Rekha's Ramblings

  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 ...

  The other day, I was watching the latest season of The  Virgin River , enjoying its quiet charm and small-town comfort, when something unexpected stirred a memory I usually keep tucked away. A simple sign. “ Beware of Dog.”     And a  dog suddenly charges at Mel, the nurse, the main character.  It’s brief, almost brushed aside in the flow of the story—but for me, it wasn’t just a scene. It was a trigger. That split second of unpredictability, the way calm turns into fear without warning—I felt it in my body before my mind could even process it. For most, it’s just a warning. For me, it’s a feeling. Years ago, I was attacked by a neighbor’s dog—a Rottweiler. There were no signs, no warnings, no indication of what could happen in a split second. I was just walking, minding my own business, when he came out of nowhere and lunged at me. I still remember the force. The shock. The fear. I was wearing a loose-fitting jacket that day. That jacket saved me. I...

  Why I Write: Ramblings of a Mother’s Heart Yesterday, I read a post about writing, and it took me back to a question someone had asked me not too long ago:  What do you write about? Why do you love to write? My answer was simple then, and it remains the same today—I write whatever comes to my mind. I call them my ramblings. They are pieces of my journey, mostly as a mom, as a parent, as a woman still learning and unlearning along the way. When my husband and I became parents, we were old enough, perhaps more prepared in some ways—but we had no external support. Our families were thousands of miles away. There were days I felt deeply overwhelmed, days when I wished I had someone to talk to… another mom who truly understood the rollercoaster of emotions—the good, the bad, and yes, the ugly. Back then, these feelings weren’t spoken about openly. There was a quiet stigma attached to struggling through motherhood. Advice came from a distance, often well-meaning but disconnected. ...

  Today is International Day of Happiness. What makes you happy ? What do you do to feel happy ? Happiness comes in many shapes and forms. For years, my loved ones told me I could never truly be happy —that I expected too much from myself and from them. They reminded me to be grateful, to be content, to remember that someone, somewhere, always had it worse. What they didn’t realize was how little it would have taken to make me happy. But then again… I was expecting it from them. So I changed that expectation. Easier said than done. Ironically, it was the lockdown that shifted something in me. It slowed everything down just enough for me to notice what had always been there. I realized that happiness was never in the big, distant things. It lived quietly in the small, everyday moments. A simple walk around the neighborhood. Pausing to admire whatever was blooming that season. Breathing it all in. And above all—time with my family. While I was busy chasing happiness i...

  A long post alert !!! When someone asks me, what are you doing these days, I am doing this, writing and I am proud of how far I have come.  This morning, during a conversation with a family member, the question came up: “ Why did you turn out so different from the rest of us ?” Different. It wasn’t said as an insult. It wasn’t said as praise either. Just… different . And I’ve been sitting with that word all day. I don’t know when it started. I really don’t. Maybe it began in India, sometime in the 70s or 80s, sitting on the floor with my sisters watching Rajani  , a TV show which aired on every Sunday morning. Rajani was just a homemaker, a regular woman, a mother. Ordinary on the outside but— she was extraordinary in spirit. If something was wrong, she didn’t shrug and move on. She confronted it. She spoke up. She pursued accountability. She was fearless.  The 10–12-year-old me wanted to be her. Back then, if you missed an episode, that was it. No ...