Yesterday, I spoke to an old HUL colleague. It had been almost a year since both of us spoke an she had stepped into a leadership role in a different organization.

As we spoke, I noticed something interesting. What struck me wasn’t what had changed in us, but what hadn’t.

This colleague has always had a rare gift: the ability to say “no.”

Not the harsh, dismissive no that shuts the door.

But the calm, steady no that clears the fog.

The kind of no that makes you pause and realize — this isn’t rejection, this is clarity.

I have always admired that quality. Because when you say no with intention, what remains is sharper focus on what truly matters.

You protect your time, your energy, your attention. And over time, strategies become clearer, priorities crystallize, and impact multiplies.

Three cues I’ve carried with me from such conversations:

🔹 Core vs. Co-curricular — if it doesn’t move the main outcome, it’s peripheral.

🔹 Define success upfront — clarity on the destination filters out distractions.

🔹 Guard your “yes” — every yes costs time, focus, and energy; spend it wisely.

Today, life showed me a very different side of “no.”

For 12 years now, Navaratri has been my rhythm. All ten days, ten bows of the head in surrender.

This year was no different. On Vijayadashami, flowers in hand, I went to a temple that is new to me. The air was thick with incense. The bells inside rang in waves. Devotees pressed forward with offerings, whispering their prayers.

I had a ticket. I stepped forward.

And then came the guard’s voice.

Not just a no — but a shouted no.

Sharp. Loud. Cutting through the air.

“No!”

Everyone turned. Heads swiveled. Whispers spread.

It wasn’t the first time here. This was the second time.

And in that moment – under all those eyes, feeling the weight of being singled out – I broke. Tears spilled, something I rarely allow myself. On Vijayadashami, the day of victory, I stood there undone by a word.

Because it wasn’t just denial. It was the way it was delivered – harsh, careless, in full view of everyone. A no without compassion.

And then, through the crowd, someone appeared. An elderly woman, a stranger I had never seen before. She stepped close, touched my arm gently, and said with quiet strength:

“Don’t cry. We shouldn’t show them that we are weak.”

Her words held me up when I was falling apart.

If she hadn’t been there, I would have walked away. Defeated, carrying nothing but hurt. But because she was there, I steadied myself. I wiped my tears, walked forward, offered my flowers to the goddess, bowed my head, and then left for home. Her kindness gave me back the strength to finish what I had come for.

That’s when I understood: the power of “no” is not just in saying it. It lies in how it is said, and what it leaves behind.

A no with clarity can align.

A no with compassion can preserve dignity.

A no with arrogance – especially when shouted in public – can wound far beyond intention.

Saying no is strength.

Saying it well is wisdom.

Saying it with humanity – that is grace.

Because no is never just a word.

Sometimes it breaks us.

Sometimes it pushes us to rise.

And sometimes, when the universe is kind, a stranger steps forward like a guardian angel reminding us that strength is not in walking away, but in carrying through.

This Navaratri, I was reminded of two truths: that a shouted no can scar, but kindness however brief, however unexpected has the power to rebuild.

But with grace, compassion, and humanity a no can also guide us back to what matters most.

And that is the kind of no I want to carry forward.

This year’s Krishna Janmashtami will forever stay close to my heart. It wasn’t just another festival – it truly felt like celebrating Krishna’s birthday itself, with devotion, joy, family, and a touch of mischief, just the way Krishna would have loved it.

It all began with a trip to my favorite shop, NH Dasara Dolls in Gandhi Bazaar. I had been nudging Amma to get something special, not just decorative but story-like. That’s how the Govardhana Giri set came home, welcomed wholeheartedly, and became the spark that lit up our celebrations.

From there, the day unfolded in the kitchen. The smell of flour, jaggery, and spices filled the air as we began making chaklis. I tried my hand at them for the very first time, but to my dismay, I couldn’t even crack two properly. The ones I managed were so tiny that Amma looked at them with a smile and said, “These are like bombe baagina” – little treats made for children. It was a small tease I secretly enjoyed, because it carried both love and encouragement. It reminded me of my Ammamma, who used to make these exact snacks more than a decade ago while we children sat on the steps waiting to eat them. This time, I was at the other side of the story.

Next came kodubale, those crunchy little finger rings of joy, and then the many types of undes. I kept asking Dodda endless questions about them, and she patiently explained each one -ellu unde, rave unde, kadle unde. But the proclaimed star of this story was my husband. He took full charge of all the mixing and shaping, rolled out the panchakajjaya with flair, and finally proclaimed himself to be the star of the kitchen. Watching him so happily involved made the process even sweeter. Dodda, meanwhile, worked tirelessly all day, her quiet resilience inspiring me not to give in to tiredness. Elders, I realized are the anchors of festivals carrying tradition not in words but in actions.

