We raise our children in silk-lined dreams,With comfort, ease, and golden gleams.We teach them: “Chase your fire, your art,Let passion guide your fearless heart.” But passion—wild and raw and real—Comes dressed in wounds it won’t conceal.It asks for less, yet
We strolled to the court, just past four,Expecting a class, like days before.But “Sir’s not here,” the guard did say—An unexpected twist to our day. I thought they’d cheer and run away,Relieved of drills and games to play.Yet something quiet,
To grow into something majestic, it doesn’t race.It stays still. It stays put.It weathers storms.It faces the heat, the winds, the chaos.And through all that, it grows. This morning, a grandmother visited us at Calhoun Academy and said this—so simply,
They say within each heart, both moon and sun reside—The gentle tide, the raging fire, the stillness and the stride.Lord Shiva stands, in sacred grace, as half of each divine—A truth so old, yet one we miss, while raising yours
My thoughts on how we communicate with our kids vs Americans, and how that affects our children’s confidence even as adults.. and how we have let the world make us believe we as Indians have too many flaws, although we
I always wanted to know why allergies are playing such a huge role in our lives these days, which wasn’t the case in olden days, specifically pollen. There was something very interesting and difficult to find information I got, which
They ran with laughter on the grass, A ball, a dream, a moment passed. But silence came—not from the sky— From voices sharp, a grown man’s cry. “This is not where you belong!” As if their joy was somehow wrong.
