2026 Week 44 Update

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What a week! October certainly decided to go out with a flourish, bringing a whirlwind of activity, unexpected encounters and moments that made me wonder whether the world had collectively lost its sense of proportion.

After weeks of preparations, an important event finally came together. There were last-minute adjustments, anxious moments and lessons for another day. But seeing everything unfold and watching people come together for a meaningful cause made it worthwhile. I even discovered that stepping outside my comfort zone can be rather enjoyable!

One of the week’s unexpected pleasures was a thirty-minute taxi ride with a woman from the Bohra community. Growing up in Mumbai, where the community is sizeable and the women’s distinctive attire is a familiar sight, I had never expected my first encounter with a Bohra woman in Singapore to happen in a taxi. We chatted about her community, its traditions and how its practices differ from those of the wider Muslim community. The journey flew by!

Meanwhile, regional politics provided its own entertainment, although I’m not entirely sure whether to laugh or cry. Between reduced gas supplies, remarks about the clean air that apparently accompanies the haze, and suggestions that religious travellers avoid transiting through Singapore and Malaysia, I found myself wondering whether international diplomacy had somehow wandered into a kindergarten playground. Surely neighbours can disagree without everything becoming a contest of words?

As October ends, I’m looking forward to a little breathing space, fresh possibilities and perhaps some genuinely fresh air. This week’s lesson? People can surprise us wonderfully, and occasionally, so can politics, although not always for the right reasons!

This quote, attributed to American essayist, poet, philosopher and leading figure of the Transcendentalist movement, Ralph Waldo Emerson, encourages us to approach life with a sense of purpose rather than allowing our difficulties to determine the direction we take.

Problems are an inevitable part of life. Whether they involve relationships, work, finances or personal disappointments, they demand our attention and can sometimes consume our thoughts. When we become entirely focused on what is going wrong, our decisions may be driven by fear, frustration or the desire to escape an uncomfortable situation. We begin reacting to circumstances rather than consciously choosing where we want to go.

Dreams, on the other hand, give us something meaningful to move towards. They remind us of our aspirations, values and the possibilities we hope to create. Instead of asking only how we can get away from our present difficulties, we begin asking what kind of future we want to build. This does not mean ignoring problems or pretending they do not exist. Some difficulties require immediate attention, practical solutions and difficult decisions. The distinction lies in allowing our dreams to guide our direction while dealing with problems along the way.

There is also something empowering about recognising that our circumstances need not define our entire story. A setback may change our plans, but it does not necessarily have to change our purpose. Ultimately, the quote reminds us that life becomes more meaningful when we move towards something we believe in, rather than simply running away from what troubles us.

This week’s verse, from the Bhagavad Gita, verse 18.66 is one of the most famous verses in the Bhagavad Gita. It is often misunderstood as a call to abandon responsibility. In reality, Krishna asks Arjuna to release the burden of believing he controls everything. There are moments in life when effort alone cannot guarantee an outcome. We do our best, make thoughtful choices and fulfil our duties, yet uncertainty remains. This verse reminds us that faith begins where control ends. Surrender is not a weakness. It is the courage to move forward without having every answer.

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When several things seem to be changing at once, it’s natural to feel overwhelmed by life. Change is uncomfortable because it pushes you out of your comfort zone and brings uncertainty. You may find yourself wondering whether you’re making the right decisions when you no longer have the same things to rely on. You may even crave those moments when everything feels familiar again. At times, it can feel like you’re constantly trying to catch up. It’s okay if you don’t immediately know how to navigate everything. Take a breath, focus on the next step, and trust yourself to figure out the rest as you go. Give yourself time to become comfortable with the unfamiliar. You can handle the unexpected better than you think. From here, another reality is still possible.

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And on that note, here’s to a fruitful November, one filled with joy, happiness and prosperity!

In My Hands Today…

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The Mother Tongue: English and How It Got That Way – Bill Bryson

How did English, ‘treated for centuries as the inadequate and second-rate tongue of peasants’ become the undisputed global language?

How did words like shampoo, sofa and rowdy (and others drawn from over fifty languages) find their way into our dictionary?

In this revealing and often hilarious book, Bill Bryson examines the mother tongue and explores the countless varieties of English and the perils of marketing brands with names like Pschitt and Super Piss.

