From Restless Waiting to Divine Pause


One thing I’ve always hated is waiting. The second — dropping someone off and hanging around until they return.

As a teenager, my mom often insisted I drop my sister at her tuition classes. I’d grumble, resist, and still end up doing it. Sometimes even my cousin hopped on, and I became the unwilling chauffeur. I’d scoot back home, only to rush again to pick them up. When my grandmother scolded me for complaining, I’d shrug it off and continue hating the waiting.

Fast forward to today — I’m a father. And life, with its irony, has placed me in the same shoes. My daughter goes for her Hindi classes, and the new normal is this: drop her, wait for an hour and a half, pick her back.

I don’t enjoy it. I still hate waiting. But parenting isn’t about what I like — it’s about responsibility.

Yet, something surprising happened. Behind this uncomfortable routine, I discovered a new kind of experience. Since her classes are in downtown Madurai with no cafés or hangout spots nearby, I started spending that waiting time in a famous temple close by.

And there, waiting turned into something else.
The temple’s silence, the chants, the fragrance of incense, and the sight of strangers in prayer gave me peace I didn’t expect. The restless ticking of time became a pause — a divine pause.

Now, I don’t complain. I stand there, soaking in the positive energy, observing life in its simple rhythms, and walking away lighter than I came in.

Maybe waiting isn’t wasted time after all. Sometimes, it’s God’s way of slowing you down.

When Control Slips Away, Fear Steps In


I’ve always believed fear doesn’t come from ghosts in the dark or thunder in the skies. Fear creeps in when you realize life is no longer in your hands — when control quietly slips away.

I felt it most sharply during the two years my dad was hospitalized. Suddenly, the reins of my father’s life weren’t in my grip — they were in the hands of doctors and fate. Every beeping machine, every delayed report, every late-night call felt like a reminder that I had no say in what would happen next. That helplessness was fear in its purest form.

I felt it again during the late evenings when most of my friends were getting married. I feared loneliness — not because I didn’t want marriage, but because it was not in my control. No matter how much I tried, the timelines didn’t align with my wishes. The steering wheel of my life seemed hijacked by something larger.

Legal battles brought their own flavor of fear. I might have been the one fighting, but the reality was — attorneys, judges, and systems controlled the pace and outcome. I was just a passenger waiting at every bend.

And that’s the cruel trick of fear — it feeds on our urge to control. The more we cling to it, the tighter fear grips us.

What I’ve Learned

You can’t control everything. What you can do is:

  • Prepare yourself mentally to accept uncertainty instead of resisting it.
  • Focus on your response, not the situation — resilience is the only lever you always own.

Because at the end of the day, fortune favours the bold.

Same Room, Different Battles


We all sat in the same classroom, didn’t we? Same chalkboard, same dusty carpet, same lessons on how to spell “success.” The timetable was identical, but life had a different curriculum waiting for each of us.

Some of us went on to be praised, some forgotten, some mourned, some judged, and some completely misunderstood. Behind those identical desks were lives that would one day scatter into destinies no textbook ever dared to predict.

And that’s the truth most of us overlook—the curriculum we were taught barely scratches the surface of what shapes a human being. We learned math, grammar, a little history. But did anyone teach us resilience? Did anyone show us how to process grief, manage anxiety, or break free from generational cycles? We memorized formulas, but no one gave us the tools to heal from invisible wounds.

Life’s real exams aren’t written on paper. They’re the sleepless nights when bills pile up, the quiet battles with self-doubt, the weight of losses no report card ever reflected.

So before you envy someone’s outcome or criticize another’s downfall, pause and remember: we all sat in the same room, but we were fighting very different battles. And no classroom, no syllabus, no chalkboard ever prepared us for that.

When Help Turns Into Hurt: The Dilemma of a Self-Sabotaging Friend


In my previous blog, I shared the story of a man who stepped into my life during one of my hardest battles. He helped me break a real estate syndicate that wouldn’t let me sell my own house for 18 months. In just two months, without connections or resources, he made it happen and pulled me out of a financial crisis. Later, he stood by me again with Advaith’s Nest, proving that my conviction on rent pricing wasn’t foolish—it was visionary. Together, we wrote history in that neighborhood.

But here’s the twist.

When it was my turn to help him, things changed. The man who once fought my battles began showing a different face. He started drinking, teasing, and pushing my patience. When I asked around, his friends told me a strange pattern: he slogs for strangers who exploit him, but ridicules those who support him.

