Ninaivugal...Thoughts

Everything Else Is Rubble

2026-05-29T23:47:17.064-07:00

The administrative office in front of the main building.

In this age of endless information, I sometimes pause and realize something strange.

I am drowning in information, but starving for memories.

Every day, my mind absorbs hundreds of headlines, messages, videos, opinions, and notifications. Most of them vanish without a trace. Yet when I stop for a moment, memories from forty years ago return with astonishing clarity.

Today, for some reason, my thoughts wandered back to my school and its teachers.

I remember my kindergarten teacher, Ms. Carol at Little Angels. She was Anglo-Indian, impeccably dressed, and absolutely determined that every letter I wrote should sit neatly within the four lines of my notebook. Not touching the ceiling. Not falling through the floor. Perfectly contained.

I don't remember what I had for lunch three days ago.

But I remember those four lines.

My first-grade teacher, Ms. Alice at BP Indian Public School, was another Anglo-Indian teacher who left a lasting impression on me. She was firm, disciplined, and carried herself with quiet authority. Looking back, I suspect my first real relationship with the English language began in her classroom.

Then came Ms. June Kenneth in second grade, who introduced us to the finer points of grammar. Around that time, there was a grammar textbook called Junior English. I have no idea whether it still exists, but it probably deserves more credit for my writing than I do.

The older I get, the more I realize how fortunate I was.

I simply had great teachers.

In sixth grade, there was Ms. Vijayalakshmi, whose command of English was extraordinary. Every sentence she spoke seemed polished before it left her mouth.

My favorite mathematics teacher, however, was Ms. Poorna, who taught me in eighth and tenth grade. Some people solve equations. She seemed to perform magic tricks with them. Concepts that looked impossible on the blackboard would somehow become obvious after ten minutes in her class.

BP Indian Public School - Main Gate.

I never thought I would enjoy History.

Then I met Ms. Jayashri Singh.

She was not a history teacher.

She was a storyteller who happened to use history as her material.

Kings did not merely rule. They plotted.

Empires did not merely expand. They schemed.

Battles did not merely happen. They unfolded.

There were alliances, betrayals, negotiations, victories, and disasters. Long before streaming platforms discovered political dramas, Ms. Jayashri Singh had already mastered the genre.

Listening to her felt very much like listening to my grandmother tell stories.

Many other teachers shaped us along the way—Ms. Kalavathi, Ms. Satyavati, Ms. Saroja, Ms. Lakshmi, Ms. Lalitha, Ms. Radha, Ms. Leena, and many others whose faces remain clear even if the years have blurred some of the details.

I also remember incidents that make me smile today.

In fifth grade, my mathematics teacher, Mr. Joseph, wanted me to deliver a letter to the post office.

I refused.

This turned out to be a poor strategic decision.

He marched into class, made me kneel down, and delivered a ruler-assisted lesson in cooperation.

Decades later, I still remember it.

The PT (physical training) periods had their own special brand of entertainment. If you got on the wrong side of the PT master, you would be sentenced to the infamous chair position—an invisible chair against an invisible wall. Five minutes felt like an entire geological era.

The school was not particularly known for sports, but our PT masters were fixtures of the institution. They seemed eternal.

So did the ayahs who kept the campus running. As children, we rarely appreciated how much of school life depended on people whose names never appeared on report cards.

The school itself operated in two shifts. The younger children attended in the morning. The older students—from fifth through tenth grade—attended in the afternoon.

Looking back, even the walk to school feels memorable now.

Where memories hold, but not the building.

The Kanchi Mutt next door.

The afternoon sun.

The familiar roads.

The walk back home in the evening.

At the time, these were ordinary routines.

Now they feel like scenes from another world.

A few days ago, my brother told me something that genuinely surprised me.

The school is gone.

The building has been demolished, and a residential complex now stands where it once did.

I found that difficult to process.

How does a school disappear?

How does a place that occupied such a large part of your childhood simply cease to exist?

But perhaps that is how life works.

Buildings fall.

Institutions close.

Apartments rise.

Classrooms become parking lots.

Time quietly clears the land and builds something else.

Yet somehow, Ms. Carol is still correcting handwriting.

Ms. Poorna is still making algebra look effortless.

Ms. Jayashri Singh is still narrating battles.

Mr. Joseph is still holding that ruler.

The school is rubble.

But the people remain.

