If you would just let her be

If you would just let her be,

That wondrous piece of art.

She who speaks with the eyes,

And thinks from the heart.

Her kindness fills the fields with grain,

While her wrath can rage fire.

She is love, compassion and beauty,

She is anger, lust and desire.

She is the wind that sways the trees,

She is the sun that cradles the earth.

The source of all creation,

She is the womb that gives birth.

Her giving knows no end,

With her love as large as the sea.

Imagine what she could have been,

If we had just let her be.

Her voice has been silenced,

And may that voice now be heard.

It’s the rumble of clapping thunders,

It’s the hum of the hummingbird.

If you would just let her be,

And let her calmly play her part.

She who speaks with the eyes,

And thinks from the heart.

Image taken from Google images

Can geographical proximity to natal home reduce Intimate Partner Violence (IPV)?

This is one of the first times that I am writing a research-based blog-piece. But when I happened to read this research paper, I was stunned by the results. Even when based on Uzbekistan, it made me wonder about what a similar study would yield in the Indian context, where violence against women is not only commonplace, but also normalized in certain regions and communities. So here we go.

Intimate Partner Violence (IPV) continues to pose a serious threat to the well-being of women worldwide. Estimates published by the World Health Organization (WHO) in 2023 indicate that about 1 in 3 (31.6%) of women worldwide have been subjected to either physical and/or sexual IPV or non-partner sexual violence in their lifetime.

Worldwide, a quarter (25.8%) of women aged 15-49 years and 24.7% aged 15 years and older who have been in a relationship have been subjected to physical and/or sexual violence from any current or former husband or male intimate partner at least once in their lives (WHO). According to the global burden of disease estimates published in 2025, IPV is the fourth leading cause of poor health among women in terms of disability adjusted life years.

The health hazards of IPV range from outright homicide to psycho-emotional disturbances, miscarriages, stillbirths, and post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).

A serious shortcoming of IPV statistics is under-reporting by women surveyed.

A recent study[1] studies the role of geographic proximity of the wife’s natal family to incidences of IPV. Such proximity shapes power dynamics in marriage, especially in patrilocal arrangements where women may be required to move to the husband’s home after marriage. The study surveys 835 married women in Uzbekistan, where IPV was classified as an administrative offense only as late as in 2019 and criminalized only in 2023.

Parental proximity was defined as parents residing in the same city as the married woman. The study finds that geographical proximity to the natal family reduces concealment of abuse and also lowers incidences of IPV. This possibly arises as a result of closer monitoring of the daughter and the threat of reputational sanction against the perpetrator, when required. On the other hand, staying away from the parents’ family might deprive the woman from these protection mechanisms, keeping her in the abusive environment (fear-driven concealment).

In developing economies with patriarchal attitudes, where formal structures are relatively nascent (and even absent), informal protection from family seems to serve a very important purpose in shaping family dynamics for married women. This has important implications for labour migration programs and urban resettlement schemes that may expose young women to domestic abuse, by distancing them from their natal home.

I wonder what this may mean in India, patrilocal as well as rampant with rigid ideas of women serving the husband and his family. To make matters worse, the diversity in regions, religions, faiths, and communities in India may render differences in cultural conditioning stark.

Image taken from Pexels

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[1] Egamberdieva, M., & Zakharov, N. (2026). Under the wing: The effect of parental proximity on intimate partner violence and underreporting. Economics Letters, 113125.

And she turned into a feeding machine

I find the distorted expectations of women in the Indian landscape intolerable already. But this summer trip to India, coupled with my overwhelm with work, is bringing out an irritated voice inside me, that I barely knew existed.

Just yesterday I met someone I have known for decades. She’s roughly my age, about 40. We met after about 15 years. My marriage, then hers, my child, then hers, and so many other personal milestones delayed our meeting.

I was surprised to see her (let’s even say jaw-dropping). Starting with appearances, she looked much older. Physically tired and emotionally exhausted, she seemed to be in her bubble of thought all the time. Even my silly jokes – untimely and incredibly stupid – which would once tickle her beyond control, now barely reached her. As you will soon understand, time and circumstances had turned her into a feeding machine.

She remained pre-occupied with her household chores (she lives with her husband, daughter and the husband’s parents), as if a spell had been cast on her. The world around her laughed and celebrated, but her mental bubble remained intact.

Even in the little time we had, to chat about life and its challenges, all she talked about was food – groceries to be ordered, the cheaper alternatives in the market, food menu for breakfast, for the day, and for the night.

She wakes up at 6 am on Sundays she said, to cook breakfast. Sundays represent elaborate mornings with exquisite breakfasts – a treat for the men of the family, but a catastrophe for the women preparing it.

I got the chance to witness the chaos first hand. Sunday morning arrived soon, and happened to be no less chaotic than her mind. Different people ate at and left the dining table, but the makers and servers remained the same – she and her mother-in-law.

When it was my turn to eat, I said ‘please finish everything. We’ll eat together.’ To this she said something like ‘I know you want to help. So let’s get this done with.’ I sensed the pressure she felt to complete the chore, and I silently complied. The second last to eat was the mother-in-law, and my lovely feeding machine ate right in the end.

Whether something was left for her to eat or not, it did not matter. Within 7-8 minutes, the task was accomplished. The Sunday- special breakfast was over and she was free to think about lunch.

In my little time spent with her, I didn’t recognise the bubbly young girl I had once known. She laughed less, ruminated more, ate less, cooked more, spoke less, listened more. She was the unrecognisable feeding machine, disconnected from her own emotional reality.

I wonder why Indian families (and mine included) create these unbalanced structures where women cook, and men eat? If men are indeed superior as they claim they are, how about self-dependence in one of the most primal functions of human existence – food?

One argument could be that they are too good to cook, or too busy to undertake such futile endeavours. In that case, humility might be a good policy – in terms of accepting whatever they are served, whatever is available, without the tantrums of a young child, who won’t eat vegetables or this and that.

Or a simpler solution, don’t eat what you can’t cook yourself.

I don’t claim to be an expert, but out of lived experience, I can tell you that European men not only cook, they clean, feed the children, walk the dog, but also demonstrate respect for their partners in so many other ways, through the day and the night.

I find the Indian degree of dependence on and distorted expectations from females, no short of disrespect towards women. It’s like treating them as ‘less human’ than the rest of us in the family. Mother-in-laws, having experienced the same treatment in their younger years, might end up normalising this behaviour. Responsible husbands, tied economically to their fathers (typical in joint family businesses) are too scared to speak up.

As I get sick and tired of meeting feeding machines in Indian families, I wish you lot of courage in finding your voice and creating and maintaining your boundaries. It’s not an easy task, but remains an important one.

And if you’re a male reader, please help someone else around you find her voice, and live the life she was born to live and love.

Image taken from Google images

Her life, others’ choices

I have always struggled with patriarchal attitudes and gender stereotypes in Indian families. I remember how even as a fully-functional adult, my emotional needs were ignored, and choices stifled.

To make matters worse, this inhuman behaviour was completely normalised in my family, and the victim (me and other women) ended up becoming the black sheep of the family. ‘You complain too much for a woman’, I have been told repeatedly as a young girl.

When I thought that I had started to make peace with the past, I was confronted with India’s bitter reality yet again today. After nearly two years of knowing her, I went out for coffee with my son’s math teacher.

X, let’s call her, is 5 years my senior. A Vedic math teacher (ancient Indian techniques that facilitate quick computations even for complex calculations), she has been mentoring my son during the summer since last year.

A very timid person, she doesn’t like to talk much. With a nervous air to herself, she listens intently, but never really expresses her view on things, outside of her role as a teacher. In our conversation over coffee, here’s why I learnt:

– She was raised in a joint Indian family (with some 18 members under the same roof). Her family had different rules and standards for boys and girls – there was a long list of things that her male cousins could do and she cannot. Result: she stopped expressing her needs and accepted inferiority based purely on gender.

– After completing school, she was ‘authorised’ by her father and uncles to pursue higher education, only until her 3 elder sisters got married. This means that a strict age order would be followed in getting the girls in the family married, and when it was her turn, she would have to give up everything else.

– She wanted to become a psychiatrist: but it takes too long, she was told. Result: she joined a shorter, jewellery-design course instead.

– From a medicine mindset, she adapted quickly to creative arts and design. She graduated with a distinction and bagged a lucrative employment opportunity in Jaipur, a west-Indian city known for its creative designs in jewellery and textiles.

– Before she knows it, her third cousin sister ends up getting married and X is called back home. Result: job gone.

– Within 2 months, she is engaged to a man chosen by her father and uncles. Result: In 8 months, she finds herself married to him.

– Within the first year of marriage, her husband shows disrespectful behaviour, says hurtful things about her and her family. His parents (who live with him) remain silent.

– She considers telling her parents about it but her father is undergoing treatment for cancer at this point, and she doesn’t want to create further trouble. Result: she puts up with things.

– Situation today: she is still married to her husband, and has a 16-year old son with him. They continue to live with his parents and younger brother. Things have not improved. The husband is emotionally absent and continues to disrespect her and her choices. An example: he says that she does not deserve any rest or leisure given that she does not earn a proper living (she barely makes anything with her teaching endeavours). Her work status (she is not ‘allowed’ to work full time else she cannot take care of the family) makes her worthless.

– She has suffered several bouts of depression all these years, primarily out of all the emotions bottled up. ‘It’s nothing’, she has been told, and denied treatment. She says she has survived these bouts on her own and that time has helped her cope.

– Today she is trying to gain some financial independence, which is hard given that she lacks technical skills that come from higher education, and also because she must play the role of a full-time wife, mother, and daughter-in-law. She is ‘allowed’ to use whatever little time is left in her day to make money. That doesn’t leave a lot of choice or flexibility.

Yesterday when she entered the coffee shop, panting and exasperated, she recounted how she had finally told her husband how unsupportable his behaviour had become for her.

‘Do you feel guilty?’ I asked.

Sipping her cold espresso, she remarked ‘not anymore.’ And we went about chatting, until it was time to go.

Image taken from Google images

The value of the Indian passport in India

We traveled from Paris to Delhi a few days ago. As holders of Indian passports, we were immediately redirected to the ‘Other passports’ queue at Paris Charles de Gaulle airport. It seemed logical – they had a speedy, seamless process for holders of European passports (the European Union comprises 27 nations) who could now scan their passports at self-scanning kiosks (a recent installation at the airport). All other passports, would queue at the ‘Other passports’ section, waiting to see a passport control officer, who would manually verify and scan the passport and visa, and allow the passengers to proceed. This manual checking meant long lines and significant waiting time. But again, this is logical, in the interest of efficiency and protection of interests of one’s own citizens above everybody else.

Around 12 hours later, we found ourselves at the passport control section at Indira Gandhi International Airport in New Delhi. Half sleepy from the flight that had landed just about 30 minutes ago, our eyes popped open at the sight of the queues! No fewer than 5 international flights had landed in the last one hour or so and the number of people waiting to get their passports scanned before proceeding for luggage pick-up was overwhelming. I comforted myself with the idea that I was on home turf, and a shorter, dedicated queue would be waiting for us – Indian passport holders – somewhere in this chaos. As we approached the mob, we realized that the Indian approach to things was the exact opposite of what we had witnessed in Paris. There were special counters for foreign passport holders and for visitors seeking a visa on arrival. At these 10+ counters for foreign nationals, there were but 1-2 passengers waiting in line. Average waiting time: 4-5 minutes.

On the opposite side of the alley, were the counters for Indian passport holders. About 12-15 counters, of which only 5-6 remained operational. The others had no officer present, and hence, remained temporarily out of service. For the operational ones, queues averaged 80-100 people, waiting in long meandering lines, to get their passports scanned. It took us about 45 minutes before we were free to get our luggage from the baggage belt.

This experience made me wonder why the Indian administration must treat other Indians, coming home, in this second-class manner? I understand that easy and streamlined processes for foreigners boost tourism and help build a good, international image for the country, indispensable for a developing economy like India. But what about serving the interests of one’s own people? How about streamlining things for your own people? If there was shortage of staff at the airport, things would be more understandable. But as people waited desperately in long queues, it was unbelievable to witness 3-4 members of the passport control staff, away from their counters, chatting away to glory. They could see the exasperated travelers, sweating and fanning themselves. They could also see the desperate look in the eyes of the travelers, which went from supplication (to get back to their counters and help expedite the process) to disgust, at demonstrating inefficiency at work, in full public view.

Overall, it felt like an insult, added to injury. In this post, I aim not to judge, but merely present my feelings at something we went through. It was probably the ‘unexpectedness’ of this that made it feel so bad. Hopefully, it will be easier next year.

Image taken from Google images

Back in my kitchen: aloo parathas

After 8 years of living in France, I had consciously made up my mind to refine our food habits, to secure the luxury of lesser time spent in the kitchen and greater peace of mind. This choice came primarily out of difficulties and conflicts that would arise from eating only a certain kind of cuisine and then not being able to provide that to oneself after a long and tiring day at work.

We had gradually adapted our bodies (and expectations) to more season-appropriate food (such as soups in the winter and salads and sandwiches in the summer) and that which is efficient in cooking time and doing the dishes thereafter.

In short, lower consumption of Indian staple dishes such as lentils (dal) and rice, flat breads (rotis and parathas), and savoury pancakes (dosas and chillas). It was hard at the start – not eating what I had grown up eating. My son remained grumpy for weeks after the gradual change – he felt that both me and life were being unfair to him. But over time (it took years), we adapted.

In the last 3 or so years, I do not recall rolling breads. In fact, quite contrary to my eating philosophy, I had started buying frozen, ready-to-eat parathas from an Asian supermarket nearby. So whenever the craving was too high, or we had some exotic gravy or curry to savour, these precooked parathas would come in handy. On top of that, we moved into our new apartment about three years ago. The kitchen slab, a solid block of wood, covered in an elegant marble finish felt too dear to me, to torture under a wooden rolling pin.

However, all of this changed yesterday when I promised aloo parathas (fresh flat bread with a spicy, potato filling) to friends over dinner. I will not lie – I was freaking out about having lost the muscle to do it, the night before. I wasn’t even sure if I would get the dough right. What if it’s too sticky? What if the rebellious potatoes get too mushy and ooze out of the bread? Anyway. For our dinner at 7 pm, I started the preparation at 1. My professional dough maker Magimix did the job perfectly and I managed to have the perfect dough without getting my hands messy!

The potatoes were perfectly cooked – neither mushy, nor undercooked (divine providence!). The potato stuffing was tangy – just the way I like it. The rolling out process went smoothly – the rolling pin (I have mine from my Indian kitchen) continued to obey me. 4 hours later, the food was ready! Aloo parathas, mint raita (yoghurt with spices), a tomato-cucumber salad, coriander and mint chutney, and chilled mango lassi (mango-flavoured yoghurt drink).

As we enjoyed our dinner that evening, I couldn’t help but wonder. How did I pull this off practically every day back in India? The planning, anticipation, preparation, and execution was exhausting. While proud of my accomplishment, I couldn’t help thinking about all the unpaid hours of work that most Indian women put in each day, driven by their desire (and sense of duty) to nourish the members of their family, through elaborate meals. They spend long hours in the kitchen, battling the heat and grime, and yet, remain largely invisible to the beneficiaries of these efforts.

