How devotional poetry written centuries ago by women still speaks to the modern tug-of-war between duty and art.
“Dalita kandita tuj gaaeen ananta, Na visambe kshanabhari tujhe naam gaa Murari.”
“Even while grinding and pounding, I did not forget Him- not even for a moment.“ – Janabai
As I hurriedly crushed ginger for the morning tea, one of Janabai’s abhangs played softly in the background. I wasn’t particularly focused. My mind was already racing ahead to the tasks of the day, but then I heard this line, and it stayed with me.
These words, spoken centuries ago by a woman pounding grain into flour, about not forgetting the one thing that mattered most.
They felt so familiar. So honest. Even now!
A few days ago, we had a lively discussion on abhangs in my dance class. Abhangs are devotional poems closely tied to the Varkari tradition of Maharashtra and are sung in praise of Vitthala of Pandharpur.
Though the abhangs are beautiful poetry, it wasn’t their structure or history that drew me in.
Instead, it was the women’s voices; their fierce, quiet insistence on devotion that emerged not from ashrams or solitary retreats, but from kitchens and courtyards. Their verses were born while grinding grain and sweeping floors. That hit home.
Women like me lead far more comfortable lives today, but in many ways, the rhythm—the push and pull between duty and devotion—feels just as real.
My bhakti is to my art, but it must coexist with the responsibilities of my home and work.
On the days I have a dance class or a performance, I cannot step away from my responsibilities. In fact, those are often the days with even more to do: meals to prep, the house to set in order, and various tasks to finish. By the time I reach class, I’m often already tired.
But the moment I hear the music, something shifts.
As the world of Nritta and Abhinaya welcomes me, I remember why I do this. It fills me with joy. With purpose.
That’s why the abhangs moved me so deeply.
They’re not just devotional poems. They’re windows into how women made sense of their lives and how they carved out purpose from within responsibility.
These poems don’t speak of escape. They speak of endurance, of insistence. They say: What I do matters. And devotion can live right here, amid the ordinary.
“Kaam karita naam ghe,swabhava sodu nako.” “Do your work while repeating His name—do not abandon your nature.” – Janabai
When I read that, I thought not just of art, but of women I know.
Women who wake early, pack lunch boxes, log into meetings, tend to ageing parents and sick children, rush between school runs and deadlines, and still light that lamp. Fold hands or light a candle before a picture of a god. Not out of ritual, but out of rhythm.
Because it grounds them. It gives shape to days when they feel like they’re unravelling.
For me, my Vitthala or God is my art. My bhakti is grounded. Gritty. Private. Not a matter of faith in the Divine, but of fierce commitment to what gives my life meaning.
It is about showing up every day for what gives my life meaning.
Just rhythm, responsibility, and resolve.
As I read more widely, I noticed something else.
The male voices in bhakti literature sound different.
Many of the well-known male poet-saints wrote about surrender and transcendence, of stepping away from the material world to seek the divine. Their verses are beautiful, full of yearning and insight. But they often reflect a kind of freedom: the freedom to leave, to renounce, to immerse themselves in devotion without interruption.
Their devotion had space. Their longing had silence. Their words had the leisure of uninterrupted thought.
The women, though—Janabai, Soyarabai, Bahinabai—reshaped what devotion could look like. They wrote from within the noise.
Their bhakti wasn’t a withdrawal from life. It was the survival of it.
They didn’t write about fleeing responsibility. They wrote about finding purpose within it.
And that, perhaps, is why their words strike such a chord with me, a woman of the 21st century.
They remind us that fulfilment doesn’t always come from outside. It doesn’t need a temple, a stage, or a sabbatical.
Sometimes, it comes from being fully present in the lives we’ve built.
Whether your bhakti is a raga, a lamp, a quiet evening walk, or simply the way you show up again and again for your art, your work, your people, it gives your days meaning.
Just listen closely.
In the rhythm of your life, you’ll hear Janabai again.
“Dalita kandita tuj gaaeen ananta, Na visambe kshanabhari tujhe naam gaa Murari.”
“Even while grinding and pounding, I did not forget Him- not even for a moment.”
1954 She lay on a mat on the stone floor In a room meant for birth, not comfort. Beside the oil lamp’s flicker and the midwife’s murmurs, she screamed into the dark, her body torn against the weight of the world, and then— a baby girl, Her third, her light.
