There is something about a small fire on a quiet night that makes a person philosophical far quicker than any self-help book ever could.
You sit down thinking it will be a short, practical affair. Just ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. Light the fire, warm your hands, admire the sky, go back in. But fires, like old friends and railway delays, rarely stay within schedule.
Soon you are staring at the flames as if they have something important to say. The wood crackles with the confidence of a man who has never had to attend a budget meeting. The sparks rise bravely, like ambitious ideas, and vanish just as quickly.
Above, the clouds drift across the moon in slow, thoughtful formations. They look dramatic. Purposeful. Almost as if they know where they are going. Which, of course, they do not. They are simply being carried along, rearranged by invisible currents, much like the rest of us.
I’ve looked at life from both sides now From win and lose and still somehow It’s life’s illusions I recall I really don’t know life at all
I’ve looked at life from both sides now From up and down and still somehow It’s life’s illusions I recall I really don’t know life at all
The fire seems to agree. It begins with neat, obedient sticks, arranged carefully by a human who believes he is in charge. Ten minutes later, everything has collapsed into glowing chaos. Yet somehow, the warmth is better than before.
Life seems to follow a similar method. We plan, stack, arrange, and schedule. We give things names like “five-year strategy” and “career trajectory,” as if life were a polite train that would stop at all the stations on time. Then something unexpected happens. The sticks fall differently. The flame shifts. The smoke goes the wrong way. And we find ourselves learning a lesson we never planned to attend.
Still, there is warmth. There is light. There is this moment, under these wandering clouds, beside this small, cheerful fire.
And perhaps that is enough. Not perfect understanding. Just a little heat, a little light, and the gentle admission that we are all, in our own way, sitting by the fire, still figuring things out.
The beach at Sayalgudi doesn’t announce itself. It appears, almost shyly. No signboard declares “Welcome to Paradise.” No resort gate opens grandly with a poor, uninterested labrador that is forced to sniff the car’s trunk. There’s just the soft hiss of waves, a ribbon of clean sand, and the faint scent of salt that tells you you’ve arrived somewhere that doesn’t know it’s special.
The sea stretches endlessly, its rhythm unhurried, uncurated. There are no shacks, no deck chairs facing the sea, no soft-serve ice-cream vendors. Just a moon already at work, waves rehearsing their eternal script, and one solitary visitor thanking his stars that, such beauty escaped some social media influencer’s attention!
I sat there for a long while, watching the sea nibble at the shore and retreat, as if testing the flavour of land. It was hard to believe that this was two hours from Madurai. Tamil Nadu’s coastline is vast and beautiful, and extends beyond the fame of the Marina, Pondicherry, and Kanyakumari.
The Road That Curves Away from Fame
Getting here is a breeze. You start from Madurai, drive towards Rameswaram, and somewhere after Manamadurai you slip off the highway. The road begins to twist, as if embarrassed by how small it has become.
Seemakaruveli bushes for company
On both sides stand seemakaruveli bushes — Prosopis juliflora, the invasive guest the British brought in the 19th century to tame wastelands. Now it rules the countryside like a green despot, spreading faster than gossip and just as hard to uproot.
Villages appear and vanish like punctuation marks. Abhiramapuram, Karisakulam, Athikulam, Allikulam and many more whose names blur in the rear-view mirror. Their kaapi kadais linger longer in memory: tin kettles boiling away gossip, glass tumblers with a skin of sugar on top.
Politics rendered on plaster
The walls along the way shout in red, black, yellow, white, and blue. Politics rendered in thick Tamil letters. In this part of the world, even plaster has opinions. A painted bull here, a rising sun there, two leaves somewhere else; campaign promises merging gracefully into art. Between two walls, a goat herd ambles across the road, his flock spilling into the highway with serene entitlement. He crouches by his TVS 50, adjusting something in the chain. They used to walk once, I think. Now even goats wait for engines.
Sugar and Spice. Ah! Memories
A little further on, a man sells inji karuppatti. Ginger and palm jaggery. Packed neatly in olai kottans (palm-leaf baskets). I buy some. They’re sweet, fiery, and nostalgic all at once. Childhood condensed into sugar and spice.
A Trust in the Road
I often drive through rural Tamil Nadu with a quiet confidence that if anything were to go wrong, someone would appear. Not with a “How may I help you, sir?” but with a curious “Are you okay? Water?” People here don’t outsource kindness. It’s part of the day’s work, somewhere between lunch and the evening bus.