A South Indian friend once gave me a very interesting perspective into differences in the position of women in much-more-patriarchal North India and much-more-liberal South India. He said ‘North Indian women use wheat as their staple. This means that they must roll out bread (rotis) multiple times every day to feed the family, which is both time and energy intensive. South Indian women, on the other hand, have rice as their staple, allowing them the flexibility to cook large quantities of it in one go and then heat it for each meal. The wheat versus the rice explains the power of the woman and the time she has for herself and her needs.’

I don’t know what else might have contributed to these differences in the North and South, apart from eating habits, but I can attest to the fact that South Indian women have better education levels and a stronger hold in family dynamics and decision making.

Isn’t it strange how food habits can chain or liberate us?

Image taken from Google images

40 orbits around the sun

Some of you might already know this, but I turned 40 few days ago. It was surreal – while I remained as indifferent as I typically am on my birthdays, others around me seemed overjoyed.

It was incredible to see the differences in viewpoints across India and France. Friends in India jokingly remarked – ‘oh you’re already 40! Getting old, no?’ or something like ‘You’re a teenager’s mom now. Now you need to think of his future.’ Friends in France thought differently. ‘Welcome to the Club of 40.’ ‘Such a beautiful age! Merits celebration’ or ‘I still remember how energetic I felt when I was 40.’

At the end of the day, looking back on these conversations, I was filled with so much gratitude. Not only because I felt so loved throughout the day as calls and messages poured in, but also because people took the time to remind me of this milestone in my life. While it had felt like just another birthday to me at the start of the day, by sunset, the feeling of the ‘special number’ had started to sink in. Before I went to bed, I tried to take an inventory of the years that had passed, the fours decades that seemed to have gone by in a whiff.

Here’s what I discovered:

Decade 1 (age 1 – 10): ignorant and (probably therefore) happy

Decade 2 (11 – 20): disturbed, disoriented, too focused on the world

Decade 3 (21 – 30): Subservient and people-pleasing

Decade 4 (31 – 40): Composed, centred and focused on the self

I know I have come a long way in life. From self-pity to self-doubt, and eventually to self-love, the journey has been exhilarating. A long list of people have contributed to this process in their own myriad ways. Over time, I have made so many friends, and lost some others. I have learnt lessons about people, about behaviors and about some unsaid rules of operating in this world. They never tell us any of this, right? We are left to navigate our own paths, stumbling, bleeding, and getting up again.

Here are some reminders for myself when I may need them again:

1. Relationships of any kind are better evaluated by their quality, rather than duration. Not all relationships survive the test of time.
2. We often overestimate the role of skill, and underestimate the role of luck, in our success stories. It’s not easy to recognise that ‘Yes, in fact I’ve been lucky.’
3. We have limited reserves of time and energy. While one must keep fighting, it is essential to choose one’s battles wisely.
4. When we don’t have an opinion of our own, the world starts to tell us what to think.
5. My favourite – this comes from a senior woman broadcaster I met at a conference recently. ‘If you’re not at the table, you’re on the menu.’ Simply speaking, SPEAK UP FOR YOURSELF, else be ready to be eaten up.

Thank you for reading this post and being part of my journey through your readership. This is one of the most valued relationships I have.

Image taken on some guest’s phone, at a birthday party thrown by Florence, my French adoptive mother

(Strong) movie recommendation: The Lunchbox

A lot of Indians reading this post might be wondering why I write this, so many years after this movie has been released (it dates back to 2013), and might even have watched it already. So let me start by explaining why. First, I write about it only now because I watched the movie again, only yesterday, with my 12-year old. Second, the first time I had watched it, it did not seem as stark as it did yesterday, after years of living in Europe, where institutions and societal expectations are so different, and often, more liberal.

The Lunchbox documents the story of Ila, a young woman, trapped in a loveless marriage, in a typical middle class Indian household, and Saajan, a middle-aged widower, who finds himself trapped in routine and loneliness as he approaches retirement. The story is based in the Indian metropolitan – Mumbai, which is known for its fast pace of life, stark inequality between the rich and the poor, and exorbitantly high cost of living.

Ila is the stereotypical Indian housewife – loyal and responsible, she cooks and cleans, sends their daughter to school, packs lunchboxes for her husband and daughter, and remains invisible for most of her existence. She has been conditioned by her mother (and the society in which she and her mother have been raised) that the surest way to please a man is through good food, and thus puts in a great deal of effort in preparing and packing her husband’s lunchbox every day.

The lunchbox is picked fresh every morning by the delivery man (these are called Dabbawalas in Mumbai) and brought straight up to the intended recipient to their place of work, and empty boxes duly returned home by the end of the day. It is incredible how many tiffins/ lunchboxes are handled by these Dabbawalas and delivered to different parts of the city, in time for lunch (about 200,000, as their website claims). Constituting a huge network of delivery agents, the Dabbawalas are known for their high accuracy levels – they never deliver to the wrong person and timeliness. In fact, their efficient management and coordination system has even been subject to a Harvard Business School case study.

Anyway. As fate would have it, one day Ila’s husband’s lunchbox is accidentally delivered to Saajan, who typically relies on a local restaurant for his lunches. He is pleasantly surprised at the sudden burst of flavour in the restaurant’s food, only to realise that the good food continues day after day. Realising that her husband has not been eating what she has been sending for him, Ila sends a handwritten note in the lunchbox the next day, explaining that this seems to an error. And thus begins, the trail of daily exchange between Ila and Saajan.

In these letters, Ila pours her heart out, about her failing marriage, her husband’s lack of interest in her, and even her suspicion that he is cheating on her. Like a good friend, Saajan shares his appreciation for her food, and the beautiful memories of his wife, that he still guards close to him. A friendship ensues, until they finally decided to meet in person. Whether they are able to, and what ensues, I leave for you to watch.

Is The Lunchbox an extraordinary story? No. Is it about extraordinary experiences of larger-than-life humans? No. And that is exactly what makes it so heart-wrenchingly beautiful. It is a tale of ordinary people, living ordinary and mundane lives, and looking for ordinary pleasures of love and hope, as we all do.

Ila, despite having accepted her invisibility in her marriage, tries to make it work. After all, that’s what her mother has modelled to her, just as practically every Indian middle class woman does. She has seen her mother in an unhappy marriage practically all her life, serving her husband till his last breath. Ila has no friends, and chooses to not share her misery with her aging mother, already neck-deep in caring for her cancer-ridden father.

All she desires at the end of each tiring (and thankless) day, is genuine connection and some conversation with her husband, after he returns from work. He eats with his eyes glued to the television set. The meal is shrouded in silence, and there’s no conversation at all. All there is, is a marriage, too hopeless and rusty to survive the test of time.

Saajan, in very different circumstances, craves exactly the same thing – love and attention. In one of his letters to Ila, he raises the philosophical issue of the speed and yet, shallowness of life in a city like Mumbai. He writes ‘I spent my life standing in the crowded local buses, and now that they’ve allotted me a standing burial spot in the crowded Mumbai cemetery, I think I must stand even after death.’

This movie, among other things, is about distorted societal expectations, rigid notions that dictate what one can and cannot do, should and should not do. It makes us question whether in the midst of all these expectations – some from society, others from family, and so many more from the self – we are really missing the point of life.

As I end, I’d like to quote the Persian poet Rumi:

“Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.”

Image taken from Google Images

Au revoir Caro

Today I write with a heavy heart. My friend Caroline (we lovingly called her Caro), who I had known for about 3 years, left for another dimension two days ago. She had been battling the relapse of her breast cancer for about a year now.

I met Caro through my yoga and fitness instructor in Rennes, France. I was told that she was someone deeply engaged in Indian culture and frequently visited India to buy gemstones for her jewellery business. During these trips (most of these centred around Rajasthan), she would spend hours in trying to speak Hindi to the locals, bargain with vendors in the local language (it was cute, but never worked), and try to understand the living conditions of women in the highly patriarchal Rajasthan. When I heard these things, I couldn’t wait to meet her in person and understand what she thought of the country I had grown up in, and what she made of these two distinct worlds – one where she was born and raised, and the other, where she said her heart was.

On the other hand, she had been told about me – probably something like ‘there’s an Indian woman in Rennes. Trying to speak French (that sometimes sounds like gibberish), but always smiling.’ That might have made her want to meet me too.

The day we first met (she had invited me home), she hugged me like a Mama bear. She was about 15 years older than me, and with that hug, she had become my mother, my elder sister and dear friend, all at the same time. We instantly connected, as if our affiliation went back a long time.

Not long after, I became her ‘soul sister’. We would chat on phone, meet up at her place (she had a huge sense of hospitality which reminded me of India), and chat for hours over coffee. Her house always smelt of India and it’s hard to explain how given that she didn’t use incense. Not surprisingly, there were glimpses of India on every corner of her abode – a block print table cloth, brightly-coloured embroidered cushions, and of course, a kitchen drawer full of spices and spice mixes. I clearly remember the time when I changed my profile picture of Facebook (this happens very rarely) and she commented ‘Devi’ on my post (Devi means Goddess in Sanskrit, the ancient Indian language).

She was so happy when my son started attending school just minutes away from her house. She wanted to have him over during lunch hours everyday and teach him about precious stones and crystals (a shared passion between the two). But she had a calling – she felt that she had to go back to the south of France, where she came from (she was from Marseille). Within a few months, she and her husband were wrapping things up for the big move.

I was sad to see her go. Even when we didn’t manage to meet as often as we would have liked, she was my anchor. Her presence in Rennes was reassuring in that she was there for me, accessible, no matter what. Within weeks of her move to the South, the cancer had returned. After heavy treatment lasting months, she passed this Sunday. A friend of hers informed me last evening.

I have been feeling not-so-functional since then. I want back and listened to all our audio notes on WhatsApp. The voice is real, she’s there, yet not here, in this dimension anymore. The last text I sent her was in December 2025, telling her that I’m thinking about her. But those words no longer seem sufficient. In fact, they feel like a farce. I wish I had told her more, about how I feel for her, and how we have come to value her over the years. How she made a difference around her – merely by her gentle presence and ability to observe and listen. She didn’t ‘give’ people much, except that she gave them everything she had.

I miss you Caro. May you continue to shine wherever you are and I can’t wait to see you again. Our Indian dinner plan is still pending.

Caro and I, in August 2023. Image shot on my iPhone 13 .

And she rises from the ashes

Yes she has been the black sheep,

Who took way too much space.

The girl with too many questions,

The source of persistent disgrace.

Her books and pens were the problem,

She should have been sewing instead.

Of what use were those English classics,

If she couldn’t roll the bread?

Good girls must learn to please,

Their father, their husband and then the son.

Their fate is sealed right after birth,

Doomed before life has even begun.

She did try to be the good girl,

As she shred tiny pieces of her soul.

She gave until she was hollow within,

Her sense of self – a black, gaping hole.

But the phoenix has risen from the ashes,

She now flies with the birds.

She has found her place in the sky,

She no more needs the shepherds.

She no longer gives unless asked,

She makes no more attempt to please.

Her peace is her sacred temple,

And she meticulously guards the keys.

She knows she can’t make everyone happy,

And it’s not even her job.

Call her rude or snooty or selfish,

Or call her a thankless snob.

If you could be one thing,

Why not just be who you are.

That is where your journey begins,

The quest to reclaim your power.

Image taken from Google images

My first trip to Deutschland (Germany)

I have only heard of the German way of life, of the efficiency in their design and thinking.

I got the chance to visit Germany with my son, for a conference in Digital Finance, held in Frankfurt in December. This was well timed in every way, given my (our) desire to explore the splendour of Christmas markets in Germany. My son, who is learning German at school, had agreed to be our tour guide and ask questions in German wherever necessary. As vegetarians who eat neither meat, nor fish, we have no dearth of food-related questions at restaurants and coffee shops during travel.

We arrived in Frankfurt on a Saturday afternoon, after having changed a train in Paris. Thankfully, there was not a huge difference between the temperatures in Rennes (where we live) and in Germany. Honestly, I had been scared about the possibility of snow and how I would deal with it, in my tropical Indian skin. Dressed in several layers, I think we managed the cold well. There was neither snow, nor rain, thankfully.

Once there, our hunt for Christmas markets began. I was surprised to know that there is not one, but several Christmas markets in Frankfurt. Based on the recommendation of a German friend, we chose to go to the one at Romer Square. This ancient square is associated with the Nazi burning of books in 1933. Offering a huge outdoor space for the Christmas festivities, the square housed rows and rows of chalets (tiny wooden houses that look like doll houses) tempted the crowds with local delicacies, mulled wine, Mexican burritos, hot churros, artisanal candles and perfumes.

It seemed like the more we walked, the longer the market stretched. The decorations, that I have only seen on TV or in fancy calendars, as well as the fairytale-like lighting, seemed to cover miles and miles. It was incredible how people, taken over by the Christmas spirit, seemed so oblivious to the low temperatures. They ate, drank, danced, and bought souvenirs.

The next day we made a day trip to the historical city of Heidelberg, just about an hour away from Frankfurt. A scientific hub, Heidelberg is known for its university, which was established as early as in 1386, making it Germany’s oldest university. We had the chance to stroll its cobbled streets and take the funicular to the castle. After several rounds of walking in circles, we managed to arrive at the same spot – the entrance of the castle. It being a Sunday, there were no guided tours and eventually, we gave up on our desire to see the famous, still-furnished rooms of the royal family that once lived here. In the post image, you can see us at the castle, as the night had begun to fall.

A very important highlight here was the Pharmacy Museum. Hidden in a tiny corner of the castle, this museum provides the historical evolution of medicine in Europe. Starting with the times when illnesses were considered to come from displeased Gods, to the use of plants and rare herbs, it ended with modern-day medicine, including antibiotics and the COVID vaccine.

Our last day in Germany was spent in Frankfurt, at the School of Finance and Management, for the conference. It was a not-so-large gathering of researchers in cryptocurrencies and stablecoins – some who presented their research, and some others like me, who listened and asked questions.

Few points of comparison between Germany and France (based on my limited observation):

1. German closed spaces, like restaurants and hotel rooms appear to be much more heated (24 degrees and more) compared to those in France, where most people prefer to set internal temperatures up to a maximum of 20 degrees Celsius.
2. The German public transport system is built on ‘trust’. Passengers are ‘expected’ to buy tickets and keep them in case of a check (which rarely happens). This is in sharp contrast to France, where ticket checks and controls and frequent and tickets must be punched each time we use a public transport facility (bus or metro).
3. German people do not smile at strangers, unlike France, a probable outcome of cultural conditioning. The French like to say Bonjour even to those they don’t know, for instance, people boarding the same bus or crossing the road at the same time. But remember, this is not so much the case in large cities like Paris, where everyone seems to be in a rush.
4. If you think that France is the bread and pastry paradise in Europe, wait until you have tasted the German marzipan and the salted bretzel (the knotted bread). Germany takes great pride in its variety of breads, just as France does.
5. Germans tend to speak very good English, which is not so often the case in France. So if you are a confused tourist looking for answers, your knowledge of English should suffice in this part of the world.

Overall, a wonderful travel experience. I hope to visit Berlin next time and explore its history.

As I end, a humorous quote by Mark Twain:

‘Learning German is what eternity was made for.’

Thank you for reading.

Images shot on my iPhone 13.

An interior view of the Imperial Dome of Saint Bartholomew in Frankfurt. It happens to be the largest religious building in the city.