With entertaining sections on the oddities of swearing and spelling, spoonerisms and Scrabble, and a consideration of what we mean by ‘good English’, Mother Tongue is one of the most stimulating books yet written on this endlessly engrossing subject.

Bill Bryson’s classic Mother Tongue is a highly readable and hilarious tale of how English came to be the world’s language.

Sacred Stones, Spaces, and Stories: Divya Desams – Part 30

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Thiruvidanthai Temple, Chengalpattu, Tamil Nadu
Thiruvidanthai, located along the East Coast Road near Chengalpattu, feels different from many other Divya Desams the moment you approach it. There is the sea not too far away, the open sky, and a sense of quiet movement in the air. The presiding deity here is Nithya Kalyana Perumal, and the goddess is Komalavalli Thayar. The name itself tells you what the temple is about. Nithya Kalyana means eternal marriage, and this is one of the rare temples where the central idea is not just devotion or protection, but union. It is not a one-time event remembered in myth. It is something that is believed to continue every single day.

The legend of Thiruvidanthai is tied to a sage named Kalava Maharishi. According to tradition, he had 360 daughters and was deeply concerned about finding them suitable marriages. He prayed to Vishnu for help, and the Lord appeared before him in a human form and agreed to marry each daughter. One by one, he married them, a single marriage each day, until all 360 daughters were wed. At the end of this sequence, the Lord is said to have united all the brides into one form, who became Komalavalli Thayar, seated on his left thigh. Because this act of marriage happened daily, the deity came to be known as Nithya Kalyana Perumal. The story may sound unusual at first, but its meaning is not difficult to understand. It speaks about continuity, patience and the idea that grace unfolds over time, not all at once.

Inside the sanctum, this legend takes a clear visual form. The Lord stands with Komalavalli Thayar seated on his left thigh, a posture that immediately sets this temple apart. The image is intimate without being overwhelming. It conveys closeness, companionship and a sense of balance. Unlike temples where the goddess has a separate identity that you move toward after seeing the Lord, here the two are inseparable in the main form. That changes the way the temple is experienced. You do not encounter the divine as divided aspects. You encounter it as a union.

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There is also a deeper layer to the legend that often stays with visitors. The number 360 is not accidental. It corresponds to the days of a year, suggesting that the idea of union is not limited to one moment in time. It repeats, renews and continues. In that sense, the temple speaks about the rhythm of life itself. Relationships are not built in a single act. They are sustained over time, day after day. The daily marriage of the Lord becomes a symbolic reminder of that continuity.

Historically, Thiruvidanthai carries traces of Pallava and later Chola patronage, like many temples in this region. The structure that stands today reflects additions and restorations over different periods, with inscriptions pointing to ongoing support for rituals and temple upkeep. Despite its age and significance, the temple has not grown into an overwhelming scale. It remains accessible, grounded and closely tied to its surroundings. Its location along the coast adds to its character. The air feels different here, and that sense of openness carries into the temple space.

Architecturally, the temple follows the Dravidian style but with a simplicity that suits its theme. The entrance gopuram marks the boundary clearly, and the prakarams guide you inward without distraction. The sanctum becomes the focal point almost immediately. The deity’s posture, with Thayar seated on his thigh, draws attention not through grandeur but through meaning. The temple tank nearby and the open spaces around the complex add to the feeling of calm. Everything about the layout supports a slower pace.

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The daily rituals at Thiruvidanthai follow the Vaishnavite tradition, but the temple is especially known for its association with marriage. Devotees come here with prayers related to relationships, particularly those seeking a suitable partner. It is common to see people performing specific prayers with the hope of resolving delays or difficulties in marriage. Yet even beyond that, the temple’s meaning is wider. It is not only about marriage in the literal sense. It is about connection, balance and the ability to sustain relationships with care.

Festivals such as Brahmotsavam and Vaikunta Ekadasi bring larger gatherings, but the temple’s identity remains rooted in its daily rhythm. The idea of nithya kalyanam is not confined to festival days. It is embedded in the everyday life of the temple. That continuity is what gives the place its distinct energy.