And perhaps that is all memory really is—the strange ability to keep alive what the world has already demolished.

Partly Yours, Partly Lost

2026-05-08T23:40:50.089-07:00

Some places stay with you long after life has moved elsewhere.

There is something strange about destiny. You just cannot overcome it, but at the same time, you cannot simply do nothing because something is destined to happen.

In India, it is not uncommon to have your horoscope charted about a year after birth. Grandparents wait with bated breath to hear how well the stars were aligned, and what remedies might be needed to appease the Gods.

So when I was a year old, my grandmother took my birth date and time to Dharmaraja Ghanapadigal, one of the most revered astrologers in Pudukkottai. He apparently told her that I would do reasonably well in studies, travel to multiple countries, and eventually live abroad.

Here was an old lady asking about her grandson from a small town. My parents were then living in Gobichettipalayam. This was the eighties, long before economic reforms had changed the country. My grandmother thanked him politely, but quietly wondered how any of it was even possible.

My parents eventually moved to Bangalore, and I was academically decent through school and college. I gave my GATE exams hoping to get into IISc. I scored 97 percentile, but it wasn't enough to get into the program I wanted.

More than anything, I couldn't imagine leaving Bangalore — especially my life in Malleswaram. The temples, the vendors on 8th Cross, the masala dosa at CTR, chaat shops in every nook and corner, evening meetups with friends at the railway station, and my quiet walks on 6th Main Road had become part of me.

Somewhere along the way, both places begin to feel partly yours and partly lost.

I grudgingly gave my GRE and somehow ended up in the US against all odds.

My father did not have the money to send me abroad. There was the complexity of securing a bank loan, collecting paperwork, and figuring things out one step at a time. I have written before about Shivanna, the manager at Canara Bank, who helped us through the process. Thanks to my father's friends, we somehow managed to put together what was needed to get me onto a flight to America.

Looking back now, it all feels unreal. But at that point, I could see the tension in the family. I could see my parents carrying the quiet burden of wanting to fulfill their son's dream.

Even during the visa interview process, I did not know what to ask God for. So I left the decision making to Him. I had no crystal ball to know where life would take me.

I still remember standing in line at the Chennai consulate wondering what exactly I was doing with my life. The tension in the air was impossible to miss. Heart pounding. A young man in a suit walks out looking relieved. An elderly couple explains something frantically to the visa officer. A young woman pores over her documents repeatedly, as if she is trying to find one missing piece of evidence.

There are life stories all around you.

Life has taught me never to look down upon anyone. Two people can begin at the same point and end up with completely different lives.

Here I am now — someone who tried very hard not to move to the US — having built a life here.

Years later, I still miss India. And yet, I know that if I left all this behind and moved back, a part of me would ache for the Bay Area too.

Somewhere along the way, both places begin to feel partly yours and partly lost.

The definition of home shifts with time.

I Thought I Was Moving Forward

2026-05-02T22:19:32.092-07:00

I still remember the moment I decided not to learn Sanskrit.

I was in seventh grade in Bangalore, choosing between Sanskrit in the State Board and Hindi in ICSE. I asked my father what he thought. His answer was simple:

“Why do you want to learn Sanskrit? It serves no purpose.”

That was enough. I dropped it.

It felt like a smart decision. Hindi seemed more useful. I even convinced myself I was choosing the “national language”—not realizing India doesn’t have just one.

Looking back, the decision wasn’t about language.

It was about how I was thinking.

I chose utility.
Whatever moved me forward faster.

And for a long time, that worked.

I moved to the U.S.
Finished my Masters.
Found a job.
Built a life.

There was always something more urgent—visa timelines, work, responsibilities. Life ran on schedule, and I stayed inside it.

But something else was happening quietly.

Distance was doing its work.

When I visited the Kanchi Mutt in Malleswaram, I would see young boys—draped in simple dhotis—chanting the Vedas.

There was something unsettling about it.

They were younger than me.
But they carried something I didn’t.

A familiarity with Sanskrit.
A comfort with a world I had walked away from.

I didn’t have the words for it then. But I felt it—I had dismissed something I didn’t understand.

Years later, during COVID, I signed up for a Sanskrit class with Samskrita Bharati.

No plan. Just curiosity.

It stayed. I took another course. Kept going.

Then I encountered Dṛg-Dṛśya Viveka through talks by Swami Sarvapriyananda.

I couldn’t just listen. I had to read. To slow down.