The Christmas market at Romer’s Square in Frankfurt

The Romer’s Christmas market, seen from a nearby narrow street

À gigantesque Christmas decoration at the Romer’s Square

The happy kid. One can see the Central Train station, Frankfurt right behind him

A fully-functional brewery in Heidelberg (apparently established in 1927)

A ‘brizza’ (bretzel + pizza) at a local eaterie in Heidelberg

Us, posing at the castle ruins in Heidelberg. The left part of the castle is completely destroyed.

At the Pharmacy Museum in Heidelberg

The entrance to the Frankfurt School of Finance and Management

Caught me in my tracks. Appears to be a castle in the middle of nowhere in Frankfurt

Let me come last

I happily let you overtake me,

I’m certainly not here to run.

I want to arrive in the end,

When everyone else is done.

I let you finish with pride,

And for you I shall cheer.

Your reward lies in finishing,

And mine in staying here.

Your race is on the course,

And mine is in my head.

I want to live each moment,

For we barely hang by a thread.

Go on my hare,

Don’t stop before the finish line.

Let this tortoise arrive in the end,

Sipping leisurely, her glass of wine.

Image taken from Google images

And what does your shit sandwich look like?

Sorry for starting off on a note like that. But let me tell you that this is a real concept, a philosophy brought to light by celebrated author Elizabeth Gilbert, best known for her book Eat Pray Love.

In her book titled Big Magic: Creative Loving Without Fear, Gilbert cites this way of looking at life, which can facilitate making one’s life choices. Inspired by Mark Manson, this philosophy involves considering the often overlooked fact that with everything good that one desires or looks forward to, there are some side effects that must not only be expected, but also dealt with graciously. This is the ‘shit’ that one must bear with, if any goal is to be set.

While difficulties and challenges (aka shit) are inevitable, one does have control over the ‘flavour’ or simply, the ‘kind’ of difficulties one is willing to put up with. And this, comes from an understanding of oneself and one’s boundaries and tolerances. For instance, if I aspire to be a medical doctor but am unwilling to put up with long hours of study, it’s best to avoid that trajectory. Or another example – if someone feels lonely and is considering romantic partnership, one must get comfortable with the idea of adjustment to another human being’s tastes and habits, and of course, tiny disappointments at the start.

So even when difficulties are a natural part of the process of success and achievement, if one was to choose as a target or goal, something one is really passionate about, most likely all the baggage (aka the shit) that comes with it, will be easier to put up with. So one way to make good decisions in life is to explore what really drives us to push our limits.

Chasing goals that involve the kind of difficulties one is not willing (or likely able) to put up with are best avoided in the interest of time and energy.

So what does your sandwich look like? What are you willing to put up with?

Image taken from Google images

Movie recommendation: The boy in the striped pajamas

I have always been intrigued by the historic events around the Holocaust. To me, this part of world history speaks volumes about the folly of the human race and the power of mass deception.

Netflix recently recommended me a movie titled ‘The boy in the striped pyjamas.’ Surprisingly, it was a Saturday evening and even my 11-year son was craving some good cinema. So we decided to take the plunge.

The movie, about 90 minutes long, revolves around a beautiful friendship that develops between two 8-year old boys – one locked up in a Nazi-controlled concentration camp in Poland, and the other, the privileged son of the Nazi officer who is charged with maintaining the concentration camp and of course, exterminating its inhabitants. Based on the book written by John Boyne in 2006, the film was released in 2008 in the UK and the US.

It is a subtle, yet nuanced dynamic of a child’s confusion about the idea of enmity and the need to imprison (and exterminate) an entire population , coupled with his innocent desire to help in whichever way he can, to alleviate his friend’s suffering.

The story unfolds rapidly and takes an unexpected twist in the end.

I was overjoyed to see that my son enjoyed the movie and its subtleties, as much as I did. He is learning Holocaust history at school and the movie only helped him see better, what that might have felt like to people living that experience.

My three main take-aways from the film:

• Children know only friendship and empathy. Enmity and hatred are reserved for adults.
• Friendship is one of the most beautiful feelings in the world. It keeps us from feeling lonely, even in the most dire circumstances.
• Life goes in full circles – what we sow, we end up reaping.

So if you are looking for a movie that weaves historical events into a touching tale of human relationships, you will not be disappointed with this one.

Thank you for reading.

Image taken from Google images.

When did you last experience ‘gezellig’?

I came across this word recently while reading a book in human psychology.

The author, an American, talks about her visit to the Netherlands, to spend time with her friend, also a fellow physicist. They end up at her friends place, enjoying a quiet meal together. Her Dutch friend points out that in that very instant, they are both experiencing gezellig.

Most English words used to describe emotions, do so in a rather single-faceted manner. Think of words like frustration, guilt, tenderness, or love. This magical Dutch word however, encompasses within itself, an entire, multi-faceted experience.

Gezellig (pronounced Heh-sell-ick) is used to describe both people and situations. In the latter sense, it refers to a feeling of warmth and coziness that comes from being with people you love, or from seeing a loved one after a long time, or eating grandma’s signature pie after ages. That warm kind of feeling, that warms up the soul. Personally, it makes me think of a cozy couch, a lightly lit room filled with plants, a four-legged companion, and a cup of hot coffee in hand.

As someone fond of learning new words, this one has really stayed with me. Not just a state of mind, this word encapsulates an entire state of being.

So next time, if you ever visit Amsterdam or any other city in the Netherlands, don’t be surprised to find cafes and tiny corners that promise you a ‘gezellegheid’ (cosy) experience.

Image taken from Google images

And he’s back to school

Today my 11 year old son started school again, after an almost 2-month summer break.

As I sat with him in the large auditorium with almost 400 other people, including parents, I noticed myself shaking furtively. As the director announced the names of students for each section, children waited nervously. Would they end up with friends from last year, or will they have to start all over again, in terms of social effort? Will the teacher be male or female? Will the teacher be someone they have heard of as kind and lenient? I held my son’s hand as he went through the ordeal, my thoughts going back at least 25 years, when I would await my name being called, believing that my fate for next year was being determined by someone other than me.

Finally, he ended up in a section with some students he knew from last year. I saw him smile as he left the auditorium, following his new teacher (a male) with his new group of classmates.

As I exited the auditorium to come to work, I was filled with a sense of awe and dread, both at the same time. How he has grown and how time has flown. I remember how few years ago, I would have to wake up at least 2 hours earlier, to bathe and dress him up for school. Now, he does all of it himself. He goes to school on his own, takes and changes buses and depends on me, less and less, for physical needs. It’s a beautiful feeling.

However, the sense of dread comes from the fact of ‘letting go’, of not being able to protect him all the time, as I could do in the past. Walking him to school, feeding him, helping him cross the road, taking him to birthday parties and then bringing him back. It’s hard to accept that with this new independence that he has acquired (which has of course given me a lot of breathing space), I have had to accept all the uncertainties that come along. I no longer hold his hand as we wait at the traffic signal, nor observe him do it. Similarly, I no longer persuade difficult children in his class to be nice to him and I must now believe that he will be able to navigate these relational difficulties on his own.

I know that for most of his troubles, he might actually say nothing to me, believing that it might cause me to worry.

In the end, I have started to convince myself to trust the processes of nature, or God as one might call it, to protect and nourish my child. Protection not only from external sources, but also from his own demons. May he understand the need to discipline himself before he sets out to change the world, and may he know how much difference one life can make in the lives of so many others.

Image taken from Google images

My people pleasing – finally on the decline

Even as a very young girl, I have felt myself being in awe of confident people. I know what you’re thinking – what exactly do I mean by confident?

To my little girl brain, confidence would imply the full package of behaviour, body language and the communication skills that seemed to suggest that the person in question ‘knew’ what he/ she really wants. These were the kind of people who seem so comfortable in their skin, that everything (and everyone) else outside of them ceases to matter. My earliest memory of people like these was at airports in India. Somehow my eye would fall on people, particularly women, immaculately dressed, and completely oblivious to the presence of crowds around them. I would gaze at them till it turned into an embarrassing stare.

The reason why this trait allures me so much is perhaps that I have always considered myself a people-pleaser. I typically give in to others’ needs and desires, without even considering my own (in fact for a long time, I have believed that I had none). At an ice cream parlour, if you asked me what flavour of ice cream I’d like to order, in maximum probability, I’d have said ‘I’ll have what you’re having.’ And this would be not only to please you, but also because I really didn’t know what I like.

As I have learnt in my readings on gender, women are somewhat conditioned to be people-pleasers. And this is not just in patriarchal societies such as those in South-East Asia, but in ‘modern’, rather gender-equal societies as well. Women, endowed with higher doses of empathy and care than men, often fall into this people-pleasing trap quite early in life, as they seek validation from their care givers, who may be people-pleasers themselves.

Anyway. What is reassuring in all of this is the fact that with age, progesterone levels in women decline (when they are completely gone, we say that the woman is in menopause). This period of declining fertility for women, often associated with several negative physical and cognitive changes, has also been associated with regeneration of the self. As the aging woman sheds her old skin, she is forced to look inward, to discover who she really is.

And this self-inspection not only liberates her from all the ‘shoulds’ she had been learnt to carry, but also allows her the freedom to relearn and reset her boundaries. I have had the good fortune to undertake some interview-based research on menopause. The study signalled that while most menopausal women interviewed experience some sense of loss (whether of fertility, beauty, or ability to think clearly), one fact seems to stand out. They start to understand themselves, and their boundaries better. They acquire new skills – of communicating more assertively, reflecting before giving answers, and more importantly – saying no.

And why have I written this post – to announce proudly that in the last few years, I too seem to know better what I want – today and in life. Things that once seemed important, now feel meaningless. It feels as if there’s so little time to do so much and thanks to this new realisation, saying no has become so much easier. I don’t know if this signals an impending mesopause or simply wisdom that comes with age, I love how this feels.

So if you’re struggling with boundaries and the ability to say no, give yourself some time. It will come before you even know it.

Image taken from Google images

The fear of the gap year

I had the privilege of interacting with the students of a very prestigious business school in India. Having joined the Institute just a week ago, in this new batch of students, I was expecting to see excitement, enthusiasm and the confidence of conquering the world. After all, they had cracked the very competitive Common Admission Test (CAT) to get to this place. The CAT, which takes place once a year in November, is taken by about 300,000 students each year, with a success rate of only about 2%. Of these, students stand the chance of getting into the best-ranked Institutes of Management in India, based on the percentile obtained (making the exam really cut-throat). In simple words, others doing as well as you reduce your chances of getting a good score.

Anyway. During my visit to one of these prominent Institutes, I had expressed the desire to meet with students who could find any value in talking to an academic not affiliated with the Institute. I thought that this could present an opportunity to young adults, with questions and concerns of a confidential nature, that an external view could help disentangle.

I met with some 12-15 students during my stay there. These were young men and women, immaculately dressed, so confident of what they expected in life. I have never cracked the CAT myself, but seeing them in that setting filled me with ecstasy. How proud their parents must be of them, I wondered in my head.

To my surprise, one theme that these students consistently brought to me was the ‘fear of the gap year.’ Students who were barely a week old in the massive, stone-lined building of the Institute seemed worried about ‘placements’ – finding employment at the end of the 2-year journey. That took me aback. What about the celebration of having made it here? What about the exhilaration of being here, compared to all the others who tried and may be even exited the MBA market?

When I asked them how I could help them specifically with this issue, some of them even cried. They told me, guilt brimming in their eyes, that they needed help with managing the shame associated with poor time management in the past.

‘Poor time management?’ I exclaimed! ‘But then you’re here right?’ Over time I understood that they felt stupid, ‘less-than’ for not having managed their time in the ‘most optimum’ manner. They had taken longer than some of their peers to get to this place. They had given CAT after CAT, to have finally accomplished a score high enough to get here. And now that they were here, they were worried about how potential employers would perceive them, specifically in the context of the extra time they had taken. The biggest challenge appeared to be the need to explain or justify the use of the ‘gap year/s’, without necessarily appearing inefficient (read: worthless).

Not having gone through the CAT experience myself, I did not know how I could help them get over this exaggerated fear in their heads. I suggested we do a small role play wherein they play the tough employer, and I, the student with the ‘gap year.’ I tried to explain to them that sometimes, taking time to reflect about our needs, in fact takes us to a better place, rather than jumping on the first train that arrives at the station. In fact, we all grow at different rates, each of us, reaching the same milestone at different stages in our lives.

I have often wondered about the Indian system of education, that creates distorted expectations of young students, pushing them to the edge. Educational attainment, is in fact, the first step to self-discovery. But excellence at the expense of the self? Is it not similar in school-going children in India – running from school to tuition classes, too busy ‘doing’ what is expected of them? Why is ‘being’, compared to ‘doing’ pushed aside? So many thoughts in this direction ran through my head as I listened to these students, one after another, each bringing up a slightly modified version of the same concern.

As I was getting better with dealing with this question, I could see that every second student who came to me with this, left calmer and more reassured. Some of them even told me that despite hearing similarly reassuring things from friends and family, the same words from an academic, unknown to them previously, soothed their nerves.

I don’t know if you or someone in your family had gone through a version of this – even if in the primary or secondary education context. But if this has been the case, please do not forget to let them know that taking longer to reach a point than others around them, does not make them weak or ‘less than.’ What is critical is arriving to this place in life, on their own terms, rather than having accepted whatever cards were dealt to them in the first place.

Image taken from Google images

The joy of teaching

Just few days ago, the business school where I work held its annual graduation ceremony. Just as is the case each year, the hall was buzzing with students from across the globe, ready to move on to their professional journey, accompanied by their parents, spouses, and even children. What a sight that was! The energy in the hall was so positive and charged, for everyone present.

I was sitting in one of the rows reserved for professors of the school, and clapping as students walked on the stage, hooting for themselves, program after program. There were some I recognised as the timid ones in class, so unsure of their abilities, and some others that had always known that they were made for big things in life. As I saw this unfold before my eyes, I wondered if it had in fact been an easy feat to teach these students. My mind wandered into philosophy – how has the profession of teaching evolved over the years? How are teachers (at all levels of education) perceived by their students? Are we really adding value in the world of Google and now, Artificial Intelligence?

Teaching, or educating has been considered a noble profession for ages. After all, we bear a responsibility quite heavy – shaping the minds of the generations to come. And this, not only through knowledge in the subject matter, but also through modelling good behaviour and attitude. As a young girl, I always dreamt of dressing, speaking and even grading answer sheets like my primary school teachers did. Haven’t we grown up idolising our instructors?

After about 16 years of teaching, I do see that the nature and perception around the profession has evolved. Teachers are no longer idols to their students (generally speaking), but rather experts in their subject matter. This makes them ‘service providers’ in a sort of transactional way. It’s not bad, or in any way jeopardising. It simply marks a change, as with everything else in life.

Even when students no longer ‘idolise’ their instructors, they continue to be influenced by them and even, emulate them. For instance, they see how we relate to time – if an instructor is always punctual, the students will adapt to that, and vice versa. Similarly, they look for cues as to how we handle complex situations, for instance, how we maintain our calm in explaining things over and over again, our patience in answering repetitive questions and develop a like or dislike for subjects based on how ‘we’ ended up presenting them. So our responsibility has not abated in any sense.

For me, a good student is not one who excels in the subject (who cares about grades anyway, unless it’s a fail and requires re-grading), but carries in him the desire to learn. He/ she is humble, and recognises the fact that there is so much more to know. As they say ‘when the student is ready, the teacher appears.’