The pilgrimage experience at Thiruvidanthai is shaped by its location and its story. The journey along the coast, the approach through quieter roads and the openness of the surroundings all prepare the mind differently from temples located in dense urban spaces. Once inside, the sanctum holds attention in a steady way. Devotees often spend time simply looking at the form of the Lord and Thayar together, letting the meaning of that image settle slowly.

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Culturally, Thiruvidanthai holds a strong place within the Divya Desam tradition through the hymns of the Alvars, who recognised the significance of the shrine. Over time, the temple has also become widely known as a place where prayers for marriage are offered, drawing people from different regions and backgrounds. Yet the deeper message of the temple goes beyond that single aspect. It speaks about companionship, continuity and the way relationships are shaped over time.

In modern times, Thiruvidanthai continues to function as an active temple, with a steady flow of devotees throughout the year. Its proximity to Chennai has made it more accessible, but it has managed to retain its quiet character. Renovations and maintenance have preserved the structure while keeping the atmosphere unchanged.

Thiruvidanthai ultimately represents union as a living process rather than a single event. Nithya Kalyana Perumal does not simply marry once and remain distant. He continues the act, day after day, reminding devotees that connection is sustained through repetition and care. In the larger Divya Desam journey, this temple offers a gentle but clear insight. Some forms of grace are not sudden. They are built slowly, one day at a time.

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Thirukkadanmallai Temple, Mahabalipuram, Tamil Nadu
In Mahabalipuram, where stone meets sea and ancient carvings carry stories across centuries, Thirukkadanmallai stands with a quiet difference. The presiding deity here is Sthalasayana Perumal, and the goddess is Nilamangai Thayar. The name itself tells you what makes this temple distinct. Sthala means place or ground, and sayanam means reclining. Here, Vishnu reclines not on Adisesha, as he does in many temples, but directly on the ground. That single detail shifts the entire mood of the shrine. It brings the divine closer to the earth, closer to the human world, and perhaps closer to the experience of those who come here.

The legend of Thirukkadanmallai is tied to a sage named Pundarika. According to tradition, he wished to worship Vishnu with lotus flowers and set out to gather them from distant waters. When he returned, carrying the flowers with care, he found an old man lying at the spot where he intended to offer his worship. The presence of the old man blocked his ritual. At first, this seemed like an interruption, even an obstacle. But when the sage looked more closely, he realised that the old man was none other than Vishnu himself. The Lord had chosen to lie there, not on a celestial serpent but on the very ground where the devotee stood. In that moment, the act of worship changed. It was no longer about offering flowers to a distant form. It became about recognising the divine in what seemed ordinary.

Inside the sanctum, this story takes shape in a simple but striking way. Sthalasayana Perumal reclines on the bare ground, without the usual support of Adisesha. The form is calm, but there is a certain directness to it. The Lord is not elevated or set apart. He is present at the same level. Nilamangai Thayar’s shrine nearby adds balance to the space, bringing a sense of quiet reassurance. Together, the two create an atmosphere that feels grounded rather than distant. The temple does not try to lift you out of the world. It meets you where you are.

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There is also another layer to the temple’s story that connects it to the larger landscape of Mahabalipuram. The area was once a major port under the Pallavas, and the shoreline was active with trade and movement. Over time, parts of the old town were lost to the sea. Local tradition holds that there were once several temples along this coast, many of which are now submerged. Thirukkadanmallai is seen as one of the few that remain, carrying forward a memory of what once existed. That connection to the sea adds a quiet sense of impermanence to the temple. It reminds you that even stone and structure do not last forever, but the act of worship continues.

Historically, the temple reflects the Pallava period, when Mahabalipuram flourished as a centre of architecture and art. The nearby shore temples and rock-cut monuments speak of that time, and Thirukkadanmallai belongs to the same cultural landscape. Later additions and maintenance through subsequent dynasties ensured that the temple remained active. Unlike the grand sculptural monuments that draw visitors to Mahabalipuram today, this temple continues as a place of living worship rather than historical display. That distinction matters. It keeps the temple rooted in present practice rather than only in the past.

Architecturally, the temple is modest compared to the famous monuments around it. The gopuram is not towering, and the layout is simple. The path from the entrance to the sanctum is direct, without elaborate diversions. The focus remains on the reclining form of the Lord. The simplicity of the structure aligns with the story it carries. There is no need for excess. The meaning is already clear.