1982 It was a long, grueling labour. Hour after hour. She cried out, again and again, only to be hushed, scolded by nurses in the hospital room, As if her pain was too loud to be believed. When it was over— a daughter, the long-awaited after a son. Her family now complete with one just like her.
2007 Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, music played in the background, The doctors spoke— weekend plans, lunch orders, as if this were any other day. The epidural numbed her pain, but not the feeling. She felt every cut, every pull, every rip in her skin. And then— a baby’s cry, piercing through the noise. A girl. Her first, her forever.
Three women Three rooms Three births.
They cried, they sighed, Their bodies marked forever, their spirits tested.
Not one of them walked away the same.
In the quiet of motherhood, Where the world doesn’t see, They endured, They gave everything, And in the end they smiled, As they were transformed into Something fierce, Something new!
Our original plan was to visit Rajasthan, but the family traveling with us suggested Kashmir. Things were quiet and peaceful there at the time.
We were young, curious, and optimistic, so, without much thought, we booked our tickets and drew up our itinerary.
When we informed our families, they disapproved.
We went anyway.
And during that week in Kashmir, heaven felt close enough to touch.
Every sight, every moment, every breath we took in that valley felt divine. I can’t remember how many times I just sat still, completely still, soaking in the silence and breathing in the calm, feeling my heartbeat slow, feeling amazed.
Life there whispered, gentle and serene!
As we wet our feet in crystal clear streams, went on pony rides through winding trails that opened up into untouched valleys, felt the soft breeze in our hair, and sipped hot kahwa, I truly wished I could live there forever.
We were hosted by a friend in the army, and occasionally rode in their vehicles. Something strange happened every single time we did. At traffic intersections, jawans would jump down with their weapons in position, alert, scanning.
It felt odd. Unnerving, even.
We were just civilians – tourists on a trip.
I didn’t understand it then.
Two days after we returned home, militants attacked the BSF camp in Srinagar.
Still, I didn’t stop talking about how beautiful Kashmir was. I encouraged all my friends to visit and shared our itinerary with them. And they did!
Pahalgam was part of our plan, but I fell ill during our trip and had to skip it. Being unable to go there is a regret I’ve carried with me all these years. I’ve always thought, “Someday, I’ll go back and see Pahalgam.”
But, after what happened in Pahalgam this week, I can’t breathe the same when I say its name.
A raw fear grips me now.
Because it could have been us. Or any of our friends, with the same itinerary I happily handed them, taking the same route with the same excitement, and the same belief that beauty like this should be seen, should be felt.
They didn’t deserve what happened, the ones who went and never came back.
Their families didn’t deserve this; the weight of loss, the screams that echo long after the world has gone quiet, the trauma that now lives in every breath they take.
It’s heartbreaking that a place so serene, so pure and heartbreakingly beautiful, now drips with grief.
What was gained by it?
Because all I see is silence. A silence that’s no longer peaceful…. a silence that screams!
And somewhere inside me, a softer truth keeps circling back:
We skipped Pahalgam!
Note: This blog post is a personal reflection on the tragic events that unfolded in Pahalgam, Kashmir, on April 22, 2025, where militants attacked tourists in the Baisaran Valley, resulting in the loss of 28 innocent lives.
A poignant account of a dream of motherhood; while this dream comes true for some women, others face years of pain and suffering in its pursuit.
Today was a celebration of yet another year of their life together, filled with laughter, togetherness, and happiness; yet, it felt incomplete. Every smile, every embrace was tear-stained and shadowed with pain for the loss of the past. All these years were burdened with a longing and a prayer for the greatest gift of all – a child.
There had been happy days, the happiest she had ever felt, when there was a little life growing within her. She had vowed to protect, care for, and nourish it with affection, holding it close to her heart as only a mother could. However, destiny decided otherwise.
As she drifted through numerous trials, swallowing her fear and worrying about the outcome, she held a tiny flicker of hope. She prayed desperately to the heavens to keep the little one safe within her. She longed for the day she could hold this dear child in her arms and promised penance of her entire life if only fate wouldn’t turn against her. But was anyone listening?
Hoping against hope, she drifted into a dreamless sleep, praying for a miracle but woke at dawn with excruciating pain, realizing that she had lost the most precious thing in her life. The eerie silence around her added to her loneliness as she helplessly endured the loss of the child she had held so close to her heart.
