishment to my mother, my father banished me from the heavens and left me to wander eternally on the earth.. My descent to Earth is still remembered and celebrated as Yamuna Jayanti, observed with reverence on the Shukla Paksha Saptami of the Chaitra month. Another day close to my heart is Bhai Dooj, when I invite my brother Yama, anoint his forehead with a tilak, and serve him sweets — a ritual of love that blesses brothers with long and healthy lives. I descended into  dark Kalindi mou...

While most people find peace in the morning rush—through meditation, yoga, infused drinks, sunrise strolls, —my rhythm flows the other way. For me, it is the golden twilight hour that brings solace. When birds trill their way home, the crescent moon quietly appears against a crimson sky, and the harsh sunshine softens—I step into my sanctuary. That one hour of my evening walk in the adjacent park is my true ‘me time.’ Thawing out in the park ,the familiar faces, trees, and shrubs greet me like family, though we seldom speak. I notice every detail—the fresh golden blooms of the chandelier-like Amaltas, the shy stunted Champa blooms-new leaves sprouting and the old ones withering , the mulberry tree at the entrance waving its leafy hello, and the two cats that cross the pavement each day with their predictable meows. The environment is so familiar that even blindfolded, I could still feel the warm breeze, hear the rhythm, and sense every presence around me. Not seeing someone for  fe...

--- On a recent flight from Bhubaneswar to Delhi, after a divine visit to Jagannath Puri, Nisha (my *bhabhi*) and I slumped into our seats. She put in her earphones, and I was ready to immerse myself in my book when a dusky, dainty, smallish girl plopped into the aisle seat next to me.   Her beauty caught my attention, and we exchanged a smile. Outfitted in a skimpy, snazzy denim dress, with dangling flip-flops on her delicate feet and a phone and tablet in her petite hands, she had eloquently expressive, gazelle-like eyes. In her dulcet Bihari-accented voice, she requested to sit by the window at the time of landing. I figured she was eager to capture aerial pictures of dazzling Delhi at night, just like my daughter does. Nisha, generous as always, swapped her window seat with her at the outset of the journey.   Striking up a conversation with routine topics, our unfamiliarity quickly dissolved into a casual and warm exchange. She was curious about me and my family ...

Sundays usually pass in a blur of household chores. While wiping the specks of dust from the trove of trinkets in my living room, the tribal terracotta lady mask fell with a crash and shattered into smithereens. My wanderlust ensures I always set aside some money for trinkets and souvenirs as tokens of memory. (Mimo Magnetist is my name.) This mask was one such treasure, bought from the bustling markets of Coorg in Karnataka way back in 2016, during a family mini-vacation—perhaps the last one the four of us took together. Clutching the broken terracotta lady in my guilty hands, a rush of memories flooded me, transporting me to the utopian land of Coorg, nestled in the cozy folds of the Western Ghats. The mask unleashed memories I thought I had left far behind—a nostalgic mix of lovely moments and emotions now resting between the broken pieces. The car journey of about 100 km from Mysore to Coorg was a delightful drive through misty, dreamy terrain. The lush greenery, pleasant climate, ...

It takes just one festival to flood you with precious memories, to bring back the image of a seven-year-old visit to a shopping store. Festivals are the strongest triggers. It was way back in 2017 when we went Diwali shopping at a nearby mall. While sifting and winnowing through the outfits hanging there—after many tsk-tsk moments—something caught his eye. My husband quickly chose a yellow-and-blue floral kurti and, without a second thought, asked me to pick it. As luck would have it, the generous L size was conspicuously absent. I tried to fit myself into the modest medium size, but the seam line didn’t flinch to accommodate me. With a twinge of disappointment, I randomly picked another suit. Sometimes, luck runs out just when you need it the most. Yet, the yellow kurti stayed in my mind. Since then, I’ve always tried to find a similar pattern but never succeeded, eventually relinquishing hope of ever finding the same design. This Diwali, too, we went on a shopping binge and embarked ...

Spending a few odd days grieving and mourning the demise of my uncle, watching his three beautiful daughters bawling their eyes out, gashed my heart. Evening and early morning became my solace, when I would go for a stroll in the compound amidst the leafy lanes of their Gurgaon apartment, especially along the Parijat trees, also called Harsingar or Shiuli, dotting the streets. The beauty of this night-blooming tree was previously unknown to me—a dull-looking shrub bearing such magical, enchanting foliage. As the sun sets, small white blooms with orange stems unfurl, filling the air with a subtle yet powerful fragrance. This aroma enriches the senses and feels all-encompassing. As dawn breaks, before the warm sun rays kiss the earth, the Parijat flowers wither and gracefully fall to the ground, swirling like Sufi dervishes in a mesmerizing dance. In no time, the ground beneath becomes a carpet of white and orange blossoms, with residents collecting the fallen flowers to offer in worship...

