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.
(at Madurai, India)
If you can’t showcase your work, you can’t sell it. It’s as simple as that.
The old idea that “if you build a better mousetrap, the world will beat a path to your door”? A myth. Maybe it never existed.
At the Chithirai Festival in Madurai, amidst the chaos and colour, one balloon vendor knew this well. He struck an ingenious deal with the cops—his bike would serve as a barricade against traffic, giving him prime real estate in the middle of the road.
With that sorted, he put on a show—a mega display of bright, cheerful balloons. By the end of the day, he sold them all.
There’s always a way to showcase your work.
It can be subtle, functional, creative, or bold—but it must be authentic.
A little bit of imagination can make all the difference.
This balloon seller taught me that.
He appeared with a tap on my shoulder, cutting through the jostling crowd at Madurai’s Chithirai Festival. While chaos swirled around us, he stood calm, his face a riot of colour—deep devilish pink, adorned with glinting trinkets.
He smiled and held out a vessel. Ah, money, I thought. It paints the town red. Or, in this case, a shade of pink that refused to be ignored.
Carefully, I wrestled my wallet free, handed him a few notes. His eyes widened.
Was it the amount?
The act of giving itself?
Or my awkward attempt at wallet gymnastics in a jostling sea of people?
Surprise gave way to a grin, and suddenly—out of nowhere—he blessed me with a peacock feather.
I asked for a picture. He stood, smiled, then vanished into the festival, dancing to a new tune, swallowed by the crowd.
But his azure blue eyes lingered long after.
And a question stayed with me—Do we all wear paint to earn a living?
(at Madurai, India)
You can’t miss the beats—they travel miles, weaving through memory and the moment.
Folklore spills onto the streets of Madurai, as rural dancers take center stage—bare-chested, bells jingling, raw energy flowing. Nothing polished, nothing rehearsed. Just movement, music, and meaning.
This is Chithirai Festival.
There’s no perfect synchrony, no scripted spectacle for the screen. Yet, there’s joy. A gay abandon of culture, faith, and spontaneous rhythm. A festival that isn’t just performed—it’s felt.
A new warp and weft to an old tradition.
A treat to the senses. A soothing of the soul. A renewal—of memories, of roots, of fresh dreams taking flight.
There’s a joy in watching a chef at work—especially the weekend warriors, the amateurs who step into the kitchen with enthusiasm rather than obligation.
From scribbled recipes to sizzling magic, the journey is one of experimentation, creativity, and a dash of chaos. The dish must first delight the eye before it wins over the taste buds.
But here’s the thing—the best chefs don’t mind sharing their recipes. Because it’s never just about the ingredients.
The real secret? It’s in the hands, the instincts, the little improvisations that make every dish uniquely theirs.
(at Madurai, India)
