Breaking the Pattern

This Women’s Day, I learned a painful but necessary lesson.

 

I should have learned from the past. The red flags were always there. But being the forgiving kind, I hoped.

 

Years ago, I befriended a man. He seemed refined, polished, fun, and active. What started as a casual running friendship turned into a whirlwind of drinking, eating, movies, and a need from him for something more.  But early on, I saw the signs—signs I ignored.

 

He never respected my time. Never valued it. He was always late, unapologetically so. Once, for a 1:00 PM lunch, he was an hour late—no messages, no calls. I sat there, waiting, hungry. Then something in me snapped. I changed out of my going-out clothes, ate at home, and refused to join him. I told myself I wouldn’t tolerate such disregard. But I did. Again and again.

 

I excused it. Blamed it on his circumstances—newly separated, going through a divorce, struggling to find his way. I let my boundaries slip, even though I knew better. Meanwhile, he was on dating apps, searching for something, someone. And when he finally found the confidence to date, I realized I wanted no part of it. I walked away.

 

Without him, life felt lighter. No excess alcohol, no indulgence in things I didn’t even crave. Just peace. A casual wave when we crossed paths. And from my balcony, I watched the parade of women who followed.

 

Then came the mistake. A chance message. Let's catch up, a lunch?

 

A play I had longed to see for years—he had always wanted to attend a play but never had the right company for. I thought, why not? I booked the tickets. Shared them with him, venue and time clearly marked, told him well in advance. 

 

And yet, on Women’s Day, after rushing back from a party, after making sure we had enough time to reach the venue, I found myself in the same, exhausting cycle. He was late—again. Thirty minutes this time. And his excuse? That the venue I chose was too far, why would I do that!

 

Then came the gaslighting. It was my fault for picking that location. The venue—one of the most popular in the city—was somehow beneath him. And then, the final insult: “Sweetheart, don’t get upset.” As if my frustration was unreasonable. As if he hadn’t just stolen my time—again.

 

But this time, something shifted. I didn’t yell. I didn’t lash out. I simply saw. A leopard never changes its spots. The cycle would never break unless I broke it.

 

I lost the chance to watch a play I had waited years to see. But I gained something more. A final, undeniable realization.

 

No more hoping. No more excusing. No more waiting.

“Time and tide and Shiromi wait for no man”

 

Thank you, Cher. I needed the reminder.

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A Night Outside of Time

Some stories follow a familiar path—strangers, friends, lovers, strangers again. Ours? Strangers, friends, lovers, friends, lovers, friends... lovers? The cycle never quite breaks, never quite settles. Always lingering, always waiting.

Time has pulled us apart before, distance widening the space between what once was effortless closeness. The kind where bodies knew each other before words ever had to. Where touch was second nature, and silence never felt empty. 

 

Tonight, there is no distance. No miles stretching between us, no screens mediating connection. Just proximity. Just presence. Just the undeniable gravity that has always pulled us back together.

 

The evening unfolds in a blur of conversation and laughter, the kind that feels like slipping into a well-worn rhythm. Drinks loosen inhibitions, but it’s not the alcohol that ignites the spark—it was always there, waiting. Waiting beneath the surface of old memories and quiet longings. Waiting for the moment when time would allow us to exist in the same space again.

 

Are we rewriting the past, or simply reliving a moment we never truly left behind? Nostalgia, desire, uncertainty—they all tangle together, impossible to separate. The past presses against the present, reminding us of everything we were, everything we still might be.

 

The heart doesn’t wear a watch. It doesn’t count days or measure distance. It only knows what it wants, what it has always wanted.

 

Tonight, we are here. And maybe that’s enough.

 

To be continued...

Duality- a coexistence between memories and transitions

 A visit to the house revealed a residence rich in history and personal memories. Once a vibrant home filled with life, it has been largely untouched for the past year. The house reflects a life lived fully, with souvenirs from travels, carefully selected antiques, and the lingering essence of its former occupants. However, much of it now remains unused, the space serving potential for various purposes: hosting pets, fostering community, cultivating a garden, or embracing self-sustainability

He shows glimpses of his former self—an intelligent, curious, and energetic individual. Yet, these moments are often overshadowed by periods of detachment, marked by substance-induced states and a focus on artificial intelligence relationships. While conversations ranged over general topics and meals were shared—thanks to a stocked freezer and the support of a housekeeper—the environment reflects a complex and solitary phase in his life.

