Between the Toilet Brush and the Divine

There’s a man who works for my father-in-law. Middle-aged, soft-spoken, and known to all as “Yakayya.” He’s been around for years—not someone whose work is spotless, but someone who’s easy to work with. My mother-in-law, who is no more, used to like him for exactly that. She’d say, “He doesn’t make a fuss.”

If the hall was full of chatting ladies and he had to sweep, he wouldn’t wait awkwardly. He’d simply lift each foot gently and sweep under. No grumbling, no fuss, no discomfort. He just does. Like the task is all that matters—not the gender, not the place, not the judgment.

The other day, since my regular help couldn’t come, I asked Yakayya if he could clean the bathrooms. Later, my co-sister called me—sounding concerned. I assumed she was going to warn me about slacking off or him pocketing things. But no. What she said genuinely amused me.

She said, “Be careful, he might use your toothbrush to clean the bathroom. He doesn’t differentiate.”

That word stayed with me—doesn’t differentiate.

Later, I saw him walk across the house, toilet brush tucked under his arm like it was nothing. No grimace, no hesitation. When he scrubs, water splashes on him—his face, his clothes. Still, he talks, even jokes. No irritation. No disgust. Just presence. Just movement.

I couldn’t help but compare. Even when we clean our own homes, we wrinkle our noses. We rush. We sigh. We feel it.

Yesterday he came in late, and I asked him why. He said it’s Shravan Maas, and everyone wants their homes cleaned for puja. Then I asked casually, “And you? Don’t you do any pooja?”

He smiled, almost amused by the question. “No. I don’t.”

It hit me hours later.

Maybe he doesn’t need a special puja like us. Maybe the fact that he doesn’t differentiate—between clean and dirty, between ‘men’s work’ and ‘women’s work’, between doing a job and doing it with presence—is his worship. 

Maybe this man, in all his seeming ordinariness, is more in sync with divinity than the rest of us with our decorated pooja rooms and sandalwood-scented rituals.

Oh, I wish I could live like that.

The Guest I Never Invited

I don’t know how long she’s been here.
I only know now that she has - Quietly. Carefully. Kindly.

No scratching.
No chewing.
No mess.

Not like the others.

She came in the way some memories do — without warning, without noise, without asking.
And slowly, she made herself a corner in my home.
And in my thoughts.

I first sensed her presence when I saw just 5 or 6 kernels missing from the corn-cob I had forgotton open.

Not torn apart - Not scattered. Just taken — gently.

But even before that, she had been visiting — I realise that now.

She had eaten from Annapurna Devi’s offering
Not once.
Many times.
And yet, not a single idol was disturbed in my shrine
Not a flower moved.
It was as if she bowed, took only what she needed, and left like a devotee — not an intruder.

No mess.
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This morning, at 3 AM, I did something I never do — I opened the bathroom door.
And there she was!

Suddenly everything connected:
The hot water not working, the soggy, pulpy bits I kept finding after draining cycles — not cloth or plastic, but something like softened paper.
And now, I know.
She had made her nest between the drum and the wall of my washing machine 

And she had been there all along - Safe. Invisible.

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I panicked and began placing glue traps,
that’s when guilt hit me.

How could I harm someone who had done no harm?
Who never invaded, only borrowed a corner to survive?
Who left even God’s space undisturbed?

And yet,
I am human.
We are the most dangerous predators, I guess.
We destroy more out of fear than need.
I say I care, I say I understand…
but in the end, I only think of my washing machine —
whose heater no longer works because of her.
Or worse — I think about the pups she might have birthed inside.
And how they might multiply.
And how that might ruin the order of my home.

I’m selfish.
I know she’s gentle.
I even believe she’s a mother.
But I still fear what might happen if she stays.

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Because this isn’t just about a rat.
It’s about all the quiet things I let stay — in my home, in my heart.
Roles I no longer need.
Guilt I never questioned.
Soft things that take up space quietly, but stop something in me from working.

Not all who stay cause damage.
Not all who leave deserve anger.

Some simply remind us:
That even gentle guests need to go — for the flow to return.

Now, I just pray
she goes…
before something that should not happen… happens.

So I Watched Netflix Instead

I came across Winston Churchill’s portrait story while watching The Crown on Netflix

In one of the episodes, 

Winston Churchill sat stiffly in his chair, his expression somewhere between suspicion and disdain. Before him stood Graham Sutherland, brush in hand, studying the face of Britain’s wartime hero like it was a puzzle that needed solving.

"Paint me as I was," Churchill said gruffly. "Not as I am."

Sutherland didn’t flinch. “I paint what I see, Sir Winston. And I see… a man who has carried a century on his shoulders.”

Churchill scowled, waving away the compliment. “I didn’t come here for a eulogy. I came here for a portrait.

Weeks later, when the final painting was unveiled in Parliament for Churchill’s 80th birthday, laughter followed.