On the contrary, I have found it incredibly hard to communicate with (let alone educate) students who seem to know it all. How can you, despite your best resources, add value to someone’s life, who feels he doesn’t need it. As the famous Buddhist saying goes ‘you cannot pour into a cup that’s already full.’

It would be unfair not to mention instructors that teach, not to educate or enlighten, but to check some box somewhere. Unfortunately, neither do they grow from this exercise, nor do their students. Isn’t it easy to gauge ‘disinterest’ in someone who’s talking to you? Students are particularly good with sensing this and adapt their behaviour accordingly. So here’s a saying again ‘you cannot pour from an empty cup.’

Thankfully, I have some beautiful stories of experiences with students, accumulated over the years. Each time I doubt myself or my abilities, I remind myself of those moments after the graduation ceremony, where students come to thank me with their parents, or sometimes their children. It melts my heart when the parents, not well-versed with English, try to thank me for having made a difference in their child’s life, in their native language that I do not understand. But, as all human beings, I do understand the language of gratitude and respect, and it fills me with awe.

After all, what else is all this for? This little acknowledgment of the little value I could have added in their lives, is enough to keep me going.

Image taken from Google images

Are we really ‘healthy?’

I had the good fortune of attending a mental health workshop at school today. Mental health issues, especially in the workplace, intrigue me from a research perspective. Despite advances in health at a global scale, acceptance of and conversations around mental health remain scant, even in developed economies.

The speaker at the workshop started off with a very profound question. She looked at us, the small group seated in an oval around a table, and asked ‘do you know how the WHO (the World Health Organisation) defines a healthy individual?’ We all seemed to know the answer, or at least we thought so. Some talked of physical fitness, while others about mental stability.

The correct and ‘complete’ answer surprised us – the WHO defines a healthy individual as someone who experiences well-being at three levels simultaneously – physical, mental and social. This means that health, often associated with physical fitness, a good shape and probably low levels of blood sugar and cholesterol, is much more holistic.

It encompasses the sense of satisfaction we experience at the emotional as well as social level. This would include the ability to feel at peace within oneself, the ability to recognise and deal with one’s emotions, and of course, the sense of society or community. Falling behind on any of these dimensions does not imply immediate danger, but does make us more vulnerable to meeting the challenges of life, the way we are expected to.

This seems to be one of the various reasons why yoga and other traditional mind-body systems have sprung to fame again. There is plenty of research evidence on the internet that links physical and mental experiences – and how one impacts the other.

Human life is a complex series of events – big, small and rather innocuous. Each of them, individually and collectively, impact the trajectory of our lives and our skills sets. Not only do two individuals (even if raised in the same family) react differently to the same situation or life event, as we evolve and grow, our reactions to familiar situations change too. This implies assured growth and evolution with the passage of time – not only in our capabilities to ‘deal’ with life, but in better management of the cards we have been dealt.

So if you’ve been wondering about when to finally start exercising, meditating or simply hanging out with people you love, it’s time to get started.

Image taken from Google images

Travel diaries: Family love in Toulouse

It’s been almost 2 weeks since we returned from a 6-day stay in Toulouse in the south of France, and we haven’t stopped thinking about it. It was a good opportunity to use one week out of my son’s 2-week school vacation. And in hindsight I can say that it was a very wise choice.

Toulouse, the fourth largest city in France, is the capital of the southern region of Occitanie. Located on the banks of the river Garonne, it shares close proximity to Spain. This makes Toulouse, a vibrant and rather eclectic mix of French and Spanish cultures. Don’t be surprised to find tapas bars (totally Spanish) in the most unexpected corners of the city. Its unique architecture of exposed terracotta bricks has earned it the name ‘La ville rose’ (the pink city) in France.

Why did we choose Toulouse? Not because of everything I mentioned above, but simply because my cousin Prakhar (I like to call him the ‘Scientist’) lives there with his wife Aakanksha (yes we share our first names, with different spellings though).

For us, this has been a trip to remember for several reasons:

1. The hospitality (or l’accueil, as they say in French): Bhabhi and bro acted as incredibly patient tour guides for the trip, despite their work schedules. They had already identified key places for us to see (and completed their research beforehand) and showed us around with detailed explanations of what, when and why. Just wow!
2. The food: I’m not talking just about restaurants and street food in Toulouse, but about the food we savoured at their home. Indian delicacies, those that I dread to prepare in France, for the time they involve, were served day after day in the beautiful garden terrace of their home. A little bubble of comfort in Toulouse!
3. Good weather: Here I am seeing the glass half full. Toulouse is known for its erratic weather, especially rainfall. We were lucky to have benefitted from 3 days of sunshine, followed by 3 rainy days. While we indulged in sight-seeing for the first 3, the rainy ones were lazy and relaxed, overflowing with bro’s speciality – tea!
4. The space museum: Toulouse happens to be the centre of the European aerospace industry. A fun fact: it happens to be the headquarters of the well-known Airbus. We were particularly enchanted to visit the Cite de l’espace, a scientific discovery centre focused on space flight. For space fanatics like me and my son, this was a day full of discovery and wonder. To give you an example, we sat on the Lune Explorer – a simulation exercise that gives you a feel of what astronauts experience when launching off the earth, towards the moon. Defying the earth’s gravity requires a strong propulsion, which makes these space travellers feel as if they were carrying twice their own weight at the time of take-off. Intense experience for sure.
5. The jardin japonais (the Japanese Garden): A project undertaken and completed in 1981 by then city mayor Pierre Baudis, this oriental garden in France takes us straight to the calm and natural landscapes of Japan. Equipped with a lake, a tea pavilion, a dry garden, a red bridge and flowering cherry blossoms in full bloom at the moment – this is pure zen. We ended up staying here much longer than planned.
6. The magnificence of monuments: Toulouse is known for its mix of gothic, post-renaissance and modern architectural styles and boasts of 3 UNESCO sites in its belt. One of these is the Basilica Saint-Sernin, one of the two largest surviving Romanesque churches in Europe. As someone who loves to enjoy the cool calmness of churches, I can vouch for the fact that I had never seen something of this scale before. The degree of detail present in every arch and pillar was a sight to behold. Another sight that caught my attention was the Place Capitole – the main square of the city. In rectangular shape, it covers a total area of 12,000 square metres. Given its huge area and central location, it has historically served as a market square, a festival square and even a ‘guillotine’ square during the French Revolution. Flanked by boutiques and cafes on its sides, it represents a heritage site for the city.

Overall, Toulouse has something to offer to everyone who visits it. For us, it offered a safe family space, in a foreign land. And we shall forever remain grateful to Bhabhi and Bro for this experience.

Thank you for reading.

Images captured on my IPhone 13. The post image shows the family – Prakhar. Aakanksha, Vikhyaat and I, with Basilica Saint Sernin in the background.

Perfect hosts and a perfect lunch in perfect surroundings (their terrace garden).

Vikhyaat posing outside the Lune Explorer, at the Cite de l’espace.

Rovers on planet Mars: a demonstration at the Cite de l’espace. The huge shuttle you see on the right is the Ariane 5, a retired heavy-lift launch vehicle belonging to the European Space Agency (ESA).

Under the cherry blossoms at the Jardin japonais

Pure temptation through the window: patisserie at Flower’s Cafe, a heaven for tea and coffee lovers.

The farmer’s market on Saturday: a palette of colours. Proximity to Spain allows for an even greater choice of fruits and vegetables in Toulouse (especially spicy peppers).

Posing before the Capitole building. It was cloudy (and windy) at this time of the day.

Coïncidence: Bro posing outside Bhaiya Kitchen,
an Indian restaurant we happened to pass by (Bhaiya in Hindi means elder brother).

La vie en rose (Life in pink): a glimpse of the pink, terracotta lined city.

At Boca, a tapas bar on our second last day in the city. Surprisingly, it offered many vegetarian options.

Notice the little ‘Dog Bar’? It’s to hydrate dogs as their owners enjoy their pints of beer.

French driver’s license – done!

As you can gauge from the title, this is a happy post. Not to brag about my accomplishments (I detest blowing my own trumpet) but to add a positive end to the horrifying tales of my driving experience in France.

I was informed by the driving school about 3 weeks ago that my exam had been scheduled the week after (on March 26 to be precise). While this was exciting news, given the long waiting time to get an exam appointment, it also meant a lot of stress, anticipation and rumination.

I did not tell anyone about it, except a very close friend. For the rest, including family in India, I decided to wait until I had positive news to share. Else I would wait for as long as it took to pass the exam. It is important to mention here the fact that I had failed my driving test about 8 months ago, when I had denied priority to a vehicle coming from my left on a gigantic (and enormously busy) roundabout.

Trying to make the most of the week that I had left, I focused on remaining calm and mindful. The evening before the exam, I ate lighter than usual, revised my notes and gave myself a full 12 hours of sleep. In case I’ve never mentioned this before, even 20 hours of continued sleep is not enough for me. And it’s always been my case. Anyway. The next morning came and I went for the exam. I tried to keep expectations low and my mind focused and sharp. My super kind driving monitor’s words stayed with me throughout the test – ‘drive as you would normally, as if there’s no one next to you, looking at you.’

The examiner – a middle-aged French man – was very direct in his questions, and courteous at the same time. He didn’t interfere as I drove (hopefully because he felt safe) and silently took notes on his i-pad. We covered roundabouts, change of lanes, different speed limit zones and parking the car in reverse gear.

In 20 minutes, the test was done. In my opinion, I had done well, but ‘well’ could mean different things to different people. The rest of the day felt long, given that I knew that my results would be announced only next morning. At 10 am sharp the next morning, I opened the website and logged into my account. The first thing I saw was animated confetti on the screen and I knew that what was about to come was positive.

And there it was! Expected, yet unexpected. I announced the news to near and dear ones and haven’t stopped celebrating. A happy end to a long and turbulent story. I don’t even know when I will buy myself a car – but the fact that I can drive in France ‘if I want to’ is so liberating to the soul.

Thank you for reading.

Image taken from Google images

A screenshot (rather hazy) of my computer screen, immediately after I checked my result.

Revisiting memories of school after 20 years

After months of mere occasional texts, I finally spoke to my best friend from school days. We’ve known each other since the last almost 25 years (I suddenly feel really vintage). She suggested that I write something about our time at school together. So here we go.

I have been hesitant to touch upon this subject since the time I got out of school in 2004. While there are several reasons for this, the principal one happens to be that memories of school do not represent happy ones for me. Strange, isn’t it? My early life, including school life never felt ‘normal’. Things at home were rocky, so yes, school did provide a refuge during day time. I remember really looking forward to that part and forgetting everything else that awaited me at home.

But little did other girls in school (I studied in an all-girls Catholic school, managed by nuns) know about the reality of things at my home. To them, I represented a rich girl from a rich family, who had everything she could ever ask for. I remember how they would try to peek into the marble mansion (my grandfather’s home where I spent my childhood), as the heavy metallic gates opened each morning, when the school bus came to pick me up.

This perception of ‘richness’ excluded me from practically all social circles at school. Few wanted to talk to me. And I must admit here that I wasn’t an easy teenager. By this I mean that I remained rather in my head, chewing incessantly upon the isolation I felt both at home and deep inside. Given the general aversion of people around me to talk to me, I had only one thing left to do at school – study. There were no distractions, no secrets, no silly girl things to hide at home. Only books – my sole companion.

Then there was Ruchi, this friend of mine. So different from me in every possible way. She was shy, grounded, simple and not very academically-oriented. I remember how I would sometimes ask myself why she chose to be friends with me, and even worse, continue to be so. But if there’s something I’m grateful for in school life apart from my teachers, it’s Ruchi.

As a confused teen, going through the changes of puberty, with a tumultuous family life, I could confide in no one else. Or may be no one else had ever expressed interest in knowing me deep down. She filled a void that had stayed with me for a long time – a vacuum that hurt every single day, until she came in.

As someone under confident, who found it very hard to express myself, I found a partner-in-crime in Ruchi. Despite all academic expectations, never-ending exams and personal frustrations, there was not one day at school when we did not giggle over silly things. To this day, I wake up giggling some mornings, having dreamt of something silly we did together.

Now we are both mothers to 10-year olds. We barely get a moment to chat on call – unaligned schedules and time zone differences between India and France make it worse. However, one text in 6 months and we go straight back to the last time we had talked.

So here I am – started writing about school and ended up writing about Ruchi. But I’m not surprised 😉 In my head, both are the same.

Image taken some time in 2007. Shows Ruchi and I at Rave 3, the only shopping mall in Kanpur city, back in the days.

Celebrating women and womanhood

This post is to acknowledge and celebrate women – nearly half the world’s population, on International Women’s Day.

This tradition started on March 8, 1922 when Vladimir Lenin in Russia declared the date to represent Women’s day, to acknowledge the role played by Russian women in the 1917 Russian revolution. After the promotional boost it received from the United Nations, March 8 came to be recognised as ‘International’ women’s day starting 1977.

Not that I am a big fan of celebrating commercial events like Valentines Day, or Father’s Day, and the like, I do believe that this day merits special attention.

Here’s why:

1. My grandmother (my dad’s mom) who passed away in 2017, was born on this day. Not conscious of her rights and dignity, she spent her life ‘complying’ with rules that had been laid out for her by her father’s and then her husband’s family. She inspired me in so many different ways, though most remarkably in the untapped power that women hold within themselves, but never get around to use. This is even more so in geographies like India, where patriarchal norms dominate gender roles (think of gender roles as rigid ideas around what men and women should and shouldn’t do. For instance, women should cook and men should earn the bread. Or men shouldn’t clean and women shouldn’t step out of home to work).
2. In the last couple of months, I have had the good chance to read about the origins of patriarchy and how women came to acquire the stereotypical roles they play even today, including in developed societies. I personally believe that religion has played a major role in subduing women (I am talking about all religions of the world here). Despite being a powerful disciplining tool, the failure of religion in recognising the equal position of men and women in society, might necessitate a different approach/ lens for this purpose. In my opinion, the modest lens of morality and humanity should do the job. Treating women as equals, with as much empathy as we would treat another human being, might solve so many problems relating to mistreatment and exploitation of women, both at home and in the labour market.

Let’s stay strong, women of the world. And let’s have each others’ back, no matter where we are and what our philosophy may be.

A few lines of poetry as I end the post:

I was the bird in the golden cage,

The apple of my master’s eye.

But why didn’t he ever tell me,

That birds were meant to fly?

Image taken from Google images

The power of the Monday

We have so often heard of the Monday blues, as if all bad things have to do with this one day of the week. While it’s true that getting out of weekend mode is hard, but it’s also true that with time and discipline, it gets easier and easier. After all, how many Mondays have we already survived, right?

One day as I was aimlessly scrolling down my LinkedIn feed, I came across an ex-student’s post. He wrote something like ‘the week begins not on a Monday, but on the weekend before the week starts.’ That stayed with me.

I decided to experiment with the idea. I had often felt frustrated at the fact that while work happened rather well during the week (meetings, schedules and deadlines help ensure this), but personal goals and leisure activities would suffer. At the end of the week, I would feel angry with myself for having devoted so little time to things I enjoy. But it’s only normal given that once the work-week begins, we operate on auto-pilot mode, attending to the most urgent tasks first. Personal goals, such as fitness, meditation or writing a blog post, though the most important to the self, always seem the least urgent.

So if you’re struggling to make more space (and time) for personal goals, no matter how small they may be, this post might offer some guidance.

Instead of leaving things (pleasure and leisure) to chance during the week, I decided to plan important activities the previous Sunday.

