Tag: human connections

Yesterday in Tirunelveli: Courtesy, Care, and Too Much Good Food


Yesterday was one of those days that quietly reminds you why real-life experiences beat all stereotypes.

I travelled to Tirunelveli to meet the Mayor, to personally invite him for an event we are organising. The meeting itself was smooth, respectful, and reassuring. He was warm, courteous, and graciously accepted the invitation to honour the occasion.

But what followed after the meeting stayed with me far more deeply.

The Mayor asked one of his friends to accompany us — not just to guide us around Tirunelveli, but also to Ambasamudram, where we were to meet another friend. What I assumed would be a simple courtesy turned into an unexpected lesson in hospitality.

From the moment we stepped out, we were no longer “guests” — we were looked after.

Lunch was arranged without fuss. Evening snacks appeared almost magically. Conversations flowed easily, without agendas or urgency. At some point, I realised something important had happened.

I had to break my diet — not out of temptation, but out of respect.

And strangely, I felt no guilt.

There is something about the southern districts of Tamil Nadu — a quiet, unspoken culture of care. No loud displays. No forced politeness. Just a natural instinct to ensure that the person with you is comfortable, fed, and at ease.

What struck me most was that no one made a big deal of what they were doing. There were no announcements, no expectations of return favours. Hospitality wasn’t a performance — it was a reflex.

In a world where meetings are rushed, calories are counted, and kindness is often transactional, this felt refreshing. Almost old-fashioned. Almost sacred.

Some places don’t just welcome you.
They take responsibility for you, even if only for a day.

And Tirunelveli, yesterday, did exactly that.

From Sleepovers to Missed Calls: Growing Up and Growing Apart


We didn’t grow apart. Life just grew between us.

I come from an era when summer vacations meant stuffing myself with mangoes at cousins’ houses and fighting over who got to sleep next to the window.

Back then, we didn’t need fancy resorts or curated “experiences.” One friend’s terrace and a big steel tiffin box full of lemon rice did the job. We treated our friends’ parents like our own, and their mothers scolded us with such love and ownership, you’d think we came as part of the house package.

We finished our academics around 2000, all wide-eyed and curious about the future.

Some started with direct selling or handing out credit card applications in front of Saravana Stores — anything to avoid asking Appa for bus money.

By 2005, most of us had found jobs. From 2005 to 2012 (the year I got married), we were all busy “swiping right” in real life — running around for alliances, comparing horoscopes, and attending those awkward first meets where coffee tasted like tension.

Then came the kid marathon.
My second child was born in 2019. One of my best buddies, Vignesh, had his kid in 2020 — the final entry in our “Gen 1.0” batch.

Now, we’ve entered a new phase of life.
The same guys who once debated which cricket bat brand was best are now arguing about NEET coaching vs. coding classes.
We’ve moved from cycle races to chasing after school buses in the rain.

We want to hang out, but life says, “Sorry, today is fully booked with PTMs, grocery bills, and last-minute school project hunts.”

Last week, Vignesh came to India after ages. We managed just one hour together, squeezed between his kid’s nap schedule and my quick stop to buy vegetables.

I wanted to pour out my struggles, share my small wins, and dive deep into those “bro talks” that heal more than any medicine. But life had other plans and threw us back into separate lanes before we could even warm up.

We stay connected — thanks to Instagram stories and “Good morning” WhatsApp groups — but the emotional distance? That’s the new unspoken reality.

Looking back, it feels like life pressed the fast-forward button on us. We went from fighting over who would run up and twist the channel dial like we were defusing a bomb — to fighting over time slots in our own calendars.

Sometimes, I wish we could all pause. Sit on that same terrace again. No deadlines, no work calls, no worries about kids’ exams or cholesterol levels.

We grew up together, but somewhere along the way, life grew between us.