By afternoon, it was time for what I was most excited about the decoration. Amma and me planning together, carefully arranging and rethinking, while my husband pitched in here and there to add his own touch. The highlight was the jhula for Krishna, where we placed our dearest idols: the striking pitch-black Udupi Krishna radiating unmatched grace, the Muddu Benne Krishna in Tanjore style gifted by a dear aunt, the timeless Radha-Krishna, and the tiniest Krishna on a swing gifted by cousin Pooja. Dodda lit the deepas, Amma and I tucked in strings of mallige flowers, and suddenly the whole space glowed with devotion and joy. What was supposed to be an hour-long task stretched into three, but when we stepped back, it felt worth every second.

By evening, family began arriving, and the house came alive with chatter and laughter. Colloquially we call this ‘Gouji’ a word that perfectly captures the happiness of togetherness during festivals. Our uncle led the puja, guiding us through every step, and then came the Arghya Pradhāna — the most important part of the festival. Krishna, placed gently on a coconut, is offered water, bilpatre leaves, and milk in reverence. This sacred act is performed in order from the eldest to the youngest in the family making it deeply symbolic of continuity and blessings. When this is complete, we seek the blessings of our elders in what we lovingly call habbada namaskaragalu in Kannada special salutations offered only on such special occasions. With lamps glowing and chants echoing, it truly felt like Krishna himself was among us.

After devotion came indulgence – pet pooja. Plates were filled with gojjavalakki, mosru avalakki, soft moode idlis wrapped in jackfruit leaves, and all the sweets and savories made through the day. These weren’t just dishes they were the part of Udupi and South Canara traditions, connecting us to generations before.

And speaking of Udupi, Janmashtami there is celebrated like nowhere else. At midnight, under the Rohini Nakshatra, Krishna’s birth is marked with grandeur, processions, and devotion that last till dawn. My father in law, who was there this year, described the magic the temple glowing, bhajans filling the air, crowds spilling into the streets. Even from afar, we felt connected, as though the spirit of Udupi had spilled into our own celebration. We missed him beinh here dearly.

And somewhere in the middle of all this, I found myself drifting into a little daydream what if Krishna really celebrated his birthday at home with us? The kitchen would be in chaos not because of us, but because he’d already stolen half the butter and hidden it in little pots around the house. My tiny bombe baagina chaklis would be his favorite he’d grab them, laugh, and run before anyone could catch him. Radha would be chasing after him, trying to pull his ear, while he cheekily slipped a kodubale ring onto her finger to win her back. Dodda would pretend to scold him but secretly hand him an extra unde. And my husband, would find Krishna declaring, “I’m the real star here!” as he sat happily on the jhula, grinning ear to ear. His birthday party wouldn’t need balloons or cake it would be just this: butter, sweets, music, and a house full of love.

As the night drew to a close and the house grew quiet, my heart was full. This was the Janmashtami I had been eagerly waiting for after our wedding filled with endless happiness, new learnings, and big memories. It was a day when Amma’s smile made me laugh, when Dodda’s resilience inspired me, when my husband claimed his stardom, and when I myself felt like a child again an excited cookie, a little kid at heart rediscovering the magic of festivals.

This Janmashtami wasn’t just about rituals. It was about celebrating Krishna’s birthday the way he would have loved it — with joy, mischief, devotion, and family. 🌸

Once upon a time – not in your backyard, but somewhere far, far away in a corner of the galaxy – there lived a planet filled with space flowers. These weren’t ordinary flowers. Oh no, these flowers glowed in colors you can’t even find in the crayon box – blue like bubblegum soda, pink like cotton candy at a fair, and gold like the last scoop of ice cream you didn’t want to share.

The funny thing about these space flowers? Each had its own timetable. Some popped open instantly -“Ta-da! Look at me!” – like that one overly enthusiastic friend who always arrives an hour early for dinner. Others just sat there, buds closed, humming to themselves, “Hmm, not yet. I’m still stretching.” Weeks, months, sometimes years would pass before they even thought about blooming.

One day, a curious traveler from Earth landed on this planet. She was chasing her dreams, and also maybe chasing snacks because honestly, space travel makes you hungry. She looked at the glowing fields and thought, “Wow. These flowers are just like people’s dreams.”

She wandered around, pointing and giggling:
• “This one bloomed in five minutes—that’s like my neighbor’s kid who became a genius at 12.”
• “This one hasn’t opened in three years—that’s me trying to finish a fitness challenge.”
• “This one glows faintly pink—oh wow, that’s like when I try to cook pasta and it’s edible but not Instagram-worthy.”

At first, she felt a little sad. “Why is my flower still closed? Why do others shine so fast while mine takes forever?” She poked the bud gently, whispering, “Hellooo? Any plans to open up before the next century?”

But then she noticed something magical. The flowers that bloomed quickly often faded just as fast – like a sparkler, bright but gone in seconds. The slower ones, however, when they finally decided to open, were breathtaking. Their glow was steady, gentle, and long-lasting, like a cozy lamp in a dark room. And the traveler realized: “Maybe waiting isn’t so bad. Maybe slow blooms shine the brightest.”