This left me puzzled until I dug deeper. People like this often fall into some behavioral patterns:

  • The Self-Sabotager – they ruin good things for themselves.
  • The Martyr Complex – they feel valuable only when suffering for others.
  • The Toxic Altruist – they can help but cannot accept help.
  • The Insecure Rescuer – they thrive when rescuing others but crumble when rescued.

Whatever you call it, the truth is the same: such people can help you rise, but when roles reverse, they damage the very relationship they built.

It made me realize—sometimes the people who change your life can also test your patience in ways you never expected. They can be both your greatest ally and your toughest lesson.

The Stranger Who Changed My Battles


In business and in life, sometimes help comes from the most unexpected places.

Back in 2021, I was caught in a storm. A real estate syndicate blocked me from selling my own house for nearly 18 months. Every attempt failed, and the weight of financial struggle only grew heavier. My pride was bruised, my options shrinking.

And then, this person walked into my life. He had no money, no connections in the city, no reason to fight my battle. Yet, he did.

In just two months, staying in a place where he was a complete outsider, he managed to sell the house. That single act salvaged not only my finances but also my pride. For me, it wasn’t just a transaction—it was liberation.

But the story didn’t end there.

When I built Advaith’s Nest, people laughed at my conviction. “The rent is too high,” they said. “Nobody will pay this much in this neighborhood.” The whispers were everywhere.

But this man believed in me. He didn’t just believe—he executed. He went out, found tenants who trusted the value we demanded, and in doing so, we wrote history for that locality. What everyone thought was “too expensive” became the new normal. The neighborhood had never seen such rentals before, and suddenly, Advaith’s Nest became proof of what was possible.

Looking back, it wasn’t just about the house sale or the tenants. It was about what we proved together—that conviction, backed by the right execution, can rewrite narratives.

Sometimes, it isn’t the crowd that validates your dream. It’s that one person who stands by you, executes when everyone doubts, and changes the script for good.

The Cost of Long Hours: A Lesson for Entrepreneurs


When I started out as an entrepreneur, I wore long hours as a badge of honor.
For me, “long hours” meant 18–21 hour workdays.

I took pride when people said I was available across all time zones. Sales calls at midnight, project delivery in the morning—my calendar never slept, and neither did I. At that time, youth and adrenaline helped my body keep up. No one told me it wasn’t sustainable.

Success came fast, but so did the silent damage. By 2018, sleep was a stranger. It took me 3–4 years of struggle to rebuild the simple habit of night sleep.

For the last three years, I’ve disciplined myself to sleep at nights. But the price I paid is written all over my health—hypertension, cholesterol, muscle stiffness, indigestion, and gut issues.

My advice to young entrepreneurs:
Yes, the path is challenging. Yes, you need to be ahead of the race. But don’t mistake sleeplessness for hustle. Let business happen in the day, let your body rest at night.

Because what’s the point of success if you can’t enjoy it in good health?

Shift in Attachment Patterns


If parenting had a rulebook, I think it would start with one golden line: don’t expect loyalty contracts from kids.

For the first five years, my son was my biggest fan. He backed me blindly — whether I was right, wrong, or just lazy. If I said the sky was green, he’d argue with the whole world to prove it. I secretly enjoyed this “mini-me” support system.

But suddenly, something changed. Slowly, my die-hard supporter began drifting… toward my wife. Now he backs her blindly, just the way he once did for me. At first, I thought it was a passing phase. But no — the boy has switched teams.

Of course, there’s a reason. My wife is the dominant one at home. She sets the rules, decides the flow, and basically runs the show. For a 5-year-old who is figuring out who’s really “in charge,” she looks like the clear captain. And in a child’s mind, siding with the captain is the smartest move.

At first, it stung. I felt like I’d been demoted from “head coach” to “assistant waterboy.” But then I realized — this is just how kids grow. They test attachments, they learn loyalty, they experiment with power. Today he’s Team Mom, tomorrow he might be back on Team Dad, and someday, hopefully, he’ll see us as one team.

Parenting is funny like that. We think we’re raising kids, but half the time, they’re teaching us lessons in patience, ego, and letting go.

So if you’re a parent going through the same — relax. Don’t compete. Build your unique bond. And remember: your kid isn’t rejecting you, he’s just exploring both sides of love.

Because in the end, it’s not about whose side he’s on. It’s about knowing he feels safe on both.

The Kochi That My Family Didn’t Sign Up For


This Kochi trip… let’s just say it didn’t turn out the way I imagined.

Originally, it was meant to be a vacation in Varkala. Bags were packed, moods were set, but just the day before, my friend called and dropped the bomb—“It’s raining heavily, the beach is closed. Better head to Kochi instead.” He even arranged things for us there.