Over the years, I’ve been stranded by punctures, wrong turns, and delusionary optimism. Each time, a passer-by has stepped in, not only to do the needful — that tidy phrase from corporate emails — but to actually see what was needed. A word, a jug of water, a direction, sometimes just company until help arrived. Rural rhythms seem to cock a polite snook at the urban question of “What’s in it for me?” Here, the answer is often, “Nothing”. And that’s fine. Every time signing off with a “paathu poituvaanga.” Loosely translated to “stay safe and come back soon.”
A Town That Prefers Modesty
Sayalgudi itself sits quietly on the southeastern edge of Tamil Nadu, a town of about twelve thousand people and exactly zero pretensions. There are shops selling coconuts, rubber slippers, and recharge coupons. The fish market smells of honesty and ocean. It’s the sort of place where everyone seems busy but no one seems in a hurry.
You follow a narrow lane until the houses give up, and the sea fills the gap. The transition is so sudden it feels like the land has run out of sentences and switched to poetry.
People Who Stay Real
The “resort” I stayed at was more functional than fancy. A bed, an air-conditioner and a fan that coughed with commitment, and a window that framed the horizon. Hot running water. Clean sheets. A television that didn’t need to be turned on, because the best show in town was hosted by the sea. And luxury came from the sound of the waves.
Gopal, the manager, was a stocky man with a weathered Hero Honda and an even more reliable smile. Ajit, the chef, tall and thoughtful, made fish curries that could start conversations. And Jaya, the attentive housekeeping staff, had returned to the resort after dallying with other employers in the vicinity. All wonderful people. “It’s good to help people here,” she said softly, folding towels with care. “Only wish others are considerate too.” Who those “others” were, we left hanging in that polite ambiguity that some conversations excel at. Like a scene from a Mani Ratnam movie where silence does the explaining. And you fill in the gap in your own way.
They didn’t greet you with a scripted “Good morning.” They simply nodded, smiled, and said “Enna saar?” — “What, sir?” — half greeting, half check-in on your wellbeing. It was infinitely warmer than the mechanical, well-practised flow of a five-star resort employee. These folks were simple and authentic. Just like the sea. That’s all that mattered.
Stillness, the Unadvertised Luxury
By night, Sayalgudi changes tone. Fishing boats light up the horizon like a shy constellation. The lighthouse sweeps its beam with the discipline of a monk ringing a bell. The air fills with the sound of insects tuning up, and occasionally, a bird that hasn’t yet signed off.
It’s the kind of stillness Pico Iyer writes about: “The more ways there are to connect, the more we seem desperate to unplug.”
Here, you don’t disconnect as rebellion. You simply forget to connect in the first place. The signal flickers; the mind steadies.
I walk along the shore, barefoot, the sand cool and damp. Something sharp presses against my foot. For a moment I think it’s a broken beer bottle. A memory from a trip to Bali. But it’s a seashell, luminous under the moon. I slip it into my pocket, a small souvenir of an unadvertised paradise.
Abundance in the Unfamous
The next morning, Ajit serves dosai so crisp it competes with the waves. Gopal checks if the Wi-Fi has decided to exist. Jaya hums an old Ilaiyaraaja song as she sweeps the courtyard. Life goes on, entirely unbranded.
I think of all the famous beaches I’ve visited. Where the soundtrack is a mix of EDM, immaculate hotel staff and unbridled commerce. Corn. Coffee. Ice-cream. Beer. Horse riding. Whatever. Sayalgudi reminds me what a coastline really is: a conversation between sea and sand that doesn’t need an audience.
Paul Theroux once said, “Tourists don’t know where they’ve been; travellers don’t know where they’re going.” In Sayalgudi, both are forgiven. You just sit, let the waves do the talking, and measure time in tides.
A Small Philosophy Between Two Waves
The sea teaches quietly. Each wave arrives certain, crashes spectacularly, and dissolves without complaint. Watching them, I begin to think of work emails and deadlines that once felt as urgent as surf, until they receded. Maybe that’s what travel to places like this really does: it returns scale to things.
My phone vibrates — a reminder of a meeting, a plan, a project. I look at the screen, then at the moon tracing its silver loop above the water. Another wave rises, crashes, and fades.
“Tomorrow,” I tell the caller. Then add, “Actually, day after.” I hear the silence on the other side.
I add, “Please.” One more wave roars.
The wind approves. The sea keeps its counsel. Somewhere far away, a boat hums its way home.
I switch my phone to airplane mode. This time, I don’t want to buckle up like I otherwise would when I do that. Because, this time, I am not in a plane. I seem to have wings.
It’s Diwali. Deepawali as it’s called back home. The word comes from deepa (lamp) and avali (row) — a row of lights that celebrates the victory of clarity over confusion, of faith over fear.