With a womb yearning for motherhood and a heart heavy with grief, the world around her battered her with accusations and blame. No one saw the pain in her eyes or the sadness in her gait. Her mind was in turmoil; she was miserable and broken. But she persevered and bore her untold grief in silence. Time added to her despair. She wanted nothing more than to hold a child in her arms and clutch it close to her bosom.
Her wait seemed endless. She waited on month after month, praying, hoping, and trying to laugh away the sadness in her heart, reasoning with her plight, wishing everything would be set right.
She fought hard to bury the sobs constantly emanating from her heart and wallowed in self-pity when those around her celebrated their newfound motherhood. When would she be worthy of holding her own infant with a smile, no longer outlined with tears?
Then, like spring after a long, cold winter, the heavens yielded. She discovered that she had finally been gifted with the seed of life. She should have felt ecstatic, relieved, and joyous. However, she walked as if in a daze. She felt drained, numb, and emotionless, there was no joy surging through her veins as it had the last time.
With a heavy heart and eyes brimming with tears, she looked up at the skies and prayed…. Please let me keep this one!
The pesky children have returned home after their games and a sense of calm has taken over the noisy apartment. With the brats away until morning, I can explore my vicinity unhindered.
I like the darkness! It lets me roam freely to observe and investigate those around me. I do not have any specific plans tonight. I am not hungry, so I’ll wander around.
Lately, I’ve observed that the people here are self-obsessed, seldom paying attention to anything but themselves. I’m not complaining, their indifference allows me to go about my business uninterrupted.
The cloak of darkness emboldens people to show their true selves.
Look at that bored housewife on her evening walk. She slows down as she reaches the house of a newly married couple who just moved in. She tries to look indifferent but curiosity is written all over her face. Her body language betrays her intentions. Will she overhear something for a juicy discussion at her next kitty party?
The clock strikes eleven. A food delivery agent walks by. He deposits a food packet and takes the long route back. He isn’t lost. Instead, he seems to be studying the layout of the building. The security guard, keenly glued to his phone, is unaware of his whereabouts.Am I being paranoid?
At midnight I head to the basement. A car honks several times, disturbing the sleeping residents. However, the exhausted security guard sleeps through the din. A disturbed resident calls him, and he jolts awake, fumbling to open the gate.
When the car stops, an inebriated couple steps out. They can barely walk. My eyes follow them as they waddle home. I see the man throw up in the garden. As they continue up the stairs, I foresee the endless messages and investigations it will trigger in the community’s Whatsapp group tomorrow.
The sky changes color, heralding a new day. I feel sleepy, it is time for me to turn in. At dawn, the grandma from the second floor rushes across to the next building. She must pluck white flowers from the neighbor’s garden before everyone wakes up. I wonder whether stripping the tree gives her more satisfaction than the prayers she uses the flowers for.
My mind wanders as I grow tired. I must return before the kids begin their loud exchanges on the way to school. I spot the milkman’s bike. He has once again left it unattended. The seat looks freshly upholstered. My instincts kick in, and I gently graze my nails along the smooth surface making a few noticeable scratches.
By now, I am famished. I need food. My newest target is a couple on the second floor. I wait outside their door and the kind lady brings me a bowl of milk.
I gently rub against her leg and let her stroke my head. When I gently purr, she says, “What a friendly kitty!”
Making the most of the situation I walk onto their doormat, curl into a ball, and doze off!
During my engineering college days, one of my favorite activities on visits to my aunt’s house was poring over her collection of National Geographic magazines.
The glossy pages inside the yellow-bordered covers took me on incredible journeys through geography, archaeology, anthropology, and exploration. It was an escape from the bewildering world of machines and technology, offering joy beyond words. There was an undeniable allure to the photographs, the print quality—everything about it deepened my love for magazines.
The impact of those magazines on my thinking was far-reaching. I vividly remember an older edition with Sharbat Gula, the girl with haunting grey eyes gracing the cover. Her story even inspired my pet project on Iris scanning.
That’s why it saddens me to hear that National Geographic is going out of print, marking the end of yet another iconic pillar of high-quality print media.
With National Geographic going off newsstands in 2024, it feels like bidding farewell to an old friend, leaving a void that will not be easily filled. But on the bright side, it will continue to be published as a digital magazine.
Though the transition to a digital magazine may not deliver the exact same experience as the print version, it is reassuring to know that National Geographic will persist.
