Rekha's Ramblings

  Do you see it? At first glance, it may look like nothing more than a stick lying on the ground. Weathered by sun and rain, perhaps overlooked by most people passing by. But I see something more. I see kindness, a random act. Over the years, I have availed myself of this simple act many times. On walks through parks, nature trails, and uneven paths, I have come across a sturdy branch thoughtfully modified into a walking stick. Sometimes I needed it for balance. Sometimes it simply made the journey easier. And each time, when I was done, I left it behind for the next person. No names exchanged. No expectations. No recognition sought. Just one person helping another person they will likely never meet. What makes this small gesture so special is that it serves more than one purpose. It is an act of kindness, but it is also an act of stewardship. A fallen branch is given a second life. It becomes an example of reducing, reusing, and recycling. Something discarded by nature becomes use...

  Often times, I wander into my imaginary bubble. A picture of me in my "bubble" by my daughter. A soft, quiet place where life feels gentler. Kinder. Safer. In this bubble, every child has parents who stay. Parents who are present, involved, loving. No child wonders if they matter. No child falls asleep feeling abandoned. In this bubble , children feel safe — inside their homes and outside of them. They can walk to school without fear. They can play outside until the streetlights come on. Their laughter fills neighborhoods instead of sirens. There is food on the table. Nothing extravagant. Sometimes just a peanut butter and jelly sandwich cut into triangles. But it is enough. Enough to quiet hungry stomachs and remind children they are cared for. In this bubble, education belongs to everyone. Girls do not have to fight for the right to learn. Every child gets the chance to dream, to discover who they are, to build a future. In this bubble , there is no rape. No te...

  We celebrate Mother's day here in the US every second sunday of May.  And today is that day.  Forget buying the flowers or making a special meal for me. Nobody in my family even remembers to say, “ Happy Mother’s Day .” And honestly, that’s okay. Years ago, I taught my children that love is not something meant for just one day on the calendar. We always believed that every day is special, and somewhere along the way, they truly embraced that philosophy. Because to me, every day becomes Mother’s Day when my children are kind to one another and to the people around them. Every day is Mother’s Day when they make sure no one feels left behind. Every day is Mother’s Day when they offer a helping hand to someone who needs it. And I know they do all of those things. So how can I measure motherhood by bouquets, brunches, or greeting cards when the real reward is watching your children grow into compassionate human beings? That was the gift all along.  Those v...

  May is the month when we celebrate Mother’s Day , and it is also Mental Health Awareness Month. So I decided to write about both of them. The moment you learn you are expecting a baby, life takes a different turn. From that point on, everything revolves around the baby—its well-being, its health, the financial security you can provide, and its safety. And when the baby arrives, the joy of holding your little one for the first time is unmatched. Then come the saga of the  sleepless nights ,The constant cycle of feeding,changing diapers,  soothing, and worrying . Your world shifts overnight, and somehow, you are expected to just know what to do. You question yourself more than you ever have before: Am I doing enough? Am I doing this right? But that doesn’t mean you can pause or quit— there is no time for that. You have to  keep showing up. We often tell new parents to “soak it all in,” and yes, there is so much to soak in. But what we don’t talk about enough ...

  Last week, my heart felt heavier than usual. The news was hard to ignore.  A prominent Virginian had shot his wife and then taken his own life.  Their teenage children were in the house.  I remember pausing, unable to move past the headline. Not because it was unfamiliar — we hear stories like these far too often — but because something about it settled deep within me. Maybe it was the children. Maybe it was the silence that must have followed. And then, quietly, my mind wandered. I want you to meet the man behind the scenes. Not the one in the headlines. But the one I know — the one I built a life with. When we met, we were young and, if I’m being honest, a little foolish. We didn’t have all the answers. We didn’t even have most of the questions figured out. We had our differences, our share of arguments, our ups and downs that sometimes felt bigger than us. There were moments when walking away might have seemed easier. But we didn’t. We stayed. Not because everyt...

 April is a special month. This month, I celebrate a special day. Not my birthday—but the birthday of a new beginning. Three decades plus of living in the U.S. My adopted homeland. April is also Occupational Therapy Month, which feels especially meaningful to me, because it was my profession that first brought me to this country. A path I once thought would be temporary quietly became the doorway to an entirely new life. I arrived here young—naive, perhaps even a little ignorant. I truly believed in the words, “ all men are created equal .” And for a long time, I stayed that way—holding on to that belief, untouched, unquestioned. Like any journey, it has been a ride— a mix of joy, confusion, growth, and quiet resilience. I moved here in a time before Google Maps, before GPS, before cell phones. Whatever little I knew about America came from Hollywood movies and the fiction I had read. I didn’t know what to expect—only that I was excited. Some of my first impressions ar...

  There was a time they walked beside me, their tiny fingers wrapped around mine. Now they walk ahead—confident, स्वतंत्र, (independent) and I follow… quietly, holding on through moments I can frame, but never pause. This past weekend, I was visiting my children at their college—following them around, watching them, doing my own thing which is  stand in the back , on the side, on the bleachers , mostly taking photos, videos, soaking it all in . I was there to attend a few concerts where they were performing.  There is something about being in their world that makes time feel slightly suspended. Between crowded halls, instruments tuning, and familiar unfamiliar faces, I found myself simply observing them—how they move, how they belong, how they have grown into themselves. At one of the venues, another parent standing nearby asked me if I had a child performing in the mix of performers where they were hanging out, waiting to go on stage. We started talking. I told ...