Ram returns to Ayodhya after exile. Krishna ends Narakasura’s reign. Kali restores balance when chaos reigns. Guru Hargobind walks free from Jahangir’s prison, taking fifty-two kings with him into freedom. Of course, there is more. Each story carries the same thread — a new beginning after struggle, a moment when courage finds its footing again.
Resilience often begins quietly. It starts when everything feels uncertain, yet something inside whispers, try again. It grows when we pause, look around, and ask, what still holds true?
Finding Light – within and around.
There is much darkness in the world today — conflict, fatigue, and loss. Yet if you look closely, there are sparkles everywhere.
Like the taxi driver who tells me he is doing one extra round after a fifteen-hour day so the old-age home he supports can have more sweets for Diwali.
The air hostess who wipes away a tear as she wished me back a happy Diwali. Her first one away from home after being married for three weeks.
The corporate head who breaks down privately after losing colleagues in a freak accident, yet steadies himself so others can lean on him.
My newspaper agent in Madurai who still walks up, asks how I am, and waits — really waits — for an answer.
A neighbour who lost her husband but still smiles, still finds small ways to be kind, still shares a bit of joy.
Light finds its way through people like them. Human beings, in their everyday acts, are remarkably resilient.
Resilience is the art of standing up again. As Albert Camus wrote, “In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.”
So if the light around you feels faint, light a small lamp anyway. If your work, your idea, or your courage feels tired, let Diwali remind you that the glow returns in time. In people. In you.
May you find the light within, even as the ones on the window sills flicker bright. And may you notice the light in others. The kind they may not wear on their sleeve, but quietly keep alive for the world.
I visited Keezhadi recently—a quiet village near Madurai, where the ground is giving up secrets that are 2,600 years old. Brick houses, water systems, writing on pottery… all part of a once-thriving civilisation during the Sangam period.
They had trade routes, poetry, tools, and systems. They crossed seas without GPS. Built cities without cement trucks. Passed down knowledge without cloud backups.
It made me wonder—how much have we really gained through “progress”? And what have we lost along the way?
Phones gave us connection on tap. But they took away long, meandering conversations. The kind where you talked just because you had nothing else to do.
Google Maps made life easier. But it also took away the chance encounters—the awkward, hilarious, occasionally helpful conversations with strangers while hunting for that elusive street corner.
The elevator saved our knees. But it also saved us from cardio, eye contact, and the accidental small talk that sometimes brightens a dull day.
Microwaves gave us convenience. But they also gave us uniformly hot but uniformly dull meals. The kind of food that’s warm but somehow lifeless—like a hug from a vending machine.
Air-conditioning gave us comfort. And buildings with sealed windows, where fresh air is just a theory. Social media gave us reach. But often at the cost of depth.
Even the humble washing machine—blessing that it is—removed a time when people sat together, washing clothes by the river, exchanging gossip, jokes, sometimes wisdom. (It also reduced arm strength.)
I’m not arguing against technology. I’m not packing for a cave just yet.
But here’s the thing: with every upgrade, something old and human quietly exits the frame. Not with a bang, but with a polite shrug—like the friend who left the party without saying goodbye.
We rarely keep track of what we lose. We almost never count the things that disappear.
What Do We Lose When Everything Gets Easier?
In trying to smoothen every experience, we may have polished off something essential. Friction isn’t always a flaw—it’s often the fingerprint of effort, presence, and care.
The delay before a letter arrived. The clumsy directions from a stranger sitting at the corner tea stall. The slow-cooked meal that made you wait—and talk while waiting. These weren’t bugs. They were features. They made us pause. Pay attention. They made the world—and each other—a little more real.
In our obsession with speed, scale, and seamlessness, maybe it’s time we asked: what’s the value of a little resistance? Of things that take effort, but leave a mark? Of progress that still lets humanity show through?
Friction reminds us that something is being done. That time is being taken. That life is still being lived in full sentences, not just swipes.
Progress is not the enemy. But friction is not always the villain. Sometimes, it’s the only thing standing between us and forgetting what it means to be human.
Keezhadi reminded me: our ancestors were inventive, but not obsessed with convenience. They built thoughtfully. Slowly. With care and friction.
Maybe that’s what made them civilisations worth unearthing.
Some places demand silence. Not because they forbid noise, but because they leave you speechless. Meenakshi Amman Temple does that to me. Every single time.
I went yesterday. And I saw scaffolding. It wrapped around the gopurams, covering the intricate sculptures. It was early in the morning. So, no workers, just stillness. If this much care is going into restoring it, imagine what it took to build it. No machines, no shortcuts—just patience, skill, and intelligence.