I identified the following personal goals to maintain a certain minimum level of well-being:

Weekly goals:

• At least 3 gym sessions

Daily goals:

• At least 30 minutes of reading
• At least 4 glasses of water

Based on what my upcoming week looked like, I started planning these personal goals on my agenda (I use a classic, paper agenda to plan my days and weeks) on the previous weekend.

For instance, I would have a gym session ‘scheduled’ (written on my agenda in black ink) from 12 to 1 pm on a Tuesday, instead of having it hanging like a loose thought in my head. Seeing it on paper, in my own handwriting, gave me assurance (and the motivation) to complete what I had planned for myself.

Another little trick that seems to work is giving yourself a dopamine boost on Mondays.

Let’s talk about dopamine first. We may not realise this, but each time we accomplish an objective we had set for ourselves (no matter how small), we ‘feel good’. This feel-good chemical in our brain is called dopamine. The good thing about this chemical (apart from the fact that it feels good) is that it encourages us to do more, to go for greater goals. If used intelligently, it can transform itself into a vicious cycle of achievement – dopamine – effort. The more we do, the more we want to do.

If one can, bathing oneself in dopamine on the first day of the work week (Monday) may help remain motivated for the rest of the week. For instance, if I aspire to go to the gym thrice a week, I try to hit the gym on Monday. I have observed in the last few weeks, that observing this discipline on the first day of the week increases the probability of scoring the desired three gym sessions in the week.

In weeks where I started later, I would often lose motivation to stick to the goal and satisfy myself with a mere 2 visits to the gym. And let me tell you, I’m very creative in explaining to myself why I didn’t meet the goal.

It’s almost like making my Mondays work for me – by setting the right tone for the rest of the week.

However, what if we have very packed Mondays and cannot commit to doing these leisure activities on that day? No problem. One could still use this technique for small goals, that take barely any time. For instance, I am very lazy when it comes to drinking water. I rarely feel thirsty and sometimes go without drinking any water at all during the day. To change this, I try to have a glass of water every 3-4 hours. I can very well do this on a Monday, to keep myself on track for the rest of the week.

If the personal goal is something time consuming, and our Mondays fully-packed, we could start on Tuesday. The day doesn’t matter – what matters is starting early and staying disciplined during the week.

And what to do if I planned a personal goal on Monday but never got around to doing it? Well..I do not have the complete answer to that question. But I can tell you that it’s best to be gentle with oneself and not bash oneself up with guilt.

A quick recap:

• Identify daily and/ or weekly goals.
• Plan ahead. Look into your upcoming work week on the weekend preceding it.
• Based on your calendar, ‘put’ your goals down, assigning them a specific date and time. This becomes your commitment to yourself.
• Start as early as you can in the week. Monday works best to maintain motivation levels.
• Keep trying. That’s good enough. We are all work-in-progress.

I’ll be happy to know if you tried this technique in part/ whole and if it worked for you.

Thank you for reading.

Image taken from Google images

Driving in France – part III

I think I have bombarded you with enough pessimism with my unsuccessful driving tales. It’s now time to make up with some optimism and hopeful stuff.

My search for another driving school that offered lessons in the automatic gear was soon concluded. Fortunately, I ended up finding a school near my apartment, easily accessible by bus, that had recently opened its doors to automatic vehicles. This meant brand-new cars to drive 🙂

I completed all the paperwork which included justifying why I had decided to quit the previous driving school. Done and dusted. On day one, an instructor at the new school told me that he needed to evaluate me as the first step, to get an estimate of the number of hours I would require to take as lessons. After 45 minutes of ‘evaluation’, which seemed like a lifetime, he estimated my learning at least 15 hours. It didn’t sound too bad, given how uptight I had remained while driving, as he observed me from the passenger’s seat. It was better than being told ‘you’re unfit to drive Madam. Please go home.’

Today, as I write, I have completed 15+ hours with this school. I have had three instructors throughout, all of whom have been super kind and supportive. Time has flown by as I have driven along different routes, including highways, which once gave me nightmares. We chat, laugh and often compare driving systems in our countries. Once my instructor (he’s French) noticed how scared I was to drive at full speed on an empty road, guarding my foot above the brake, to protect myself in case someone popped up from the middle of nowhere. He asked ‘but what are you scared of? You have priority on this road!’ To his surprise, I told him ‘I have seen motorbikes and cycles appearing from nowhere in India and I trust no one.’ He was amazed.

The fear of being taken aback at the last minute stayed with me for a long time during my lessons. I remember how I would drive incredibly slow at high speed roads, endangering not only myself, but other users of the road. My Moroccan instructor, one of the sweetest ladies I know, would encourage me in French ‘allez mon limace, vas-y mon escargot!’ (Let’s go my leech, you can do it my snail). And I would pick up speed, shedding my usual fears.

As I await a date for my driving exam (it takes quite long to schedule an appointment in France), I sometimes reflect on the journey of driving in this country. Not only have I learnt that rules can exist, but I have also seen them put into practise. Of course, like any other country, there are exceptions, people who take things too lightly, including the security of others. But most people here can be said to be respectful and mindful of their actions and how they impact others.

The crossroad still scares me, but it seems much more familiar now. I no longer surrender to vehicles faster than me – I ask myself who indeed has priority in the particular circumstances and decide accordingly.

I think I had mentioned about my habit of rumination – simulating scenarios in my head. Having said that, I now often ask myself the question ‘Akanksha, do you think you can drive in India anymore?’ 🙂

Image taken from Google images

Driving in France – part II

The theory exam was done and dusted. I was feeling so proud of myself for having passed an exam in French, an exam that even the native French find tricky, with its ambiguous and several-correct-answers type questions.

Finally, I felt like a part of me had turned French in an instant, like a leaf that changed colour overnight. The joy was endless. The world was conquerable.

After some research on driving courses, I decided to take lessons in an automatic-gear vehicle. Why? First, life is too short to change gears and second, the auto gear training was only 13 hours compared to 20 hours for the manual. 7 hours saved is a lifetime saved. Or so I thought.

Decision made.

Life complicated itself yet again when I realised that very few driving schools in Rennes offered courses in the automatic gear. I set off, inquiring in every direction, like a thirsty man lost in a desert, looking for any sign of water. I remember how I had lost even my appetite in those days. The only thing that could quench my hunger was a driving school.

Finally, I did find a school. I was told that it was a good one – a reasonably-priced alternative and yet, good at doing the job. Enthusiastic and brimming with ecstasy, I joined the school.

It doesn’t take me long to figure out that my driving school was a ‘low-cost’ one. That’s not bad given that driving lessons can be very expensive in France (up to 50-60 euros per hour), making them unviable for the self-paying youth. However, the downside to the story was the huge lack of instructors and planning infrastructure. First, it was hard to contact them to find an appointment with a driving monitor (the secretary’s line was always busy and the 3 or 4 overworked monitors were always occupied). Second, cancellations at the last minute were common. After spending 50 minutes in public transport to reach the school, I felt incredibly stupid to be told that classes had been cancelled for one reason or another (they had my phone number and still chose not to inform beforehand).

I did, however, manage to complete 3-4 hours with them in a span of 2 months. It was not great from a pedagogical perspective (since newly-acquired skills can be easily lost over such a long period), but there was little choice. To be honest, I felt just as scared to be behind the wheel, as I had been on day one. Having driven at 40 km/hr in India, with a baby next to my seat, I shivered when I had accelerate to 100 km/hr on a high-speed road here (it’s mandatory to match high speeds on high-speed roads, to avoid getting killed). When I would hear the car engine warming up to my acceleration, my heart would pump as if there’s no tomorrow. But anyway, I tried.

The last nail in the coffin was that Brazilian lady. One of the few monitors there, B (let’s call her that) was in her early 50’s. Originally from Brazil, she spoke French in a thick, Spanish-like accent, which comforted me. Driving next to her, as she provided instructions in her accented French, I felt less-incapable in the French language as I usually did back in those days (this was 2021).

B had a history of speaking rudely with students. I knew it and yet remained assured that it wouldn’t happen to me. I have tremendous confidence in my ability to make peace even with the most aggressive of individuals. One day, as I drove with B’s eyes fixed upon me, she asked me to take the upcoming crossroad and turn right. It was a huge crossroad (trust me, it felt like 5 Indian crossroads melted into one) and on seeing a SUV approach me at full speed from the left, I freaked out.

By the way, crossroads (carrefour giratoire in French – see, even the name is scary!) represent one of the most technical aspects of driving in France, with specific rules of priority. One little mistake in determining priority, and it could mean the end to the car and those in it. In this panic and frenzy, I was thrown into auto-pilot (aka, survival) mode. The Indian in me was back, all frenchification and driving theory forgotten. The only thing I remembered at that instant was the lesson from the Indian jungle – the fastest has priority. In this case, it was clearly not me, the fastest. It was the SUV, to which I had already mentally surrendered.

As I closed my eyes and let go of the steering wheel in complete surrender (this was in the middle of the crossroad), with the SUV from the left hurling towards us at full speed, B shrieked, her eyes almost popping out of their sockets. She pulled the steering wheel in a jerky movement and saved our lives (may God bless her for that).

In about 1 minute from that near-death experience (which felt like a lifetime), B stopped the car with a sharp braking movement. ‘What the hell were you trying to do?’ She asked in her accented French. But this time, the accent did not provide any relief. ‘I…I don’t really…’, I stammered, avoiding her gaze, like a guilty little kid. Realising that I was speaking in English, I tried to answer in French, but it seemed far far away. Not even a word would exit my mouth.

Her eyes red with anger and mouth foaming, B asked me to steer us back to the driving school. Our hourly appointment was nearly over. My heart still pounding and beads of sweat shining on my temple, I managed to park the car in the designated parking place.

Looking meekly into B’s eyes for any sign of reassurance, I saw only contempt. I hated myself at that moment. But then it was only my fourth or fifth lesson. My mere fifth or sixth hour of driving in France, where rules not only existed, but were diligently followed too.

My reverie was broken when B snatched the car keys from my hand, and exiting the car from the passenger side, darted a sharp look towards me. Contempt on her face, she blurted, ‘You might be a good teacher in your profession, but let me tell you that you are a miserable student.’

I knew right away that this was over for me. I don’t know how she knew that I was a teacher. May be it was me who had blurted it out some day. In any case, with those words, she had suddenly made it personal. While I didn’t know if I was indeed a good teacher, I did know that I would never have said something like this to my student.

Again, I had started to doubt the circuitry in my brain and whether I had it in me at all, to be an independent driver. The self-basher in me was back, stronger than before.

The next day I was the thirsty traveller again, looking for a change of driving school.

To be continued…(to avoid a very lengthy post).

Be assured that there are happy times too in this story 🙂

Image taken from Google images

Driving in France – part I

I have never been bestowed with good road sense. I learnt this at the age of 18, when I did not manage to reach my school, which I had been attending for some 12 years. For this reason, even when not a huge technology fan, Google Maps has been a blessing in disguise.

Anyway, all this to help create the perfect background for my post on my driving experiences in France. I obtained my driver’s license in Kanpur, India even before I had had the privilege of sitting behind the wheel. Please don’t ask me how.

After 5 failed attempts to learn how to drive with different driving schools, I had given up all hope. However, the intention and motivation to learn returned when I found myself in Bangalore, hugely dependent on app-based taxi services like Uber and Ola, known for their last-minute cancellations. Determined, this time I did manage to learn and navigate Bangalore roads, with my one-year old in the car (I had to drop him to the crèche before reaching my workplace). I must admit however, that while I succeeded in driving a car and keeping the driver and passengers safe, my skills remained limited to getting from Point A to point B, implying ease only on known routes.

I’ve been in France for 7 plus years now. Having no agreement for exchange of driving permits with India, France requires Indian passport holders to pass the French driving test. Comprising two components – a theory and a practical exam – it is no easy nut to crack.

Motivated by the desire to witness firsthand, the beautiful landscapes of the region of Brittany where we live, and of course, the desire to be autonomous (I have somehow always associated female liberty with the ability to drive), I decided to take the leap. Fortunately, I had many success stories around me – of colleagues who came in from Asian countries and managed to get the permit.

I started with the theory component of the exam. I was told that I did not need to register with a driving school if I decided to study for the exam myself. I chose the option, thinking that it would allow me greater flexibility with respect to my work schedule.

And there I was, a student again – this time of driving theory. Equipped with a thin book of the ‘code’ (the driving rules), I got started. More than the theory itself, the fact that everything I read was in French scared the hell out of me. I maintained a notebook with driving-related vocabulary and its translations into English. For instance, honking was ‘klaxonner’, the steering wheel was ‘volant’ and parking was ‘se garer’.

The exam would comprise 40 multiple-choice questions with sometimes multiple correct answers possible. In this case, for a question with 3 correct answers, marking only 2 would result in a zero. To pass the exam, one required a minimum of 35 of 40. I trained myself endlessly on the internet, on designated sites. Sometimes, despite knowing the answer, my inability to decipher the sense of the question would get me in the wrong direction.

After 2 failed attempts (and a lot of self-questioning), I finally passed the theory exam. I was so proud of myself and more so because I had managed to convince myself that I was too stupid to ever pass.

Little did I know, what was yet to come 😉

The second part follows in a subsequent post. Thank you for reading.

Image taken from Google images

New Year’s Eve and much-needed solitude

New Year’s Eve has always felt paradoxical to me.

Even when back in India, I witnessed a lot of fervour among people around me to celebrate and usher in the new year with as much noise as possible. They were willing to pay exorbitant sums of money to be part of such a noisy arrangement, along with promised quantities of alcohol and not-really-worth-it food.

It didn’t make sense to me. First, because to me the event symbolised nothing more than a change of date. I could understand if scientists at NASA celebrated another voyage of the Earth around the Sun, but common people like us, had barely any reason to rejoice in my opinion. Second, if the ‘ushering in’ concept was indeed true, I’d much rather pay (if needed) to be with people whose company I admire. I’d rather spend the night chatting with them about interesting things, while enjoying food we commonly like. But dancing and rejoicing with random people (most people in such gala events are unknown to us, right?) is something I have always struggled with.

Third, did I mention the fact that I feel like I am aging? Apart from 10+ snow-white strands of long hair in my head, I have noticed changes in my sleep pattern. Having always been a big sleeper (rather hibernator), my need for sleep has only gone up in the last few years. Plus, there have been added constraints such as a minimum of 9 hours of uninterrupted sleep, getting into bed no later than 10 pm etc.

On top of that, my habit of thinking (rather, reflecting) has gone from bad to worse. I spend more time now than before to think about life, what I am doing, why I am doing it and what else I could do. From an accountant’s perspective, there is no better time to do an inventory check at the end of the year. So for me too, the end of the year serves as the best time to take inventory of the life I lived in the year that just passed. For what’s the point of living life meaninglessly, without a sense of direction or goal that’s bigger than us?

This New Year’s Eve, I decided to have a quiet and serene celebration with my son at home. We decided to sleep not before 3 am (which was already a big deal for me), watch series of his choice on Netflix (a bigger sacrifice) and munch aimlessly as if there’s no tomorrow. It doesn’t sound like too much fun, but it was in fact. Knowing that we had no reason to wake up early the next day, we did all the three things mentioned above, except that I was knitting at the same time. It helped with the torture of watching series with zombies on TV.