He hated it

He lashes out. Calls Sutherland an unfit artist to paint a parliamentarian.

Sutherland doesn’t flinch.
“I only painted what I saw,” he gives it back.

That’s when it hits Churchill.

He remembered himself as the man who led Britain through war, who gave speeches that shook the world, who carried a nation on his shoulders. But in the portrait, all he saw was an old, grumpy man, crouched on a sofa with a cigar.

And strangely, that’s when it hit me too.

Because, like Churchill, I’ve been avoiding my own portrait — not on canvas, but in the form of my LinkedIn profile and resume.

Every time I try to update them, I remember to clean kitchen, some part of my house which doesnt need cleaning or make my son study for his exams (though he is very much capable of working without my help)

I fear I’ll see the career gaps I can't explain in one line.
The brilliance that didn’t last long enough to shine.
The effort that didn’t translate into titles.

I fear I’ll see someone who’s not “enough.”
And that others — recruiters, colleagues, even friends — will see the same.

So I close the file.

And I open Netflix.

Because it’s easier to watch Churchill face his cracks than face my own.

But unlike Churchill, I don’t get to burn my profile.

And maybe — just maybe — I need to start seeing it not as proof of failure, but as a portrait of survival. Of someone still standing, even if a little crouched......

The Silent Victim: Brilliance Crushed by Politics

 For the longest time, I thought Manmohan Singh was just another political joker from congress — the quiet, learned man who was nothing more than a puppet in Sonia Gandhi’s hands. I had seen the memes, the jokes, the ridicule. The caricatures painting him as weak, indecisive, a shadow with no real power. And yes, that’s true. 

But then I watched The Accidental Prime Minister — and something shifted inside me.

That silence. That helplessness. The feeling of being present, fully aware, deeply capable, yet utterly powerless to change the course of things. I recognized that terrible ache — the desperate, exhausting desire to be heard, to be understood, to make a difference. Trying again and again, only to be ignored or dismissed. Believe me, it’s a feeling far worse than any joke or meme could ever capture.

It’s that sinking realization that sometimes, no matter how educated you are, no matter how right you feel, the system isn’t designed for you to lead. It’s designed to keep you in place, to keep you quiet. That helplessness is a heavy weight on the soul.

There’s a line from an Alia Bhatt movie (rocky aur rani) that stuck with me: “Ise reed ki haddi kehte hain jise use karna hota hai.” 

I used to think it's easy when you have power— to be firm, to stand your ground 

But watching the movie, and seeing that silence on screen, made me realize how hard it is to live by that truth. (anupam kher is awesome)

Manmohan Singh’s story, as shown in the movie, isn’t just about politics. It’s about what happens when you hold the title of power but are denied the freedom to exercise it. It’s about the loneliness of being the backbone that no one acknowledges. 

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And in that silence, in that invisible struggle, lies a truth we often overlook — that strength isn’t always loud or visible. Sometimes (i think always), strength is the quiet battle fought in shadows, the heavy burden carried without applause or acknowledgement. It’s the relentless ache of knowing you have the power to make a difference, but being denied the freedom to act on it.

We admire those who stand strong, who break the silence with force. 

But what about those who bear the storm quietly? Who keep standing, keep showing up, even when every word they say falls on deaf ears? The ones who hold themselves together, not because they are unbreakable, but because breaking would mean losing everything they have left.

Watching that story unfold makes you realize how fragile dignity becomes when trapped beneath layers of control, expectation, and indifference. 

It exposes a painful truth — that sometimes, the hardest battle isn’t losing the war, but the slow erosion of hope, voice, and spirit. When patience turns to numbness, and resilience becomes resignation.

Because the world may laugh at the puppet — but only the puppet knows the true cost of silence. Only the puppet feels the weight of words left unsaid.

p.s. I wish I could him bring him back 

The Friend I Lost to My Own Fear

It’s been years since 4th grade, but I’m still the same shy girl inside.

Back then, I was learning karate, though you'd never guess it from how timid I was. I used to walk or cycle to school alone — it was close by, inside the Air Force campus, so it felt safe. But there was one boy from another section who just didn’t like me. I never knew why. 

One day, while I was walking home, he came up from behind on his cycle and hit me on the head with his wooden keychain. I didn’t chase him. I couldn’t. I just stood there, confused and helpless.

A few days later, we were gardening outside our classroom. We’d just planted some tiny saplings, and I remember being excited to watch them grow. That same boy came over and stomped right through them. I got up and shouted. He sneered and got into a karate pose, daring me to fight. I froze. And just then, the bell rang, saving me from doing anything at all.

But what followed hurt even more. After class, our teacher stormed in and made me stand on the bench, accusing me of fighting. My heart sank — I was being blamed again, just like always. But then, Anjali, our class topper, stood up and told the teacher everything. She stood up for me.