Here’s to the enduring legacy of National Geographic and the hope that the world will always embrace the thrill of exploration and discovery.
Image Credit: “National Geographic Magazine covers display” by greyloch is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.
The shacks in front of our apartment are now empty. They used to be occupied by migrant laborers and their families. Nearly twenty people lived contentedly in these huts until the corona crisis changed everything.
It is the seventh day of the COVID-19 induced lockdown in India. A lot has changed over the last week.
The shacks in front of our apartment are now empty. They used to be occupied by migrant laborers and their families. Despite the lack of basic facilities like water, toilets, and electricity, nearly twenty people lived contentedly in these huts.
My balcony overlooks this area. So, I would see them every day as they went about their daily tasks.
Eight children, all of whom were below ten years of age, used to live there. Sweet, innocent kids. They would smile and wave whenever they spotted me in the balcony and say hello when we passed each other on the road.
These little boys and girls have big hearts, sharing whatever they had with each other. Whether it was a packet of biscuits or a toy that someone gave them, they would share it amongst themselves. They would also feed all the stray cats and dogs with whatever little they had.
All was well till Covid-19 arrived in our city. The 21-day lockdown was announced and their parents were forced to stay home. It meant that their pockets were quickly becoming empty. Meanwhile, they were all cramped together in the limited space, under the scorching summer sun.
On Friday morning, I noticed that the whole community was unusually busy. The children were dressed in their best clothes and the mothers were coaxing them to eat well at lunchtime.
One of the little boys noticed me in the balcony and waved. He pointed towards his cat. Since he would often do that, I thought he was just showing me something interesting. Later, he called his sister and they both waved at me. I waved back as usual.
Later that night, a mini truck arrived on the main road. I saw the whole group pile their belongings in and board it. That’s when I realized what the children had been trying to convey—that they were going away and were leaving their cat behind. They had waved goodbye!
My first reaction was that of relief. I was glad that their parents wouldn’t be faced with the ordeal of finding food for their families when they had no jobs. I was relieved that they wouldn’t be cluttered up in the limited space where social distancing was impossible. I felt that the children would be safer in their village, where Covid-19 hadn’t reached till now.
But not anymore!
The news reports have been full of harrowing stories of hundreds of migrant laborers stranded in the middle of nowhere. Those who reach their villages are denied entry, even stigmatized for coming from cities where the rich brought the deadly disease. It is not just the virus, but also hunger and heat that they must now battle.
Could my little neighbors be in a similar situation? I don’t know and have no way of finding out whether they are safe. While I throw tidbits to their cat, I wonder if my little friends have had their meals or are hungry.
I realize how insignificant our problems seem to be in comparison. We have enough food to tide us through the coming weeks and comfortable homes to stay safe in. All that we must worry about is not becoming sick. But it isn’t the same for the families on the streets.
I just hope and pray that my little friends are safe. Till they return unscathed, I will remember how they excitedly waved goodbye, blissfully ignorant of the challenges that lay ahead.
Stay safe little ones, wherever you are! I can’t wait for the day when you will be back and we can greet each other once again.
I have never equated temple visits to holidays. As far as my experiences go, visits to temples have mostly involved rituals of waking up at odd hours and standing in long queues to attain brief glimpses of deities for mere seconds.
However, our last trip to Kudajadri turned out to be incredibly different and the journey of a lifetime.
Ever since we discovered that Mr.D suffered from traveling sickness, I have never looked forward to journeys involving rough roads. So, when the husband suggested visiting Kudajadri on our trip to Kollur Mookambika temple, I naturally resisted.
Thankfully, he didn’t give up and convinced me to give it a try.
We reached Kollur on a Sunday evening and stayed at Mahalakshmi Regency, a hotel that is conveniently located just opposite to Mookambika temple.
After an early visit to the temple next morning and a quick breakfast, we were ready to travel to Kudajadri by 8.30 a.m. At this point, I must mention that the journey to Kudajadri can only be undertaken by jeep. So, our family of four joined a group of 6 others for the 21 km ride.
As I climbed into the dusty and rickety Mahindra jeep, I was reminded of the jeep rides I’ve been on as a young girl, being squashed and hurled in all directions on rough rocky roads that led to remote locations where distant relatives resided.
Suddenly, I felt nervous and unsure of my decision.
