Penamoli

  The duck was there first. Standing at the edge of the pond, calm and completely unbothered, it faced the water as if nothing else in the world existed. The surface reflected the sky so clearly it blurred the boundary between above and below. It was quiet—one of those still moments that feels almost sacred. Yesterday, during my sons’ practice round at Belton Woods, I found myself pausing there longer than I expected. Not because of the game, but because of everything around it. A little further along, I noticed a tiny beetle resting on a blooming leaf. So small, so still, and yet perfectly placed within the vastness of the course. I took a photo, quietly, while the rhythm of golf carried on in the background—the soft strike of a ball, the murmur of voices, footsteps on grass. I’m not a golfer. Not really. I don’t carry a handicap. I don’t own a polished set of clubs, and I still hesitate when someone asks me the difference between a draw and a fade. And yet, over the years, standi...

  Mindful Musing… Missing my ‘Amma’ and ‘Maami’. If they were still here, they would still find every little chance to feed me, just like they always did. In our small village home, life was simple—but it was full. The house stood quietly under a zinc roof that sang loudly whenever the rain came. Its brick-and-wooden walls held the warmth of our laughter, our struggles, and the little moments that made everything meaningful. We were lucky too—to have a big house by village standards, with a beautiful compound around it. It wasn’t just built overnight… it was built inch by inch by my dad, with us beside him—his little helping hands, passing bricks, mixing cement and even helping with plastering walls and laying tiles. We felt so proud, being part of something that slowly became our home. That house wasn’t just a place we lived in; it was something we built together. At the heart of it all was my mother. I am proud of my Tamil heritage. Growing up, meals were never just about eating....