So, on Independence Day morning, we started driving at 9 AM. The route? Poopara, Rajakumari, Adimali, and finally Kochi. It was a 9-hour rain-soaked drive. I personally loved it—rain, mountains, long drive. But my family? Not so much.

The first letdown: the hotel. It was good, but I realized something new—my kids aren’t fans of hotels, they’re fans of resorts. They wanted pools and games, not a business-class room with white sheets.

So, I thought I’d lift the mood with a metro ride to Lulu Mall. Bad idea. My kids turned to me in unison: “Appa, why bring us to a mall? We have malls in Chennai!” Strike two.

Next day, we explored Fort Kochi, Jew Town, Dutch houses, Chinese fishing nets—all the things tourists are “supposed” to do. My son looked at me like I dragged him into a history lesson. When I finally tried to save the day with Fort Kochi Beach, the rain gods came back in full force. We took shelter at the Water Metro station and I thought—“aha, water metro!” But nope, kids didn’t enjoy that either.

By now, my wife had her own verdict: “You stole my long weekend rest for this?” Ouch.

Sunday morning, we packed up, ate the package breakfast, and drove another 9 hours back to Madurai. End of trip.

But here’s the silver lining:
I may have failed at giving them the “perfect holiday,” but I learned something important. My kids and wife don’t need surprises or tourist checklists. All they want is a resort stay—where my wife can rest, and my kids can splash in the pool and play. Simple.

So, while Kochi didn’t become their favorite memory, it gave me clarity. And that’s still a win in my book.

From Chocolate to Windmills: My Road Trip Plan Today


It’s 10 AM in Kochi, the bags are packed, and I’ve just checked out. Today’s plan feels like one of those road-trip montages from a movie: equal parts sweet, scenic, and slightly unpredictable.

The first pitstop on my route is Adimali’s Mc Bean Chocolate Factory. If Willy Wonka had set up shop in the Kerala hills, this would be it. For my kids, it’s less about “bean-to-bar” and more about how many flavors they can taste before we get back in the car. For me, it’s about breaking up the drive with something they’ll remember — because when kids talk about a family trip, they rarely mention churches or monuments; they remember ice cream, chocolates, and funny roadside moments.

From there, the road climbs into the misty highlands toward Ramakkalmedu. If you’ve never heard of it, imagine a windswept ridge lined with giant windmills and views that stretch into Tamil Nadu’s Cumbum Valley. It’s the kind of place where you stop, breathe, and remind yourself why road trips beat airports. My driver-self calls it “a quick view stop,” but I know my family will turn it into a full-blown photo session, with me trying to capture smiles while the wind tries to steal our hats.

And then, as every good journey demands, the day closes with the long ride back to Madurai. My caption for the drive? “Chocolate at the start, wind in the middle, temple city at the finish.” Simple, but that’s today’s storyline.

Traveling with family means weaving together very different chapters in one day. For some, it’ll be the chocolate factory; for others, the wind at Ramakkalmedu. For me, it’s the whole arc — the highway conversations, the unplanned tea stops, and the comfort of knowing that even when the miles are long, we’re together in the same story.

So here’s to today: a little sweet, a little scenic, and a whole lot of road.

A Family Ferry Ride That Outshone the Monuments


Travel blogs often highlight the grand monuments. But sometimes, the real story isn’t in stained-glass windows or centuries-old bricks — it’s in the smallest, most ordinary rides.

Today in Kochi, my wife, daughter, and son taught me this lesson. We had walked the charming lanes of Jew Town, browsed spice-scented shops, and stepped into the Paradesi Synagogue, a 400-year-old Jewish temple with chandeliers that looked like they belonged in a movie set. I thought that was our big “cultural moment.”

But the highlight wasn’t inside the Synagogue’s tiled floors. It was on a Water Metro ferry.

We boarded at Fort Kochi and cruised toward the High Court jetty. For me, it was just convenient transport. For my kids, it was pure cinema. Their eyes widened at every boat that crossed our path, every splash against the glass, every gull that soared beside us. Getting them to smile for photos at the Synagogue took ten tries; on the ferry, one wave hit the side and both burst out laughing, grins so wide the camera almost clicked itself.

And that’s when it struck me: in family travel, the ordinary moments become extraordinary. Not the UNESCO sites or history lessons, but the way your daughter giggles when the ferry honks, or the way your son waves at strangers on another boat.

So if you ever find yourself in Kochi, absolutely walk through Jew Town’s antique shops and admire the Paradesi Synagogue’s history. But don’t underestimate the Water Metro. For the price of a coffee back home, you might just capture your family’s most genuine smiles — the kind you can’t stage in front of any monument.