With our fellow travelers
Nevertheless, we set off. The initial part of the journey was uneventful. We shared introductions with our fellow travelers and the children kept track of the numerous hairpin bends along the way.
The jeep flew across at full-speed, with our macho driver pulling on his khaki uniform and slowing the jeep only when we passed police check-posts.
Half an hour into the journey, we stopped for a brief chai break after which we began the journey uphill.
I quickly realized that the road was worse than I had imagined. It wouldn’t be fair to even call it a road for it was rather like a rocky kutcha path framed by boulders and stones. On the four-wheel drive, the jeep just kept swaying in all directions, tossing and turning us within it.
As I clung on to the overhead crossbar for dear life, my kids heavily crashed into me from either side.
The husband, as usual, had perched himself precariously on the edge of his seat, trying to capture the journey on his camera. I wanted to tell him to stop, but it was too noisy and he looked too excited. Pretty certain that he would either drop his mobile phone or fall off his seat, I decided to let him be while desperately trying to keep myself upright.
Despite all the commotion, I couldn’t help noticing the beautiful scenery outside. Even as we climbed up the red roads in a dust storm, it was impossible to miss the lush greenery on either side.
Forty-five minutes later, we reached the foot of the hill and mustering all my strength, I dragged myself outside. As I stood there trying to stop the ringing sound inside my head, the husband announced there was no time to lose. There were three main spots to visit and our driver had set the deadline for 11.45.
Beginning the climb to the top
So, after visiting the minor deities, we quickly went to the temple that is believed to be the “origin” or “Moolasthanam“ of Mookambika. Unlike the majestic temple in Kollur, this was a modest shrine with a very small sanctum and idol. The priest told us the legend of how this temple came to be.
“It is believed that Goddess Saraswathi, the goddess of knowledge and wisdom, had agreed to follow Adi Sankaracharya to Kerala, where there were no temples dedicated to her. However, she presented the condition that the saint shouldn’t turn back and look at her till he reached their destination.
When they reached this exact location, the Goddess decided to play a trick on the holy saint and silenced the sound of her anklets. Sankaracharya turned to check whether the goddess had abandoned him. Since he had turned around, the Goddess refused to budge another inch. This would be where she would rest. Thus, a shrine dedicated to the goddess was constructed here.”
After paying our respects to the Goddess, we started our journey to the Sarvajna Peedam at the top of the hill. This is the location where Adi Sankaracharya is believed to have received enlightenment.
Being late March, it was unbearably hot. As we followed the marked path, we found ourselves on a remarkably beautiful hill. Looking down from the edge of the cliff, we could see the blue mist create a shadow that revealed the hazy outlines of green farms and trees.
We continued our climb till we reached a point where the path split into two. A fruit vendor directed us to the Ganapathi Guha, a nearby cave and landmark site. This tranquil spot was quite the sight—a serene idol of Lord Ganesha, nestled within a rock and decorated with beautiful hibiscus flowers.
Way to Ganapathi Guha
After spending a few minutes there, we continued on our journey to our final destination—the Sarvajna Peedam.
Almost at the top
It was again an uphill climb. We had already exhausted most of our water supply and it took us a good ten minutes to finally spot the small shrine that we had come so far to find.
Finally, at the Sarvajna Peedam
As relief flooded my mind and body, I found this simple structure to be strangely beautiful against the sunlit canvas of blue cotton clouds. It was a very small and compact little temple made of stone, with the inner sanctum containing the likeliness of Adi Sankaracharya in soapstone.
Sri Adi Sankaracharya idol at the Sarvajna Peedam
I sat there, feeling exhausted after the arduous climb, while the children explored the vicinity and ran up and down the rocks with fervor and unlimited energy.
I would have given anything to just sit there and stare at the scenic background. But the clock was ticking, and we had just 20 minutes to get back to our jeep.
So, we slowly started the descent. Although easier, there were areas where the rocks were slippery, and we had to be cautious.
I fell behind with my usual luggage of water bottles and snacks that I routinely carry on such journeys. Meanwhile, the boys and the husband ran several meters ahead of me. Although we didn’t stop anywhere, it still took a good 20 minutes to reach our jeep.
The ride was just as bumpy on the return, but we were all too exhausted to be bothered by it. The boys even dozed for most of the journey. We were back at Kollur just in time for lunch and after a brief nap, ready for the next leg of our journey.