After 3, we remained just as energetic and exuberant, thanks to all the food in our system. We got into bed. I wrote in my journal, simply outlining my lessons learnt during the year 2024 and list of tiny goals towards better mental and physical health in 2025. Simple things like at least 6 glasses of water a day, yoghurt, dry fruits and exercise. My son wrote in his gratitude journal (I don’t know what he wrote) and we slept till 4 pm of January 1, 2025.

Et voilà! That’s it. It was fun. And yes, those moments of having to do nothing can be surprisingly liberating.

Happy new year 2025 to all of you! Wishing you good health, contentment and a lot of hope.

Image taken from Google images.

I’m still hurting Baba

It’s been almost a year since you left, Baba. Things have been haywire since then. More than anything, we all feel a sense of directionlessness without you. No one knows what to do, when to do it and why it needs to be done in the first place.

I think we had gotten so much into the habit of letting you think for us, reducing ourselves to mere execution of tasks. After you, all we know is how to get things done, but what it should be, no one knows. It’s almost as if a treadmill rolling on very high speed has suddenly stopped: and all of us, falling on each other, stare in disbelief, not quite knowing what just happened.

And you know what hurts the most? It’s my own guilt of having taken you for granted, for an eternal reality that will be there no matter what. I remember times when you would call me and I would mumble in frustration, giving myself a hundred reasons why I wouldn’t want to answer the call.

Today, there are no more calls from you. No more texts or forwarded messages. Moreover, while looking up your messages from the past, I realised that your WhatsApp number doesn’t exist anymore. This struck me like a bolt of lightning.

How had I not known that people leave us? How had I not understood this fundamental reality of life? Why did I waste so much time while you were around? Why didn’t I ask you all the questions I’m now craving to ask?

I remember reading once how as humans, we tend to make gods out of the deceased, even when we mistreat them during their lifetime. I fell into the same trap. Pardon me for my naivety Baba. You always said I was super-silly, didn’t you? I don’t know if this will make you smile, but after 38 years of my life, I will not hesitate to agree with you.

I really look forward to meeting again, Baba.

Sincerely yours.

Photo taken on my iPhone 8 in a restaurant in Paris when Baba had flown from India to see me and my son – March 2019

The Children’s Train – Netflix

I had the good fortune of watching an Italian movie on Netflix recently. It’s called ‘The Children’s train’.

The storyline moved me immensely.

The movie is set in post-world war Italy in the 1940s. A seven year old boy Amerigo, who lives with his mother in Naples faces extreme poverty. His father, he is told, has left for the USA and one of his brothers died of lung disease, not uncommon in poverty-stricken Southern Italy in those times. His mother struggles to make ends meet. Despite her selfless love for her only son that remains, Antonietta has turned bitter and tired. She often refers to her son as a ‘curse from God’, for he seeks pleasure in activities that do not turn in money for the family, such as counting pairs of shoes around him.

As the influence of the Communist party (hereafter, the Party) in Italy grows, desperate mothers in Naples find a new ray of hope. The Party promises to take the children of Naples to better-placed, affluent families in the North of Italy to afford them a better life till things turn around in Naples and these children can come back home.

Despite rumours that the Party will burn these children or offer them up for sale up North, Antonietta makes a tough choice. Too afraid to lose her only remaining child to hunger or diesease, she decides to send her son to the north. He is reluctant, having seen almost only his mother around him all of his life.

She sees him off to the train, filled with the chatter of other children, as their mothers weep. The only thing she can afford to give him for the journey is an apple, which he guards with care, for days.

He arrives to the north. While all other kids are adopted by loving families, Amerigo remains alone. Finally, a female worker called Derna, who works for the Party decides to adopt him. Mourning for her now dead soldier boyfriend, she now finds meaning in raising the boy, even introducing him to her brother’s family. Her brother teaches him the art of playing the violin, something Amerigo will guard forever.

Young Amerigo for the first time, starts to smile and prosper. However, as things improve in the South, it’s now time for him to return to his mother in Naples. He does return, only to find huge disappointment in the life that she can offer him. She is worn out, frustrated with life. The violin she says is for the rich, and even ends up pawning her son’s violin (gifted to him by the brother of his adoptive mother) to get some cash.

Pinned down by expectations and a life full fo misery that awaits him, Amerigo makes a tough choice. He decides to run away forever, into the arms of the loving woman who taught him how to smile and just be a child.

The characters of the movie are stunning in their capacity to enact their emotions – something that really tugs upon the viewer’s heart. One cannot help but feel compassion for the boy, who though did not not leave for the north out of his own choice, but having tasted life’s joys, does decide to take a different path for himself, than that he had been ordained to live.

Amerigo returns to his Naples home only after his mother’s death. Now a respected and celebrated violin Maestro, he finds it hard to come to terms with his past and the struggles of his mother, both with him and after his departure.

The film makes me wonder whether choosing happiness for oneself should make one guilty? Or is it merely an act of survival, an instinct human beings have been endowed with, and something that has helped the specie survive. Some of us on this planet are not lucky enough to find love in those that we love. So even when we may love someone and would wish to be with them, it might necessarily imply the absence of happiness in our own lives.

This makes the trajectory of life hugely dependent on the choices we make for ourselves – status quo (accepting things as they are) or changing the course of life, by choosing differently.

And is it not those who choose differently that are called the selfish ones? What may be defined as selfishness by some (think of Amerigo’s mother), might be considered grit and perseverance by others (think of Amerigo’s journey from being a poor boy to a violin Maestro).

In short, sometimes there are no right answers, and no wrong ones either. In fact there are no answers, only choices for survival. We can judge them all we like.

Image taken from Google images

Homecoming

I met this tiny little girl one night,

I saw her shiver in fear.

I walked towards her gently,

And she wouldn’t let me come near.

She wore two pigtails,

With bright ribbons at the ends.

She wore a dark pleated skirt,

With neatly-tailored hems.

Her nose was short,

Her forehead broad and wide.

Her lips bent down in a curve,

And uneven teeth she tried to hide.

She stared at me with large, black eyes,

Too scared to utter a word.

But I knew she wanted to talk,

The silence felt absurd.

‘You look so pretty’,

Was all I managed to say.

‘I know I’m dark and ugly’,

She uttered in dismay.

‘But who told you that?’

I asked in surprise.

‘Well’, she said in melancholy,

‘No one ever told me otherwise’.

‘Where do you live?’

I asked, as I gazed into her eyes.

‘Nowhere but in my head’,

And she caught me by surprise.

‘But everyone lives somewhere…

Wouldn’t you agree?’

‘Well that’s for normal people,

Not for the unloved like me.’

‘What do you love the most?’ I asked.

‘My liberty to do as I please’.

And what do you love the most?’ she asked

‘The power to just be.’

Her dark eyes gleamed with hope,

Lighting up the night sky.

‘Can I come with you?’ she asked,

Not really waiting for a reply.

She told me she felt heard,

For the first time ever in her life.

She said she felt safe with me,

Away from trauma, fear and strife.

Such a strange ‘homecoming’ it’s been,

For both of us you see.

The little girl no longer lives in her head,

She now lives in me.

She was but a glimpse of my younger self,

Who found the liberty to ‘just be’.

She finally feels understood and loved,

And the joy of being free.

Image taken from Google images

Rest in peace Euro Jr. (2016-2024)

You came into our lives 8 years ago – a baby pug who wouldn’t stop wiggling. The amount of energy in that little body was too much for it to handle. A very powerful software for incredibly tiny hardware. At some point, we got used to running behind you and finding you in the strangest nooks and corners of the house.

You grew up to be an apple fan – not the laptop and the Ipad- but the fruit. At 5 pm sharp, you would remind us of your ‘Apple time’. At 9 pm sharp, you were ready to go to bed with Naanu. A disciplined fellow – with a strict diet and routine – you leave us today for another world. A more beautiful one, I hope.

We can’t stop thinking about you Euro Jr. I can only imagine how Naanu must feel, not that his Vodafone network is no more following him around.

We love you. Rest in peace baby. Hope to meet again – wherever that may be.

Blog post image taken on my iPhone, some time in May 2021.

Autumn in all its glory

As someone who was born and brought up in North India , I harbour a deep fascination for the autumn season and all the colours it brings forth. While I grew up witnessing (and savouring) the monsoons, the colours of autumn were largely missing from my life. All I knew about the season came from colourful pictures I saw on calendars and post cards and sometimes in movies. I particularly remember associating the season with the color orange, given the massive decorations in stores for Halloween in October.

It’s been about 7 years that I now live in France and my obsession over the autumn vibe hasn’t waned even a bit. It seems miraculous how the world around seems to have changed colours overnight, as if by an invisible paintbrush, while we lazed in slumber under our blankets. The change comes in so quick, as if a colour ball exploded into a hundred different colours, scattering them in random droplets in every nook and corner of existence.

Autumn for me, is symbolic of so many things, rather life lessons. The first: it contradicts common beliefs about life (and death). They say leaves are green. Didn’t we all study the basic chlorophyll phenomenon in Biology class? But autumn tells you otherwise. It challenges the green-leaf notion by demonstrating that leaves can be yellow, orange, red and even brown – all at the same time! I have seen leaves around me that look more like colour palettes than parts of a tree.

Second, the autumn season worldwide is referred to as the ‘fall’ season (or the Sharad Ritu in India). This signifies that phase of nature wherein everything sheds its old garments and prepares to bloom once again, anew. In simple language, in autumn, trees shed their leaves and lie naked, waiting for re-growth and regeneration. This then means death for the leaves, right? They must let go of the tree that gave them birth and slowly touch the ground, to make way for other, younger and healthier leaves So if autumn means death, how can it look so joyous? I often find myself sitting in a park, gazing at leaves that are just about to lose their grip on their mother tree. They gently let go, twirl in ecstasy and as if dancing to glory, and slowly touch the ground. It looks nothing like death, but more about a farewell being celebrated, a slow, peaceful adieu. If death can be so joyful and full of good cheer for these leaves, it makes me wonder if we as humans have been mistaken about the phenomenon. Could it be that leaves somehow know more about life and death than we do? Or maybe they don’t carry the same notions as us, that we probably derived after generations of over thinking and rumination.

What a life! And what an exit!

Last but not the least – autumn dyes everything into colour. Life springs from the strangest places and creeks in the form of leaves and mushrooms, as if yelling to be noticed. The die-hard optimist in me tells me that autumn is the season of cheer, celebration and joy. Even when all may not be well in life – and perfect it shall never be – autumn reminds us that streaks of colour are all around us. Isn’t that all we need in these difficult lives of ours – a little colour to cheer us up and offer hope?

Happy fall season to all of you. And happy thanksgiving!

The different colours of autumn – at a friend’s farm

Highly toxic mushrooms under a large tree in a nearby park- makes me think of Mario Bros. 😉

This tree, in my son’s old school, turns completely red every autumn

Leaves turned colour palettes – in the compound of my school

Pink sunrise – start of autumn

Fiery sunsets against naked tree branches

Tomatoes too look more cheerful in autumn 😉

My little ‘Halloween pumpkin’ with several other pumpkins.

Images taken on my IPhone 13.

Title image taken from Google images (William Smith – through the lens of a fallen leaf).

Portugal diaries

I recently got the chance to present a research article at a Finance conference in Lisbon, the capital city of Portugal. Thankfully, given that Portugal forms part of the European Union, travel there becomes simpler for reasons of not needing a visa when traveling from France.

It was a 4-day trip (entirely in Lisbon) and my first time in Portugal. Needless to say, I was super excited to discover its particularities and taste its desserts, that I heard so much about (more on that later).

We arrived on the evening of Friday, June 25, expecting heavy heat and sultry summers. We were greeted with heavy wind and mild showers instead. As I saw the raindrops on the taxi window, I realised that I wasn’t carrying enough clothes to keep us warm during the trip. I had grossly miscalculated the weather conditions. The next 3 days were no different.

At the conference, I had the chance to meet some lovely people from across the globe, who appealed to me not only in their ability to analyse my work and share feedback, but also in the joy and radiance they brought with them to the conference. One of the best things during this trip was our chance to meet Ylva again. She had come all over from Sweden to cheer for me as I would present our joint paper at the conference.

Some things that struck me about Lisbon (and Portugal) in this short visit were:

1. It’s a city that possesses the ability to suddenly surprise you with a tall building adorned with shiny, colourful tiles that you may have seen only in calendars or tourism documentaires. These hidden gems can be anywhere, in practically any street you might happen to enter.

2. Lisbon has a good number of Asian immigrants who call Portugal home. In fact, most Uber drivers I ended up having were of Indian/ Pakistani origin. Even in fruit markets, on hearing us speak in Hindi/ Urdu, they would very kindly offer us their sweetest fruit for nothing in return.

3. Lisbon is full of Indian restaurants, in almost every second street. Not only this, don’t be surprised to find people standing outside restaurants, trying to show you their menu cards and ushering you in before you choose their ‘neighbour’ restaurant.

4. Portugal is a high-meat-eating country with heavy reliance on sea food, beef and fish. Some of its specialities include octopus rice and preparations using the bacalhau (codfish), its national food. On the dessert side, you will be amazed at the variety of not only their ingredients, but also the mode of cooking. The most popular Portuguese dessert is the pastels de nata (small, custard cakes in flaky pastry). This is a must have if you have the chance. I managed to buy some for friends back in France.

5. The weather is highly erratic and as per locals, summers seem to be getting lighter every year. If it was to get really hot on a particular day, heavy rains in the evening will balance the temperatures out. So don’t forget your umbrellas!

6. The Portuguese are very enthusiastic about football and almost every second kid there wears a ‘Ronaldo’ jersey. My son bought two too! I remember eating dinner with Ylva and her family in a terrace restaurant while Portugal played against some team and people around me seemed to forget that they had food in their mouth.

Overall, a short, nice trip to Portugal. Sharing some pictures with captions.

Pictures taken by me on my I-phone13.

An ice cream shop in the narrow shopping streets of the city centre

An example of a beautifully-tiled building. A common sight in the city.

A delightful view of a bakery shop window. On the second rack from the top, you can see the pastel de nata in different flavours and fillings.

The Rossio Square in the heart of the city. One of the oldest squares in Lisbon that goes back to the 13th century.

The Time Out food market in Lisbon which boasts of many cuisines under the same roof.

The Santa Justa elevator (Elevador Santa Justa) in the middle of the city, offering a fantastic view.

My investment in the self

Getting a degree in accounting can really mess up with your spending habits. When counting every penny becomes ingrained in your head (and practically every cell of the body), it is hard to think of spending on the self. And isn’t it a women’s thing – putting everyone else first? Woman plus accountant: quite a combination in terms of poor self-prioritisation.

After I quit my gym subscription about 4 years ago, I had almost convinced myself that I’ll never go back, or at least I’d never want to. There had been several reasons – having recently arrived in a new country, I had tried to optimise my budget by joining a ‘low-cost’ gym, rather far from home. On days when I felt motivated, I would take the bus (I don’t have a French drivers licence yet) and after a 15 minute ride, arrive at the gym.

Given its low-cost nature, the gym was populated with machines and training equipment – about 12 treadmills, 15 cycles, and so on. That attracted a lot of crowd at the same time, making the place suffocating during peak hours. To make matters worse, the frequency of the bus that connected my home to the gym suffered and waiting times increased enormously. It felt like hell under heavy rain accompanied by wind that threatened to blow one away.