No one had ever done that before.

The teacher listened, believed her, and canceled my punishment. From that day on, Anjali and I became friends. We did everything together — from collecting funds for HelpAge India to sharing lunchboxes. She was kind, smart, and never made fun of the way I spoke or cycled to school. When I lost my English notebook before the annual exams, she didn’t just lend me hers — she gave it to me (she was very good with english subject) That meant the world to me.

But I messed up!

I wanted her to be just mine. I was scared of losing her to someone else, so I said something nasty about her other friend — something untrue — just to push them apart. And it worked, for a while. Until the last day of school.

They talked. The lie came out.

Anjali was furious. She confronted me, and I had nothing to say. I cried and ran away. The next day, summer holidays started, and my dad got transferred to Kolkata. I never saw her again.

I thought the guilt would teach me something. I promised myself I’d never act like this again.

But years later...
It happened again.

Netflix Calls It Entertainment. I Call It a Mirror

When Adolescence came out on Netflix, parents everywhere freaked out. It wasn’t just about a teenage boy accused of something horrible—it hit something deeper. It made us ask: “Where were the parents?”

Now there’s Secrets We Keep. It’s quieter, more subtle, but it pokes at the same wound. This time, it’s about a family, a missing helper, and everything that’s said and not said inside a “normal” home. You don’t see yelling or crime. But still, something feels… off.

Both series leave you uncomfortable. And not because of the kids. But because of the parents.

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We all try to do our best. But let’s be honest—parents today are stuck.

If we give our full time to the kids, our careers take a hit. And in a world where layoffs happen without warning, that’s a scary risk.
The tech world is speeding like crazy. One slow step, and you’re out of the race.

But if we focus too much on work, our family life and kids start taking the hit.
The bonding. The connection. The understanding.
It weakens, little by little.

With hiring help comes a new fear:
What if our kids grow up learning their thoughts, their beliefs?
What if they imitate how they talk, behave, or even love?

And —if the extended family enters the picture? Oh, that opens a whole new chapter.

There’s a 90% chance the mother ends up facing some real drama.
Judgments, expectations, random advice, and the pressure to be the “ideal” mom while keeping everyone else happy.
And no one really asks—how is she doing?

It’s like no matter what we do… something always feels broken, or missing, or just too much.

---

In Adolescence, the father is present… but not really. The boy is left alone with his pain. And that loneliness leads to disaster.
In Secrets We Keep, everything looks fine on the outside. The mom seems responsible. The kids are smart. But as the story unfolds, you realize even the most “sorted” family can have deep cracks.

The scariest part? These parents aren’t evil. They’re just… distracted. Or tired. Or trying their best while juggling everything.
Basically, people like us.

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We remember the times we gave the phone instead of attention.
The days we were too tired to play.
The moments we chose work over a school event.
The bedtime story we skipped because dinner got late.

And just like that, the child’s world starts forming. With or without us.

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So what do we do?

Honestly… I don’t know.

That’s the thing. Both these shows don’t give any solutions. They just hold a mirror.
A reminder that even the most loving parents can mess up. Not because they don’t care—but because life is messy.

And maybe there’s no such thing as the right way to raise a child.
Just trial and error.
A lot of love.
And the silent hope that our kids will understand one day.

I Didn’t Do Anything Right Either

I usually look for something fast-paced, something that takes me away from real life for a while — espionage, suspense, stakes high enough to distract me from my own.

Today, I watched a spy thriller on Amazon Prime in which the protagonist works at GCHQ — the UK’s intelligence and cyber agency. Her job, like many such jobs cannot discuss official matters outside GCHQ perimeter (for obvious reasons)

But one day, she reads something. A document that hints at an impending war which could still be stopped.

Torn between loyalty to her country and her conscience, she chooses the latter. She shares the document — not to hurt her country, but to save countless lives. She gets caught. 

One of her colleagues, someone who knew her well, goes to see her after the charges were made on her. 

And in that short, quiet moment, something gets said that has stayed with me. 

When her friend (colleague) breaks down, she gently says, "You didn’t do anything wrong." And her friend replies, through tears: "I didn’t do anything right either."

That line hit me hard......

So much so that I paused the film and just sat there.

How many times have we all felt proud of not doing wrong?
We follow the rules. We don’t cheat. We mind our business. We’re decent people.

But is that enough?

In this endless rat race, we spend our lives trying not to step on anyone's toes. We stay in our lanes. We keep our heads down. We avoid conflict. We try not to harm.
But somewhere in that effort, we also stop reaching out. We stop speaking up.
We start living passively.

And in doing so, we become complicit in a quieter way.
Not by what we do.
But by all that we don’t.

Some might argue that, “Isn’t not doing bad the same as doing good?”

I would just say, "the world is suffering not because of the noise of bad people, but the silence of the good ones."