Thus, our visit to Kudajadri ended on a happy note. I don’t know if it was the roller-coaster jeep ride, the divine serenity of the hilltop or the trials of trekking in a sari, but I was strangely enthralled and joyous.
I am glad we had the health and energy to accomplish what we set out to do on this trip. And I must say, the husband was right, this spell-binding location and the no-frills journey will always be part of my happiest memories of all time.
5:15: The alarm buzzes. My reflex kicks in and I automatically put it on snooze for 10 more minutes of uninterrupted sleep.
5:20: Jolted awake from a deep slumber…why didn’t the alarm ring yet, did I oversleep? Phew! It’s just 5:20. Might as well wake up now. Perhaps do Yoga for 10 minutes.
5:30: Water in the kettle, milk on the stove and coffee ready in a jiffy! What a great morning!
5:40: As I brush, many things run through my mind….suddenly jerked back to reality by a short hiss from the kitchen! There, the milk boiled over. A big mess to clean! Forget Yoga, that’s too far-fetched anyway.
6:00: Stove burners on full throttle. The pressure cooker squeals. I hope it doesn’t wake the boys. I frantically chop vegetables and chuck them into the pan just before the oil starts smoking. It’s a marathon, and I am awestruck at my multi-tasking abilities as I sip on my coffee! Yuck, it’s cold…it must be warmed.
6:30: I quickly iron the uniforms and fill water bottles. Suddenly realize I forgot to switch on the hot water. On the dash to the bathroom, I stop briefly to adore the cute sleeping faces of my little boys. Back to work.
6:45: Time to wake the boys. Mr.D won’t as much as sniff his glass of milk since there’s a layer of cream on it. Grumbling in vain, I run it through the sieve and pour it again into cups. They manage the rest.
6:55: It’s bath time, but where did the children disappear to? They’ve fallen asleep again. The yelling starts. As I drag Mr.P to the bathroom, Mr.D erupts into tears. Precious minutes are lost, but they are finally taking their baths.
7:10: The brats refuse to come out. Second round of shrieks start. Finally the drenched children are bundled in warm towels. They watch me as I set out the numerous parts of their school uniforms in order.
7:15: The uniform war begins. I tell them ( and myself) they must learn to wear it themselves. But they’re frustrated with all the hooks to get the belt through, the impossible tie knot and ID card that doesn’t stay put. Finally, I give in. Two minutes later, both boys are fully-dressed and rush to have breakfast.
7:30: 7 food containers to be packed. I work out permutations and combinations in my head and plan the food distribution, so nothing spills or mixes. Meanwhile, complaints from the boys permeate the air. “ Why does he get more sugar?” “ We don’t like this, we want bread for breakfast tomorrow.” I turn a deaf ear to all this din and struggle with my calculations.
7:45: Mr. Husband appears, he can’t find his socks. He once again warns me that my prime responsibility as his wife is to ensure he has clean socks everyday….it’s good he reminds me of my priority tasks every other day! In a minute I fish it out of the pile of clothes I haven’t had time to fold yet. Meanwhile the boys argue over a pencil. They decide to battle it out. As long as their uniforms stay intact, I am not bothered about how they sort out the issue.
7:55: Mr.P holds up the lift and the husband scurries out with school bags on either shoulder. Mr.D is busily examining the inside of his shoe, apparently reading something he has just discovered there. The husband announces they won’t make it to school on time. I stuff the little fellow’s feet into his shoes and send him out. He looks distraught. In no mood to cajole him, I just say goodbye. Finally they are off, a wave of relief sweeps over.
8:02: The calling bell rings, it’s Mr.P who has forgotten his lunch box. I rush out with it, yelling at him for being irresponsible. So much for the peace and calm, the mad mother is back! He decides its better to take the stairs than listen to my lecture while waiting for the lift.
8:10: I barely straighten out their room when the man of the house returns. We eat breakfast in silence, me mulling over what I seem to have forgotten, and he buried in his mobile. Oh, my coffee! That’s what I’ve been trying to remember. Leave it, there’s no chance of rescuing it now! I’ll hopefully have better luck tomorrow!
8:30: The husband’s left and the house is all mine. I decide to sit back and relax for few minutes before I log on to work. And there goes the calling bell…The husband’s back, forgotten his helmet! I silently murmur, “like father, like son!” and close the door. Peace at last!
Sapna Jayaram 