So I picked up Swami Nikhilananda’s book.

The first verse stopped me.

It looked simple.

But it did something I hadn’t seen before.

What I thought was the seer became the seen in the very next step.

The eyes see form.
The mind sees the eyes.

The seer kept shifting.

And then it landed somewhere unexpected—on something that observes, but is never observed.

I couldn’t rush past it.

For the first time, I wasn’t reading to finish.
I was reading to see.

I thought I was moving forward.
I was just moving faster.

I had spent years learning how to move fast. I hadn’t learned how to stay.

That changed everything.

I used tools like ChatGPT and Claude to go deeper—breaking down verses, building notes, even putting together vedantalibrary.org.

But the real change wasn’t the tools.

It was the pace.

I sat with a verse.
Asked simple questions.
Allowed myself not to know.

That felt more meaningful than anything I had done before.

Sanskrit—the thing I once dismissed as useless—became a doorway.

Not into a language.
Into a different way of thinking.

Not faster.
Not more efficient.

Deeper.

I chose utility.
I missed depth.
Sanskrit made me see it.

What I Missed While Walking Past the Kanchi Mutt

2026-04-12T22:52:00.000-07:00

A place I passed every day without really understanding it.

As a kid growing up in Malleswaram, devotion wasn’t something we discussed — it was just in the air. The smell of agarbathi in the evenings. The noise of vendors lining up on 8th cross before a festival. The quiet expectation that you showed up, bowed your head, and moved on.

Ganesh Chaturthi. Varalakshmi Vratam. Deepavali. Janmashtami. Ugadi.
The calendar moved, but the pattern stayed.

The Kanchi Kamakoti Peetham in Malleswaram was part of my daily route to school.
Not something I questioned. Not something I deeply understood. Just… there.

Every morning, on my way to school, I would slow down for a second in front of the Mutt. Just enough to bow my head toward Kanchi Kamakshi from outside the gate — and then hurry along before the school bell.

It was a ritual for as long as I can remember.
I don’t know if it came from devotion.
I did it because my parents did it.

The street I walked every day — school on one side, the Mutt on the other.

Whenever the Kanchi Seer — Sri Jayendra Saraswathigal — visited, the energy around the Mutt would shift. Sometimes, Sri Vijayendra Saraswathigal would accompany him. My mother would get visibly excited. Her reverence for the Gurus was deep, unquestioned, and contagious.

“You should take their blessings,” she would say. “You won’t get this opportunity often.”

So we went.

Looking back, I’m not sure what I felt in those moments. Respect, perhaps. Or maybe just participation in something larger that I didn’t fully grasp.

As we grew older, the Mutt didn’t become “deeper” to me — it just became more familiar.
It was part of the landscape of my life.

If I went to 8th cross, I would often take a quick detour for darshan.
My friend Subramanya lived right next to the Mutt. I’d stop by, call him out to the gate, and we’d spend a few minutes talking about whatever felt important at that age — school, cricket, nothing in particular. Then we’d go our separate ways.

The Mutt was always there in the background.

During one visit, I asked a Ghanapatigal if he could teach me Rudram.
He said, “Come tomorrow at 5AM.”

I remember agreeing immediately. It felt like an opportunity.

The next morning, I didn’t go.

Not because I couldn’t — but because waking up at 5AM felt harder than the idea of learning Rudram felt meaningful.

For a few days after that, I avoided that part of the Mutt.
I was embarrassed to even show my face in front of him.

But that didn’t last long. I went back.

When I finally saw him again, I apologized.

He smiled and said,
“You have no idea how many people don’t show up.
Only if you are destined to learn Rudram will you learn Rudram.”

At that age, I didn’t think much of it.

I just moved on.

Years later, during my engineering and early work days, I would return to the Mutt for discourses — on Vedanta, on the lives of the Acharyas, on ideas I was only beginning to understand. I would listen, pick up a thought or two, and leave.

I like to believe that my interest in Vedanta today is a continuation of those early years.

But that might be giving my younger self too much credit.

It might simply be that I am trying to understand now what I never really paid attention to then.

At that time, it never occurred to me that this was something I could lose.

Even now, when I visit Malleswaram, I find myself going back to the Mutt. I try to call Subramanya, meet him at the same gate, and talk — though what feels “important” has changed.

The place hasn’t changed much.
I have.