Phones and cameras are not allowed inside after a fire in 2018. Perhaps the temple authorities trust that your memory has at least some storage space left. Later, as I scrolled through my old photos, I realised something—I had taken pictures of the ceilings, the pillars, the gopurams. But not the Yazhis. Perhaps I had wisely chosen to avoid making eye contact with a stone creature with teeth bigger than my head.
And yet, Yazhis are among the most stunning sculptures in the temple. These mythical beasts are carved with an astonishing mix of power and grace—lion-like bodies, an elephant’s trunk, a serpent’s tail. Strong claws. Giant teeth. A large penis. Elaborate decorations, all aesthetically done. A creature so fierce and fabulous that Hollywood fantasy films could learn a thing or two. If they ever reboot Jurassic Park with mythical beasts, I know where they should start. And these aren’t just still figures either—the giant sculptures are so elaborately done, they seem ever ready to jump out of the pillar and take on anyone into nonsense!
This time, I stood before them, staring. Ferocious yet elegant. My father once told me they were load-bearing structures. I had laughed. Who would carve something so intricate just to support a pillar?
But he was right. The Yazhis do hold up the structure, but they also hold up something else—imagination. Someone, centuries ago, looked at a block of stone and saw more than function. They saw movement, myth, and life itself. And they brought it to life.
As a child, I found them terrifying. Now, I find them familiar, almost reassuring. They have always been there. A solid as they were. My needs have shifted.
A Temple That Soothes the Soul
Whenever I visit with much time at hand, I just stand and stare. At the Yazhis. At the ceilings. At the sheer audacity of it all.
This is beyond religion. It is devotion, yes—but also craftsmanship, vision, and love.
And that is what makes it spiritual. Not just the rituals or the prayers, but the feeling of standing in a place that has stood for centuries. A place that has seen time pass but has remained unwavering. A place that, even in its silence, speaks.
It does something to the soul. It soothes, steadies, strengthens. It slows you down, pulls you iout of the present. For a few moments, the rush of the outside world fades. The doubts, the unfinished tasks, the endless scrolling—all of it seems distant.
There is a certain weight to this place. Not the kind that burdens you, but the kind that anchors you. It puts life back into your step. It reminds you that things of value take time, that endurance is built stone by stone. It gives you the courage to face the next uncertain moment.
In more than one sense, this is home.
Not in the way four walls define home, but in the way something familiar holds you when you need it most. In the way it reassures you that it has been here long before you arrived and will remain long after you leave.
Some long-form things are timeless. They stand tall, defying time and culture. Like the gopurams of Meenakshi Amman Temple. To me, they are a firm reminder that better is always possible.
If there’s one thing that refuses to sit still, it’s the drum. It calls, it commands, it moves. And when it does, so do you.
At the Chithirai Festival, the best drums don’t just set the rhythm—they set the spirit free. Feet tap, bodies sway, the energy sweeps through the crowd like a fever. You dance. You pause. You catch your breath. And then, you look around.
They’re still moving. The colours, the finery, the rhythm—it’s all alive, pulling you back in. You realise you’ve been out of action too long.
So, you move again.
Because that’s what the festival, and the drum, are here for.
There’s something about the rural plains that feels like a deep breath. A pause. A reset. Maybe it’s the colour—bold, unapologetic, woven into every fabric, wall, and festival. Maybe it’s the lack of sterile perfection, the absence of polished edges. Everything here is raw, textured, and gloriously authentic.
Take these mud horse statues from Madurai. Bright, defiant, standing tall against time. They aren’t crafted for galleries; they are made for the land, the people, the stories. Each jagged line, each uneven brushstroke carries a tale. There’s no need for refinement when there’s meaning. No need for symmetry when there’s soul.
Walking through these lands, surrounded by these colours, I feel something shift. A reminder of where I come from. The earth beneath my feet is familiar, yet always new. My roots, like these statues, breach fresh ground—seeking, stretching, growing.
Perhaps that’s the gift of places like this. They don’t conform. They don’t pretend. They simply are. And in their raw beauty, they remind us to be, too.
What are you working on? And how are you working on whatever you are working on?
The Albert Victor Bridge in Madurai was built in 1886 and was supposed to last a 100 years! It’s still standing. Being of value and use to the day. Long after the engineers went back and the river ran dry.
Good work solves problems. Great work solves problems, through time as well. The option to do both exists all the time. The choices are ours to make.
He sat, painting red stripes on a quiet, unremarkable side step of the Meenakshi Temple. No rush, no shortcuts—just steady, precise strokes, his diligence filling the air.
Much of our work is like that. We aren’t always building rockets or reshaping the world. Most days, we show up, put in effort, and add our strokes to something bigger than ourselves.
The real magic isn’t in what we work on, but how we do it. With care. With intention. With the quiet belief that even the smallest efforts hold meaning.