By the end of the year, as the nip in the air is felt, Delhi boasts an array of events—trade fairs, lit fests, musical shows, and food festivals. What stands out at these events is the outfit most women are donning: Kashmiri pherans. Women, both Kashmiri and non-Kashmiri, carry this traditional garb with sartorial panache, exuding oodles of oomph and style at every event. At Jashn-e-Rekhta, a recent celebration of the rich Urdu language and literature, the female crowd displayed the vibrant tapestry of Kashmiri pherans in myriad hues and intricate embroideries. Some paired them with high boots, adding flair, while others styled them with trousers, leggings, pants, or palazzos. Kashmiri pherans, hands down, are the outfit of the day (OOTD), carving a niche in fashion circles. Even panelists and anchors on various TV channels are often spotted wearing pherans, looking effortlessly gorgeous with their glam quotient on point. Personally, I eagerly await the onset of winter to flaunt my env...

Delhi continues to amaze and at times apall , specially while attending the myriad events and exhibitions going on full blast as we inch towards the new year.. My friend cajoled me to chaperone her to an exhibition , showcasing creative and innovative fashion designs in an opulent hotel in the heart of Lutyen s. So far so good, the hallway was impressive with ornate plush furnishings and a dazzling humongous chandelier… I felt suddenly out of the place in this intimidating hub bub of the dazzle.. an odd woman out amongst the creme de la creme.. I relegate myself to a class of misfits in such vast and sprawling places, I am a neighbourhood shopper kind of a person. The extraordinarily extravagant people and places leave me dizzy, and stifled. Both the sellers and the potential buyers reeked of a fake , jaunty veneer , an artificial smile plastered on heavily plastered faces, their stuff ridiculously pricey. Too much of botox and fillers were quite apparent,as the glib smiles failed to c...

It has been four years of a bumpy ride on the road to grief. Weaving through a maze of emotions—pain, grief, silence, and loneliness—the abysmal darkness is flickered by a glimmer of light from your memories. Sometimes these memories bring a smile, and at other times, tears to my eyes. Grief is strange. The fourth year without you has been as painful as the previous three. I miss my life partner, the kids miss their doting dad, and your old mother misses her caregiving son. Life for all four of us has veered off a smooth track, yet the journey continues. The spring in our steps vanished the day you left us. Any celebration or joy at home is incomplete. The crucial one-fourth is always missing, and it is evident on our faces. Life will never be the same; it has changed forever. I find solace in traveling. Whether it's Andaman, Meghalaya, Kashmir, or Agra, I carry mementos of you—a cap, glasses, a watch, or a muffler that still carries your warmth. These make me feel like...

Barsana is an important historical town in the Krishna pilgrimage circuit. It is the birthplace of Radha rani and a beautiful temple dedicated to Radha _krishna is built on the Bhanugarh hills ,  visited by huge number of devotees specially on Lath maar Holi which falls today. Krishna and men from Nandgaon used to  visit Barsana to smear colours on Radha and gopis ,in return the gopis would hit them playfully with sticks on their shielded heads. And the other day phoolo waali Holi  played in Vrindavan.. Holi is all about happiness, joy, pranks and vibrant tapestry of colours. Spring heralds with fragrant thickets, blooming trees. fliting butterflies and buzzing bees. Legend goes that Krishna would ask Yashoda why Radha was fair as a moon beam and he stark  dark as night to which she replied jovially " go and smear colour on Radha s face to match your complexion" ,hence the trend of Holi celebration started symbolising celebration of love. Purans mention Holi as a cel...

It had really been  a long time no sea...  so took  a jaunt to the magical archipelago of Andaman with a gang of gorgeous girls.The trip  kicked off on a wrong foot because of goof up by an  Air India staff at Delhi who mislabelled my baggage and dropped it at Vizag and I land in Port Blair with just a hand bag ...  But it definitely wrapped up with a baggage of pristine , enthralling, pellucid, tranquil and adventurous memories.... Portblair is a melting pot of diverse cultures of mainly W Bengal, Tamil, Telugu and Bihar ,the islands inhabited by indigenous tribes of Jarawa, Onges, Shamponi, Sentinelese are totally isolated and secluded. They still live in the iron age in the far away islands. The main attraction of Portblair is the colonial prison , the Cellular jai, which is a sevenwinged three storeyed architectural marvel and painful reminder of the atrocities and brutality our freedom fighters have gone through,the light and sound show raises goosebum...

Ciao to Chai Snuggled in the cosy layers, battling the bone chilling cold, I realised that one thing without which I can not function is a cup of unsweetened, steaming hot sepia hue ambrosia called “chai”.. My dawn breaks with a cup of tea, work begins after a cup of tea and reaching back home , first thing my languished self does is brew a cup of energy and reinvigoration . I make no bones about being a tea junkie.. or a tea snob. Infact a cuppa is panacea for me.. bit under the weather, encased in aloneness ,grappling with wide range of emotions,sorrow haunting like a wraith… a cup of tea undoes the ennui.. to bring that joie de vivre with family and friends , cherishing good and chasing away not so good memories , a cup of tea hits the spot.There is nothing that can not be bettered with a chai ka cup.A swig of tea changes the saturnine faces to smiling ones, a swig of tea never fails to perk me up. Chai is infact ingrained in our DNA, no road trip is complete without a pull over for...