Today, I find myself chanting Rudram — nearly 5000 miles away from the Kanchi Mutt.

I sometimes think of what he said that day.

I still don’t know if I didn’t learn it then because I wasn’t meant to —
or because I simply didn’t show up.

And maybe that’s the uncomfortable part —
that I lived so close to something I now seek…
and still managed to miss it.

Dhurandhar, and Why It Felt Personal

2026-03-29T21:33:00.000-07:00

I had stopped going to Hindi movies in theaters.

Not suddenly — just gradually. A trailer would come out, I’d watch it, feel mildly interested… and then do nothing. Maybe I’d tell myself I’ll catch it on OTT. Most of the time, I never did.

Somewhere along the way, watching a movie stopped feeling like something to look forward to. It started feeling like a gamble — and more often than not, not worth taking.

Even the shortcuts didn’t help. I’d skim through reviews, scroll past reactions, try to get a sense of whether it was “worth it.” But none of it really made the decision easier. If anything, it just reinforced the hesitation.

The hesitation followed me even after Dhurandhar Part 1 released. I didn’t rush to watch it. In fact, I waited almost a month.

But then something interesting started happening. The reactions didn’t line up. Most of what I was seeing was positive — people seemed genuinely excited about it. But there was also a noticeable pushback from some corners, dismissing it outright.

That contrast is what caught my attention.

Going to the theater isn’t something I do casually anymore. It means blocking out a few hours, coordinating at home, and deciding it’s worth the effort.

I walked in a few minutes late. The film had already begun, and I had to catch up quickly — piece together where we were, who we were following.

Hamza was making his way toward the Pakistan border from the Afghanistan side, and within a few minutes, I found myself settling in. Not because something dramatic happened, but because the world felt… unforced.

The locations didn’t feel staged. The silences lingered just a bit longer than usual. Even the background score stayed out of the way, letting the tension build without forcing it. It wasn’t pushing me to react — and that made me lean in.

I wanted to see where this would go.

Hamza makes his way into Lyari and quietly embeds himself within a factional gang. There’s no dramatic entry, no moment designed to announce his presence. He earns trust slowly and begins to influence decisions from within.

And somewhere in that stretch, it clicked for me.

I was rooting for Hamza from the start. That part was never in question.

But what stood out was how little the film tried to reinforce it. There was no constant elevation, no insistence on making him larger than the moment. It didn’t keep reminding me who he was supposed to be.

It simply let him move through the story — and trusted that I would stay with him.

And I did.

It felt restrained in a way I hadn’t seen in a long time.

I didn’t notice it immediately, but somewhere along the way, I had gotten used to a certain kind of storytelling.

In most films, the hero is announced early — elevated, framed in a way that leaves no ambiguity about who you’re supposed to root for. Even before the story unfolds, the cues are already in place.

And sitting there, watching Hamza move through the story without any of that, I realized how unusual it felt — not because it was extraordinary, but because it wasn’t trying to be.

There was nothing to latch onto except the character himself. No shortcuts. No cues. Just actions and consequences.

It wasn’t just the story that felt restrained — it was the way it trusted the viewer.

It didn’t push, didn’t signal, didn’t try to make a point louder than it needed to.

Maybe that’s what stayed with me. After a long time, I wasn’t reacting to a movie. I was just… watching one.

What stayed with me wasn’t just what I saw on screen, but what it changed outside it.

For someone who had gotten used to waiting, delaying, and eventually skipping most films, this felt different. I didn’t find myself second-guessing the next part, or waiting for reactions to settle.

I just wanted to go back and see where it went.

When I went back for Part 2, I expected the usual shift — louder moments, bigger stakes, a push to outdo the first part.

But it didn’t. It stayed with the same restraint. It didn’t try to earn attention again — it assumed it already had it.

Even as the stakes expanded, it didn’t feel like the film was trying to announce that shift. The story moved forward without underlining it — letting the tension build without forcing it.

There were moments that lingered — not because they were designed to impress, but because they weren’t rushed. They were allowed to unfold — and settle.

The ending brings closure to the story — but not in the way I had come to expect.

It stops just short of the moment that would have tied everything together neatly.

In doing so, it leaves you sitting with it — not reacting, not analyzing, just absorbing.

That, more than anything, stayed.

I had stopped going to the movies because they stopped holding me.

This one didn’t just pull me back — it held me there, all the way through.

For the first time in a long time, that was enough.