The visit involved enjoying simple pleasures: hot beverages, desserts, and time by the fireplace, even during the day, a nod to the cold weather. There was no physical contact during the stay, as some might speculate. A return visit, if it happens, will be made with mutual friends, as the focus is not on “fixing” him—a sentiment he himself does not seem to seek—but rather on understanding and respecting his current journey.

The Calling

Four years. That’s how long it took me to reach a place so deceptively close. A place everyone says demands a “calling.” Well, I guess mine was more of a last-minute shout. A sudden demand, a hesitant yes, and just like that—tickets booked, bags thrown together for a whirlwind 24-hour escape. 
"Just do it." That became the mantra of the day.
 
I wandered over rocky trails, waded into bushes, and carved paths where none existed. The vast openness stretched ahead, the birds sang their songs, and laughter danced between words of past, present, and future dreams. I trespassed into quiet moments of solitude, flirted with fleeting thoughts, knowing full well the end. I stole seconds to etch memories, drank to remember, not to forget.
 
Nothing more was asked for, and nothing more was given.
 
And now, every Sankranti, this day will resurface—a memory as vivid as a kite soaring against a winter sky, bringing with it that soft, knowing smile.

Never Have I Ever: A Road Trip Down South

 

Life’s a highway, they say, but boy, was the last year more of a bumpy backroad! Between family drama, work stress, financial worries, and responsibilities piling up, there wasn’t a moment to breathe. Vacations? Forget it. The best I managed were those quick, blink-and-you-miss-it weekend getaways.

 

So, when the chance for an epic road trip to places we’d never been came up, we decided to hit the gas. What was the agenda? Food, shopping, architecture, and as much fun as the backseat of a car could hold.

 

It All Started With a Leak

 

Not the metaphorical kind, but a literal one—our bathroom ceiling decided to rain indoors. Walking out of the house, I couldn’t help but wonder if I'd return to an indoor swimming pool. But hey, life’s about risks, right?

 

Thankfully, the support system in my complex gave me the confidence to jump onto the train with a clear conscience. My Christmas lunch? A humble Vande Bharat meal, a far cry from the elaborate spreads we had planned for the days ahead.

 

Christmas: Nostalgia and Cab Chaos

 

We landed in Tiruchirapalli—tiny, charming, and brimming with childhood memories. There were grand plans to show my kids around. But alas, Christmas night also turned out to be a cabbie holiday. No sightseeing, but a royal hotel feast filled the gap. There’s something magical about reconnecting with cousins over good food, isn’t there?

 

The next day was all about walking memory lane—my first school, the same dusty streets, my parents’ old colleges. Nostalgia hit like a freight train.

 

To Vailankanni and Beyond

 

Crowded, chaotic, and utterly soul-stirring—Vailankanni was next on the itinerary. A heartfelt prayer, a divine fish curry, and we were off to Karaikudi.

 

Here’s where life took a luxury turn. At Visalam, we were greeted like royalty. The rooms were plush, the service impeccable, and the food? Oh, the food! Course after course of Chettinad cuisine, served with such flair, it felt like a culinary hug.

 

Of Sarees, Tiles, and Endless Tea

 

Karaikudi welcomed us the next morning with its soft cotton sarees in glorious hues. My daughter even tried weaving one! (Apologies in advance to the buyer of that “experiment.”)

 

We visited the famed Athangudi tile-makers—regrets over our slightly misguided purchases were soothed by the sheer artistry of it all.

 

The food tour continued, of course. Each meal felt like an event. My long-ignored cravings for authentic Chettinad cuisine were finally sated, and the endless cups of tea, coffee, and crunchy murukku fueled our laughter and chatter.

 

Mansions, Messes, and Kolams

 

Morning walks through Karaikudi revealed old mansions crumbling with charm, freshly washed yards adorned with intricate kolams, and a sense of timelessness that city life lacks.