One fine day, after months of not going to the gym (I had a list of hundred different and creative reasons to give to myself to procrastinate) and paying gym subscriptions, I had decided to stop those ‘philanthropic’ payments and accept the reality. I wasn’t motivated.

After nearly 2 years of yoga classes (once a week) in the city centre, I pushed myself to join another gym right across my apartment. I had been hesitant and full of self-doubt. What if I don’t like it? What if I don’t go? What if I regret it later? Despite this, in a fit of determination one afternoon, I registered myself there.

Now, in less than 3 minutes, I arrive to gym, and so far (it’s been 4 months now), I have found various reasons to stick to my ‘3 days a week gym regime’. While this is not a low-cost option, the collective classes organised by the trainers make it exciting and ‘social’ at the same time. And yes, in case you are wondering, me and my son are very passionate about food. It’s summer here and with exotic high-sugar fruits and irresistible ice creams, weight management is an important consideration. Salute to those who manage to stick to restricted diets and fast intermittently. For us, it’s very hard.

I already see a difference in how I look and how I feel. My energy levels are higher and mood, more lifted. My back, which often gets stiff after sitting for long hours, seems happier. It is surprising to see how healthy habits make the day seem longer, as if stretched beyond 24 hours. That makes me wonder about the power of small habits and changes in life. Even though I am paying twice the amount I did at the other gym, this one feels like the ‘right investment at the right time.’

So if you are hesitating in ‘investing’ on yourself, don’t second-guess yourself. Making yourself your priority is not a bad idea, from time to time. After all, you can only give from a healthy body and a happy heart.

Image taken from Google images

The plight of the Indian housewife

It hurts as I write this. Old wounds seem to have opened up.

I recently started a new research project with a European co-author. As two enthusiastic women researchers interested in gender studies, we set out to investigate the daily struggles of Indian women working in the informal economy (also called the ‘gig’ economy). This represents the sector that stands outside the formal, structured, full-day job context and offers the flexibility to its participants to choose their hours of work, along with the possibility to work ‘from home’. Research reveals huge female labour force participation in this sector in the Indian context.

The objective of our project was to identify factors that could explain why educated women would choose to accept a ‘half-career’ that offers them barely any job security, structure or even the standard perquisites such as medical insurance, bonuses etc. that come with a standard job. My co-author had invited me to the project, believing in my capacity to provide insights into the Indian landscape, and a peek into the mind of an Indian woman whose choices may not reflect standard ones, commonly observed in Western nations.

We started off with our first interview today. It was an old friend of mine, let’s call her A. She was my first choice given that I knew that she was indeed working in the informal sector and struggling with family responsibilities on the one hand and the desire to work on the other. She kindly agreed to the interview and there we were, my co-author and I, on a video call with A. I had already briefed A about the nature of the project, the rough structure of the interview and the need to be as honest as she could. We assured her of complete confidentiality and anonymity, which is absolutely indispensable given the personal nature of this discussion.

After pleasant introductions, we kicked off with the questions. I let my co-author do most of the talking, intervening only to rephrase the questions, provide clarifications or cultural insights to responses provided by A. Honestly, I was afraid of letting my own biases creep in, so I preferred to talk less and listen more.

However, as the interview progressed and the picture got clearer, something inside of me started to hurt. It was almost as if I was transported back in time to moments I had convinced myself to have forgotten (but not really!).

We asked A why she chose to work part-time and not in a structured, well-packaged job that comes with its own certainty, security and perks. We asked her what challenges she faced in her daily life that could explain her choice and what support system she had in place to ensure a smooth work-family balance on a daily basis.

Here’s what came out of the interview.

1. A is ‘not allowed’ to work by her husband’s parents (she lives with them under the same roof). Given that the family is reasonably well-off, they don’t really understand why she would ‘need’ to work in the first place. On top of that, it looks bad in society – women of the family going out to work. It’s almost as if others will interpret it as a sign of extreme poverty.

2. A has a supportive husband. But he finds himself powerless to question his parents’ decision about not letting his wife work.

3. A feels ‘invisible’ to her family. She raises a young child, cooks for the family, serves them their meals, is responsible for the upkeep of the house and at the end of the long day, feels invalidated. She feels the need to ‘do something’ to be able to feel worthy. And this something is the flexible work she does for a company with an online presence (not exceeding 2-3 hours a day) after her household chores are over, and the child is in bed.

4. A is ‘allowed’ one vacation a year with her husband. The permission is granted by the husband’s parents who are in control of the family’s finances and allocate the holiday budget. A is however, allowed to visit her parents’ place once a year apart from the holiday financed.

5. When asked about how A spends the money she earns from the online work she engages in, she tells us that she can spend the money she earns, after seeking the approval of her husband’s parents.

6. When we asked about the costs of non-compliance with societal expectations, for instance, no longer seeking permission to use her own money, A brought up an interesting point. She highlighted that any attempt to deviate from what is expected of her socially, comes with social consequences. She is bad-mouthed in the small community of the apartment and extended family and labelled as a ‘bad wife or daughter in law.’ This creates pressure to be ‘obedient’ and compliant.

A, however, remains hopeful about the changing position of women in the Indian society.

The interview left a bad taste in my mouth even long after it was over. After about 7 years in a developed nation, I have changed as a person. Many underlying beliefs and assumptions I grew up with have either died out over time or metamorphosed into more useful, self-serving statements. Those that remain, I am actively working on. Of what use are self-limiting beliefs that kill the self, inch by inch, day after day?

Each time A used the word ‘allow’ in her answers, I felt uneasy. Most countries and judiciaries would concur that after attaining majority (18 years of age), humans attain the right to decide for themselves. They are considered to understand by this age, what works well for them and what doesn’t. Then where does the need for ‘permission’ from other adults come from? This includes permission from the spouse. Consultation is a different matter – it is indispensable for planning affairs when living together.

I have been a strong supporter of the joint family system given its roots in sharing, caring and good-quality childcare. However, are we, as a society, somewhere failing to draw the line between what’s justified and what’s not? What’s healthy and what starts to get toxic? Or is it simply the need to control the woman before she gets ‘out of hand?’.

Today has been one of those few interviews that left me with more questions than I had started with. My heart bleeds for A. I have nothing in my hand but the power of the pen. Even if I cannot change things, I can raise questions – common questions for common people like me. Questions that challenge notions that developed probably hundreds of years and many generations ago and those that stare us in the face today.

If you have stories to share or would like to contribute to our project, please do not hesitate to reach out to me at jalan.Akanksha@gmail.com. Your anonymity will be protected at all times.

Image taken from Google images, representing a photo from an amazingly realistic film titled ‘English Vinglish’. Do watch if you haven’t. It investigates the same theme as in this post.

Book review: Age of Vice by Deepti Kapoor

It’s a long time since I finished reading a novel in its entirety. Most books for me in the last couple of months have been academic in nature – ranging from personal finance to behavioural economics. Novels, once my lifeline, seemed to have taken a backseat. Even if I did convince myself to start something I had picked from the local library, I would soon lose motivation and go back to the academic stuff.

It sounds strange but the Age of Vice was suggested to me by a shopkeeper in Gothenburg in Sweden, when we dropped by her store to buy cookie cutters. She looked at me as we entered her store, uttered a thoughtful ‘hmmm’ as she assessed the colour of my skin and hair, and casually demanded ‘you’re Indian, right?’ She spoke impeccable English (like most Swedish people) and on learning that her guess had been correct, began to talk to me about her interest in Indian culture, patriarchy and social norms. This is how she spoke of this book, which she had been reading in Swedish (a translated version). As we said our goodbyes, she reminded me ‘don’t forget to read the book. I think you’ll really relate.’

The next thing I saw myself do was pick up the book (in English) at the Gothenburg airport. Hundreds of copies were displayed in the book store in the centre aisle, making it hard to miss. Torn between the newly-found motivation in the lady’s words and my recent experience with fiction, I knew I had set myself a tough goal.

Good news – I finished the 600-something page book in about 12-14 days. This is not to boast of my reading skills, but rather my appreciation of the intricate details in which the author managed to weave her story. I will not ruin the surprise for you (in case you intend to read it some day) but definitely share my learning from the work of fiction, which unfortunately, does not differ too much from reality in capitalistic India.

The story revolves around a powerful business family in Delhi that literally runs the wheels of the Indian economy, with its presence in every economic sector imaginable and its cronies in politics. The founder of the empire, Bunty Wadia, has risen from dust in the state of Uttar Pradesh, to a place of power and prominence in the country’s capital. To be able to get to where he is, he has had to step on many toes and leave many loved ones behind. His son, Sunny Wadia, is a spoilt and delusional young man with grandiose ideas (borrowed from the Western nations where he has travelled extensively) for poverty-struck India, that struggles with providing four square meals to its citizens or even roofs above their heads. Sunny, a victim of his vices, follows in his father’s footsteps, with just one goal – to please him. Caught between his misplaced ambition, his desire to please and bitter memories of childhood, he ends up crucifying those loyal to him, to pay in their own blood, the price of his misgivings. ‘Age of vice’ is a tale of how bad behaviour is normalised in a corrupt society, undertaken by one and supported by so many others, until it acquires the status of collective crime. Perpetrated by the rich, suffered by the poor and ignored by the middle-class man, too busy to solve his own problems.

Deepti’s writing is vivid and her descriptions of Indian cities and villages makes me wonder how closely she has observed these settings. The imagery of luxury in the Wadia mansion (including brands and delicacies from different parts of the world) is presented in beautiful contrast to the conditions of the common man who struggles to get even that which is rightfully due to him.

My takeaways from the book and it’s underlying narrative (by the way, some writers claim this book to be ‘India’s Godfather’):

1. In a country like India where inequality is not only pervasive but also normalised, money can buy everything. Even lives.

2. Human life has been accorded utmost value and dignity in modern, civilised society. But in the Indian setting, where social and economic disparities are stark, and the legal system exhausting and corrupt, the loss of human life may well be condoned depending upon the socio-economic status of the wrong-doer.

3. Justice too, can be bought and sold. Condemnation by law does not necessarily imply guilt, and similarly, the freedom to roam and display social power do not imply innocence.

4. They say that marriages are made in heaven. But among the Indian elite, marriages are made in boardrooms.

5. Blood is thicker than water. But power is thicker than blood. When it comes to grabbing power, the kindest of humans can get into ‘survival mode’, and that implies that no one can be trusted, not even our own kith and kin.

An inegalitarian society like India offers great comfort for the privileged classes by ensuring regular availability of cheap labour for domestic chores, too menial for them to undertake themselves. The population burden of the country does little to save the situation.

But the flip side of the story is the unfortunate truth that the same system shall ensure that the poor remain poor for generations, not only in their ability to earn and spend, but in their heads. The mere fact of their birth shall stand testimony to their immortal curse – the curse to serve until their last breath. No matter what that may entail for them and their generations to come.

Image taken from Google images

Happy times in happy Sweden

I did have some research on sustainability initiatives in the Nordic countries, but little did I believe that one day I would have the opportunity to travel to one of these – Sweden.

I travelled to Gothenburg, one of the largest Swedish cities with my son couple of days ago. I was presenting my research at a conference at the University of Gothenburg, where my son would sit all day in the conference hall, amidst the various presentations, as he quietly solved sudoku puzzles, or coloured images in his drawing book. And yes, he did not forget to compliment me after my presentation. What an angel!

Converting the ‘official’ reason to travel to Sweden into a leisure trip, we stayed for 3 more days after the conference. Despite predicted cold weather (not unexpected in the Nordic region), we were greeted with the warm sun and the colourful spectacle of tulips that seemed hellbent on blooming within these couple of days. It was almost summer time, though calmer, without the summer rush of tourists.

I was taken aback by the hospitality and happiness of locals. The ‘hello’ in Swedish is ‘hey’, pronounced very much that way, though with a long ‘ayyyyy’ in the end. I did not see one local who would enter a coffee shop or store without the ‘hey’ that revealed the length of their jaws. You couldn’t but smile back, even if you had not intended to, a second ago. Some of it is logical too – it would be complicated to say something like ‘hey’ without revealing your teeth, right? Almost like ‘cheeeeeeese’ 🙂

We were greeted with great hospitality by Ylva, my research collaborator and now, good friend. She showed us glimpses of the country and the countryside that we would never have known, if it was not for her. She invited us home to the countryside for a ravishing dinner. I was awestruck at the sight of her lake and hill-facing home office. It was as if in the middle of nowhere, and yet, in the midst of everything that mattered.

Even when I don’t consider the time spent in Sweden ‘enough’ to have soothed my senses, I did bring back many fond memories and a strong desire to return some day. Here are some experiences that shall always stay with me (sharing with you to know what you think about the country if you’ve been there or to offer you a glimpse of a very different world, if you haven’t):

1. The Swedish are some of the happiest people in the world. This is evident in global happiness rankings. While this may be due to various factors, being close to nature is something that really stands out.

2. Children in Sweden are raised in harmony with nature (as far as possible, depending upon one’s location and proximity to open land of course). I was surprised to see that Nina, Ylva’s 11-year old daughter single-handedly fed and took care of their horse. This, interestingly, is part of her daily routine.

3. Their love for nature is also evident in the environmental consciousness of the Swedish. Gothenburg happens to be the ‘most sustainable’ city in the world with very advanced waste segregation and processing systems.

4. Sweden is one of the most gender-equal societies in the world. I remember talking about the Indian gender stereotypes to some local conference participants and they probably didn’t blink for a minute! What was normal to me seemed incredibly impossible to them. I think it takes very good karma to be born a Swedish woman and to be born an Indian woman, I let you fill in the blanks.

5. They recognise and acknowledge diversity in people’s dietary preferences. It is not unusual for Swedish restaurants to propose vegetarian, vegan, and gluten-free options voluntarily. At the conference, the theme of which was sustainability, we were served entirely vegetarian food (given the carbon footprint associated with meat).

6. Sweden has some of the best sweets you will ever have in your life. Ranging from childish tutti fruity candy and licorice to the marzipan-filled pistachio rolls, you are sure to gain weight there. It’s hilarious but the Swedish government insists that citizens limit their consumption of desserts to just once a week, to avoid obesity and other health-related risks.

7. A practically cashless society! Using QR codes to scan, the Swish electronic payment system makes the use of paper currency (or even coins), redundant. It was the first time that I didn’t have to worry about withdrawing cash before making an international trip.

Way to go, Sweden. With anticipation in my heart and a big, wide ‘hey’, I hope to be with you again.

Images taken by me on my iPhone 13.

A family-owned bakery near the university, we fell in love with. We would go there every morning, with a big ‘heyyy’

The spread of sweets at the bakery.

A super-market section dedicated to peppers (on the right). On the left, it’s different types of mushrooms.

Sweets, and more sweets.

The view from Ylva’s office

A tiny star in the sky

We just returned from the funeral of 2-year old Lucas, who was run over by a car three days ago.

Little Lucas was walking in the park with his mother, when a man accidentally hit him while reversing his car. After being admitted to emergency care, the little one succumbed to his injuries the next day.

There are flowers, candles and little toys at the exact location where the accident took place. In a small neighbourhood where most people seem to know each other, there is barely any other channel to express sorrow for what happened.

Lucas’ elder sister is in my son’s class at school. As parents of other children at the same school, a lot of us went to bid our last farewell to the little boy, whose toys and books lay there scattered, next to where he lay, peacefully.

There were many children there too, to support the grieving family with their drawings and little messages to Lucas. The place was full, with barely room for everyone. While some managed to fit inside the room where the testimonials took place, others stood outside in the rain, hiding their tears in the raindrops.