That night, lying on a bed of glowing petals, she thought about her own life. Dreams are beautiful, yes, but reality is what waters them. Reality is the part where you trip, spill coffee, lose socks in the washing machine, and yet somehow still keep going. It’s not glamorous, but it’s the soil where dreams grow.

And isn’t that the funny part? We spend so much time comparing timelines. “She got promoted at 25, he bought a house at 30, they figured out sourdough during lockdown.” Meanwhile, our own flower is just yawning and saying, “Chill. I’ll bloom when I’m ready.”

The traveler laughed. She imagined all the flowers on Earth having personalities:
• The sunflower – definitely the drama queen, always turning toward the spotlight.
• The rose – classic diva, needs extra attention.
• The cactus flower – quiet achiever, like, “Surprise! I bloom once in five years. Good luck catching it.”. And in that laughter, she found peace. Because she understood—life is not a race. Flowers don’t compete to bloom first; they just bloom. And every single bloom, whether quick or slow, adds color to the garden.

So she packed her space snacks, waved goodbye to the glowing fields, and carried home a lesson tucked in her heart:

🌸 Dreams need patience.
🌸 Reality is not the enemy – it’s the gardener.
🌸 Everyone blooms at their own pace, and that’s perfectly okay.

At the end of the day, when the flowers fade and the stars twinkle, what matters most isn’t who bloomed first or brightest. It’s the joy of blooming at all. It’s the giggles, the silly detours, the quiet moments, and the bursts of light. It’s happiness. That’s it. Happiness – because when you find it, nothing else matters.

So dream big, walk slow, laugh often, and let your flower bloom when it’s ready. The universe is cheering for you – petals, sparkles, and all.

The First Six Months of being married! ☺️

The first six months of marriage haven’t just been about “us.”
They’ve been about the little things that slowly shape a life together.

I came into this home with a lot of inhibitions and fear – of the unknown, of whether I’d fit in, of whether I’d do it right. But what followed has been a journey—of learning, unlearning, and growing in ways I never expected.

It’s been about coasters, coffee, cutlery… and figuring out how to build a rhythm together, in our own way.
About small joys and quiet discipline, shared routines and unspoken understandings.

It’s been about missing home, moving to and fro, navigating new roles,
and learning the art of sweet give and take.

It’s about knowing people—understanding them, growing with them. About realizing how much love lives in the spaces between conversations, celebrations, and silences.

It’s about little humans—like Stavyah—who bring laughter and pure joy.
And about learning from the oldest—Ajja—simply by watching the energy, passion, and sheer hard work he carries even at his age. A quiet inspiration I absorb without needing words.

It’s about learning how to cook, how to clean and manage things that once seemed small but now feel big.
It’s about trying—and sometimes failing – but still showing up.

It’s also about learning a new language and culture – Tulu, and a cuisine so comforting it now feels like mine. (oh coconut oil–infused idly! 😋)

It’s about embracing unfamiliar traditions and finding calmness in them. About confronting the fear of not doing well, and still choosing to try. It’s about change – a good kind of reformation, one that gently roots itself deep within. A shift that feels soft but significant.

And perhaps… first impressions do matter. I always thought they didn’t. But I’m beginning to see, maybe they quietly do.

It’s about the little arguments with the best person in my life – the natural bumps that come from being around each other, every single day.

It’s about dressing up, showing up—for weddings, for festivals, for get-togethers.

It’s about teamwork, about laying down quiet foundations for a life of learning and trying – to be better, to be more kind, more thoughtful, more us.

And for me, at the end of the day—
it’s been about making new friends in this new world.

Most of all, it’s thanks to my mother-in-law (though I don’t like the word “in-laws”—not sure who came up with that, definitely not okay), who feels more like a friend, someone I know I can talk to, about anything, anytime I want to.

And to my father-in-law—
so quiet, yet so warm, so present in his own way – thank you for making me feel welcome.

So much so that now, I can confidently call this my home.
Not just for now, for a lifetime. It takes a while to sync in isn’t it? May be a year later it’s even more stronger.

It’s a journey – of learning, unlearning, patience, love, and nurturing.

Because love takes different forms at different stages. Sometimes, it’s just standing nearby while someone works – an act of quiet emotional presence.
Sometimes, it’s doing chores, lending a hand, lightening a load. But always, it’s about being open – to each other, to change, to all the silent ways we say I care.

Probably every woman feels it differently—this is my version.
My voice, my heart, and my small, unfolding story of love, home, and everything in between.

Well, I think when we’re conscious about not troubling or hurting the people around us, everything becomes a little easier. It’s about the small yeses – the gentle affirmations—rather than the unnecessary questions that stir up storms.

In the end, it’s simply about being kind human beings. And most of all, it’s about being honest and open to learning having a progressive mind with lot of respect and just being ourselves.

With love & happiness,
– Prakruthi