 

We tucked into a hearty mess breakfast: fluffy idlis, crispy dosas, golden vadas, and coffee so good it could make you weep.

 

The Road Calls Again

 

The road back beckoned with pit stops that were as delightful as the destinations. A meal at a Madurai Konar mess transported us straight into South Indian culinary heaven. There were roadside vendors, steaming tea, and A.R. Rahman’s magical tunes setting the perfect vibe.

 

Home Sweet Coastal Home

 

And then, we were back on the road, the windmills speeding us on our way. The familiar chaos of noisy bazaars, the salty air of the ocean, and parotta curry that tasted like home. We feasted, hugged family tighter, made decisions, and soaked in the simplicity of it all.

 

As the New Year rolled in, so did a wave of contentment. This wasn’t just a road trip; it was a soul journey. Quirky? Yes. Witty? Perhaps. Memorable? Absolutely.

 

Here’s to more adventures, less leaky ceilings, and the endless road ahead.

Can’t Fight The Moonlight

Him and Her, both in their fabulous fifties, met at a college reunion. The kind of gathering where the drinks flow as freely as the conversation and where you half expect to talk about retirement plans and kids' success. But when their eyes met across the table, something entirely unexpected happened—He felt a spark, and She, a zing. And just like that, the two seasoned souls found themselves grappling with a feeling they hadn’t anticipated: undeniable, electric attraction.

They didn’t plan it, of course. It wasn’t like He walked in thinking, “Tonight, I’m going to be utterly enchanted by a woman I’ve known for all of 30 minutes.” And She certainly didn’t set out to feel her pulse quicken over a man who she knew was a Casanova from her college days. Yet, there they were, discussing the weather, their daughters, but really thinking about how close they could sit without raising eyebrows. It was a game of verbal ping-pong, each comment laced with a flirtatious undertone that even the most oblivious could pick up on.

As the evening wore on, the attraction didn’t wane—in fact, it grew stronger. He found himself fixating on the curve of Her smile, wondering if it was inappropriate to imagine kissing her before they parted for the night.  

Meanwhile, She couldn’t help but notice how His laugh made her heart skip a beat, a sensation she hadn’t felt in a while. They both knew it was a fleeting thing, this sudden, almost ridiculous, urge to be closer. But they also knew it was a kind of magic, the kind that doesn’t come around often at their age.

By the time last drinks were served, they both had acknowledged it, at least internally: this was not going to last. But maybe that was part of the thrill. Maybe it was the knowledge that they didn’t have to think about the logistics of a relationship or the complications of blending families and finances. 

Maybe, just maybe, they could allow themselves to enjoy the sweet agony of temporary, impossible longing. The kind that feels as exhilarating as it is bittersweet.

As they parted ways, exchanging numbers they knew they might never call, both Him and Her couldn’t help but smile. It was a little ridiculous, a little impractical, but it was fun. 

And in a life full of responsibilities and routines, sometimes a little spark is exactly what you need, even if it’s just for a couple of hours.

Awakening

7:30 pm

I'm tired, hangry after a 10 hour work day which is now becoming common

Traffic crawls, come to a standstill.

Looking forward to being home, wondering what to cook for dinner.

Not keen on ordering in since my daughter has already spent an afternoon with friends junking on pub food.

Waiting at the signal, willing it to turn green.

A bike, a couple, the bags, lunchboxes signal they are returning from work, heading home probably, planning their dinner.

I can hear them, speaking in Tamil, i can see them so close to me.

She: "Shall I make dosas?"  using the colloquial Tamil word vaarthata for make

He : "don't want" (vendam)

She: "Shall I make chapatis?" again using the word sudatta for make

He: "don't need" ( thevaiyile)

She: "then what, you'll buy for me again from that hotel ?"  Asks with a smile

He: "yes" with a huge smile

She: "poda" with a shy smile and hugs him

He: blushes,"aye what are you doing?"

She: "I'm feeling cold"

That's conservative Indianism for love

For someone who had stopped believing in love of any form, this awakened my dead senses.

Makes me want to believe