My heart broke into pieces at the sight of the bereaved parents who kept tiny smiles on their faces for the sake of their little daughters, who barely understood why they were even there with so many people gathered around.

Since I came back, my mind continues to spin into an endless abyss of thoughts that repeat themselves for no rhyme or reason. Why did he have to go? Do children ever go that way, leaving behind this painful vacuum that stays forever? What would his life have looked like, had this not happened?

There is no respite inside of me, so it’s useless to try to find it outside. Externally, things look very similar to what they looked at the same hour yesterday. There’s the sun, the birds that chirp and trees that whirl with the wind.

But something feels different. Internally, there’s endless turmoil and externally, a new, tiny star in the night sky.

Image taken from Google images

A legacy gone

Today my mind is infested with sadness, remorse and nostalgia. It’s a complex mix of old memories, some of them very old, of childhood, in our patrimonial white, marble mansion.

My 93-year old paternal grandfather passed away couple of hours ago in the same house. In fact, for me, and I believe for my siblings too, he was the mansion, or the mansion was him. In any case, the two went together in our minds – grandfather’s signature white clothes and the pristine, white marble of the three-storey bungalow that he had purchased at least four decades ago.

Baba, as we called him, was a self-made man, who had seen a lot in life, ranging from the early loss of his near and dear ones, financial struggles and business failures. But he was relentless- as if mocking destiny and challenging it. At some point, even destiny gave up before his persistence.

Born in erstwhile Calcutta (now Kolkata), he came from a modest Marwari business family. Dissatisfied with and refusing to accept rebellious his circumstances, he set out on his own. He always knew he would make it big, and he did. It seemed as if he was always one step ahead of life – knowing what it held for him. He guessed, anticipated or may be just knew what was coming. In his death, he was no different.

He had seen it coming.

After my French language exam today, my brother reluctantly called me to let me know of his passing, shyly asking before breaking the news, how my exam had been. He couldn’t stop sobbing on phone, as he rushed to return to India from Europe, where he had been for a business event.

The whole evening has been with family members on call, each dealing with his or her own regrets, just as I do here. They are all heading to the white mansion, to bid their last farewell to Baba. They tell me he is laying calmly, as if in a deep sleep. I can only imagine him there, though he is probably in another dimension now. Will I ever see him again? I don’t know but something inside of me tells me that I will.

My tears ditch me. They come up to the rim of my eyes but somehow decide to recule, like waves that change course at the last minute. My throat is clogged, as if with a big, round pebble that I fail to gulp. It just stays there, reminding me of my sadness.

I was not particularly close to Baba. Our relationship remained bittersweet at best. We were both stubborn, each in our own way. But we had accepted each other as we were, without judgement. But there’s something that makes me want to cry, even howl. It’s the vacuum that he leaves behind, that overwhelming sense of void that will follow us like a shadow, probably forever.

In my mind, he was the constant, never-changing reality of my hometown. A trip home meant a trip to the white mansion, to greet Baba, clad in white, swinging back and forth in his posh leather chair in his home office.

I recall suggesting to him several times to document his life experiences in a memoir which younger generations could benefit from. He would laugh off at the idea and like all of us, brush it aside for another day. Well, I wish I had insisted. But wasn’t I too busy in my own meaningless little ventures?

Well, I lost my chance.

I may never have told you this, but I really miss you Baba. I miss the strength that I felt with your mere presence, that feeling of being cocooned if something were to go wrong.

Be happy wherever you are. Something tells me we’ll meet again. In another life or another dimension may be.

PS: The picture on the post is a beautiful memory from the year 2019, when he came to visit me in France. It is taken outside a pizzeria where we ate lunch as if there’s no tomorrow.

All the light we cannot see – series review

Based on the 2014 Pulitzer Prize winning novel by Anthony Doerr, this is one of the most awe-inspiring series I have watched in a long time. In fact, after watching the episodes maniacally late at night, I finished the 4 episodes in a mere 2 nights, only to feel blue and empty after.

Isn’t it a morose feeling, that deep engagement in another world – whether in a book or movie – only to come back to one’s mundane reality? But in all honesty, I am only grateful for these little, fleeting moments of virtual reality, no matter how short. They do make life beautiful.

This story is based in war-struck Europe, where Marie-Laure, a young, blind French girl is forced to move from Paris to Saint Malo with her father, as Nazi Germany invades Paris. Marie’s father works in the National History Museum at Paris. After the death of her mother soon after her birth, he has invested himself entirely in raising his daughter and teaching her life skills, not only for survival, but also for appreciating its beauty.

For instance, he creates a wooden miniature of the Paris neighbourhood they live in and teaches Marie to navigate it independently, carefully counting each step for her. Under the aegis of her father, she grows into a beautiful and confident young woman, full of life and curious about the world. She is proud of her father, his fidelity to his nation and the mindset he has passed on to her.

As a little girl, she goes to sleep with her radio, listening to a radio channel broadcast by a man who calls himself the ‘Professor’, broadcasting from some part of the world, who speaks to young listeners about hope, love and light. His words ‘most of the light in the world is the light we cannot see’ gives Marie hope and comfort to survive in a world which clearly looks at her and her abilities differently.

Marie assists in her own unique ways to the French war effort, along side her father and relatives in Saint Malo. As political turbulence widens and German rule in France begins to shake, Marie continues the ‘Professor’s’ tradition of keeping hope alive, reading out stories on radio, using texts written in braille. Another critical character in the story is Werner, a young German soldier, stationed in German-occupied Saint Malo. Responsible for intercepting radio signals for the German army, he stumbles across her radio broadcast. In his own lonely life, he finds solace in her reading.

The story unfolds beautifully as violence and carnage looms over Saint Malo and Marie is left to fend for herself, with nothing but her good sense of sound and touch and of course, her father’s words of wisdom. Her paths cross with Werner, only to discover that they have much more in common than they could have imagined.

The series is an elegant mix of patriotism, hope and love, even in the most hopeless of circumstances.

Merely 4-hours long (divided into 4 episodes), this series has the lovely ocean-lined French town of Saint Malo at its heart. Known for its sandy beaches and exotic seafood, this little cobbled town is summer paradise in the region of Brittany. In fact, it was almost completely destroyed during the American shelling and bombing in World War II. Interestingly, the young actress who plays Marie is visually-impaired in real life.

I recommend this series to anyone with a taste for history, particularly World War II and it’s nuances.

In a nutshell, here’s what I learnt from this series (writing this down in a blog post helps me retain this wisdom for life):

1. Our children believe what we tell them. Our voice becomes their inner voice at some point in time. If we tell them that they are idiots, that’s what they shall tell themselves as they grow older. On the other hand, kind words and actions teach them a skill that no school in the world can teach them – a sense of self love and worth.

2. No matter how unkind and hopeless life may seem, there is always some ray of hope to hang on to. We just need to find it around us, till things start to get better. That’s what Marie and Werner did, as they found hope in the words of the Professor, a man who taught them that despite all its hardships and unfairness, life is still worth living.

3. There are good and bad people everywhere, in every part of the world. Our attitude and behaviour is a matter of personal choice. Just because we may have been raised in violent and traumatic environments, just not justify perpetuating the same violence. We can choose to be different, as Werner did.

I would love to know your thoughts on the series if you do choose to watch it. Thank you for reading.

Image taken from Google images

The one non-negotiable: HEALTH

Like most youngsters, I have often disregarded health as somewhat of a secondary concern. In fact, not a concern at all, rather something bestowed upon on me, in abundance, for life. After all, don’t we have better and brighter things to manage in our youth – vibrant company, parties, greasy food, adventure? However, as I approach 40, I increasingly notice a shift in both my general levels of energy, and the not-so-abundant reserves of health.

Thankfully, I am healthy – physically, mentally and emotionally, and do not have a serious condition to manage. However, I now know that my cognitive performance during the day directly depends upon tiny decisions I make throughout the day. For instance, beyond a certain amount of caffeine, and I will remain jumpy all day, and stare at the ceiling all night. Too much tea in the evening, and I will wake up every hour to use the restroom. Not complicated findings, but incredibly simple. Too-hard-to-ignore cause and effect. Something I had never witnessed before, at least with myself.

I have always had a sweet tooth. As a young girl, I took pride in surviving on laddoos (the traditional Indian dessert, shaped like a ball). I was not interested in food, or fruits, or vegetables (let’s forget salad), but each time I was forced to get out of the room, I would walk to the fridge, take out a plump-looking laddoo and stuff it in my mouth. Repeat – 10 times during the day. It’s only now that I realise how unrealistic (and carefree) that was. It felt good, having that illusion of control in deciding what I wanted and my body complying with whatever I chose.

That has now changed. The body and mind now call the shots, and it’s me who must comply. For instance, I now know that I need a certain minimum quantity of water each day, even when my body has not been designed to ever feel thirsty. To keep the gut health intact, at least 5 fruits and vegetables in my plate each day, no milk to wreak havoc with my digestion, and of course, not too much sugar to avoid eventual visceral fat.

Health, which I have taken so much for granted in my early years suddenly seems like a blessing. Theoretically, I know that my organism is on the decline (that sets in after our late 20s), but to see it in everyday living is scary, yet fascinating. I have seen rather young people (not much older than me) suffer and eventually pass away, battling debilitating illnesses, hoping against hope till their last second. They have taught me a lesson – to treat my health and bodily resources as assets, in order to prevent them from turning into a liability one day. And who will I have to blame for it – only me.

In these liberal times, we talk about the power to decide for the self – ‘my body, my choice’, they say. Well, that’s exactly the point. Our body shall, till the end, depend upon our choices – in terms of food, habits, sleep routine, spiritual wellness, and the suffering it entails, if any, shall also only belong to us.

So let’s guard our asset with care. It is limited (even when it may feel otherwise), non-reversible, and non-negotiable. All the things we love and care about (eating exotic food, sipping the best wines, traveling with the family, or even staying fir for employment), remain impossible without this non-negotiable resource. It’s like the hairpin that seamlessly holds all the unruly strands of hair together.

Some things that work for me in this regard:

1. Be mindful each time I eat or drink something. This does not mean that I should feel guilty each time I eat. It’s just about noticing it. This helps identify patterns – what I really appreciated and what could have been avoided.

2. Write down my essentials for the day: for instance, 2 liters of water, 1 cup of yogurt, at least 2 fruits etc.

3. Write down my essentials for the week: for instance, at least 2 gym sessions. This will help plan everything else in the day around these calendar blocks.

4. Indulge but consciously, and in a pre-meditated manner. For instance, my favourite dessert on the weekend.

5. Have visual reminders of these daily and weekly goals, to help stay on track.

6. Have a gym buddy to share fitness goals with. A lonely fitness journey is a hard one.

So no matter our age, let’s start listening to our bodies and the subtle messages it conveys all day. After all, we have only one.

Image taken from Google Images

Travel Diaries: Dubai

This has been a lucky year, 2026. After receiving a proposal to teach a course in an Indian private business school in Dubai, I excitedly said yes. Thankfully, my school in Rennes and the host school in Dubai facilitated all administrative formalities and here we were, ready to spend two weeks on the host school campus in February. This happened to be my son’s school vacation, making it a guilt-free trip for his mom.

Dubai, about 7 hours by air from Paris, took me aback even before we landed. It was night time as we were to land, and the landscapes, even from an aerial view, took us by surprise. Everything just looked so large. ‘Gigantic’ probably does better justice to the feeling. This sentiment would only amplify with each day spent in Dubai.

We arrived on the host school campus in Academic City, a designated area for foreign academic institutions. Lined with palm tress and lush with greenery, it felt surreal during evening times, as the gentle breeze tickled the spiky palms. My teaching started the very next day, and thankfully, my schedule permitted us to go out of campus and discover the city, every afternoon. With the harsh, direct sunlight during the day, it was best to go out only after about 4 pm. But we were crazy tourists, overflowing with FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out).

On day 1, we discovered the Dubai Mall, the largest shopping mall in the world. It houses about 1,200 shopping outlets, an ice skating rink and even an aquarium, all under its roof! We returned to campus at the end of the day, with an empty wallet and legs swollen from too much walking.

Some time in the first week, we visited the highly recommended Global Village. A huge outdoor park that celebrates Dubai’s cosmopolitan population and cultural mix, the Village hosts ‘pavillions’ for 30 countries, buzzing with stores with local specialties and food stalls. As is this wasn’t enough, it also houses an amusement park section. We returned to campus after a full day at Global Village, like two excited children who hadn’t had enough.

Some other gems included the Miracle Garden, and the adjoining Butterfly Garden. MASSIVE is the word. Enormous structures (including an Emirates airplane, and animal figures) covered in flowers of practically every colour, shape and species. I couldn’t stop wondering how a hot geography might have managed to not only create such a structure, but maintain it in such excruciating heat. But Dubai continued to surprise us in different ways – in the grandeur and perfection of everything it has created.

Now whether that deliberate and planned perfection pleases us, or throws us into self-questioning is a matter of personality and preferences. For me personally, the pervasive grandiosity of things threw me out of balance. The social structure reminded me so much of India, where stark inequalities are so normal, that no one blinks an eye. I recall strolling with my son at the Jumeirah Kite beach one evening. Buzzing with tourists and locals, I couldn’t help but notice the spectacularly clean facilities of the public beach. It was only later that I noticed a different reality – people littering the space with their paper plates, napkins and coffee cups. This was counteracted by the continuous cleaning efforts by primarily Asian workers all day long. I happened to strike a conversation with one such man, too focused on his long-sticked broom that he was using to push the sand back from the walking track onto the beach. He told me that he came from Tamil Nadu in India, and works 9 pm to 5 am shifts at the beach, with many others like him.

One could certainly argue that this a good thing – it generates employment opportunities and keeps the economy running. But after 8 years of living in Europe, I can’t help but think of a simpler model – DIY : Do it Yourself. In simple words, clean up your one mess. Or if you’re too lazy, don’t litter in the first place. But I do know that Dubai is paradise to so many people around the world, including so many that have decided to make it their home. So as I said, it really depends on the person and his/her mental constitution.

Overall, we made the most of our visit – both professionally and as tourists. Dubai is a melting pot of so many cultures and religions, each living in peaceful co-existence. Eid is celebrated with as much fervour as Diwali or Christmas. People of non-Muslim faith bask in the Ramadan vibe, just as much as those fasting and praying. Thanks to its hugely cosmopolitan population, we managed to savour delicacies from all over the world – Lebanese falafel, Egyptian Om-Ali, North Indian naan and daal, and Turkish baklava.

As I write this piece, I know that Dubai, politically-neutral and tolerant, continues to be in the middle of a Middle-Eastern conflict. My heart goes out to the country and its people, most of whom are expats.

Thank you Dubai for your hospitality. It shall always remain an unforgettable experience for us.

Images taken on my iPhone 13

An intersection near the Dubai Mall – flanked by tall buildings and Times-Square style display

Inside the Dubai Mall.

Posing at China Town, a sub-section at the Dubai Mall

The baby with the Burj Khalifa in the background

Two huge horse heads covered entirely in grass: the Miracle Gardens

A beautiful butterfly on my hand. At the Butterfly Gardens.

A pavilion at the Global Village

Arabic coffee served with dates. It was Ramadan when we visited.

Pistachio-Kunafa with ice-cream – done!

Sunset at the Kite Beach at the Jumeirah coastline.