The daily rituals follow the Vaishnavite tradition, with regular pujas performed throughout the day. The temple becomes more active during festivals such as Vaikunta Ekadasi and Brahmotsavam, when devotees gather in larger numbers. Yet even during these times, the atmosphere does not lose its calm. The presence of the sea nearby seems to shape the rhythm of the place. There is movement, but it is not hurried.

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For pilgrims, the experience of Thirukkadanmallai is shaped as much by its surroundings as by the temple itself. The sound of waves, the open sky and the sense of history in the air all become part of the visit. After seeing the grand stone carvings and monuments of Mahabalipuram, stepping into this temple creates a shift. The focus moves from spectacle to presence. Standing before Sthalasayana Perumal, one begins to understand the simplicity of the legend. The divine does not always arrive in expected forms. Sometimes it lies quietly in the space you thought you knew.

Culturally, the temple holds its place in the Divya Desam tradition through the hymns of the Alvars, who recognised the significance of the shrine. Over time, it has also become part of the broader identity of Mahabalipuram, a place known for both its history and its living traditions. The temple bridges those two worlds. It stands as a reminder that while monuments may draw attention, it is the continuity of worship that keeps a place alive.

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In modern times, Thirukkadanmallai continues to receive both pilgrims and visitors. Some arrive as part of the Divya Desam circuit, while others discover the temple while exploring Mahabalipuram. Renovations and maintenance have preserved the structure, but the essential character of the temple remains unchanged. It still feels grounded, steady and close to the earth.

Thirukkadanmallai ultimately represents a form of grace that meets you at your level. Sthalasayana Perumal does not remain elevated or distant. He lies on the ground, reminding devotees that the divine is not separate from the world but present within it. In the larger Divya Desam journey, this temple offers a quiet insight. Not every sacred encounter requires height or distance. Sometimes it begins when you recognise what is already before you.

In My Hands Today…

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The Way of the Hermit: My 40 Years in the Scottish Wilderness – Ken Smith, Will Millard

Could you leave behind the bustle of modern society and spend your days immersed in nature? In The Way of the Hermit, seventy-four-year-old Ken Smith recounts a life he has chosen to spend alone with the wilderness.

Ken Smith has spent the past four decades in the Scottish Highlands. He lives alone, with no electricity or running water. His home is a log cabin nestled near Loch Treig, known as ‘the lonely loch’, where he lives off the he fishes for his supper, chops his own wood, and even brews his own tipple. He is, in the truest sense of the word, a hermit.

For the first time, Ken shares the story of his life. From his working-class origins in Derbyshire, to the formative years he spent travelling in the Yukon and finally how he came to be the Hermit of Loch Treig. Looking back through decades of diary entries, Ken reflects upon the reasons he turned his back on society, the vulnerability of old age and the awe and wonder of a life lived in nature. The Way of the Hermit is a humorous, transcendent and life-affirming memoir.

Festivals of India: Hampi Utsav

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There are some places we arrive at long before we ever visit them. Hampi is one of those places. It exists first as a scattering of images and ideas. Granite boulders balanced in improbable stillness. Temple corridors stretching into the shadow. The remembered outline of the Virupaksha Temple rises against a sky that feels older than the structure itself. For many of us, Hampi enters the imagination not as a destination but as a mood. Something between absence and persistence.

Then comes Hampi Utsav, a festival that attempts something quietly ambitious. It does not just invite visitors into a historical site. It asks a ruined landscape to speak again. This instinct is not unique to India. Across the world, historical sites are increasingly activated through light, performance, and curated experience, each attempting to make the past feel present. The question is not whether this impulse exists, but how each place negotiates it.

This is where the idea becomes interesting, and also where it becomes complicated.

Hampi is inseparable from the Vijayanagara Empire, a political and cultural formation that, at its height, supported a city of extraordinary scale. Contemporary accounts describe markets where precious stones were traded in the open, temple complexes that functioned as economic and ritual centres, and a court that patronised music, literature, and architecture with deliberate intent. This was not a quiet, sacred landscape. It was a dense, working city shaped by power, wealth, and movement. Any attempt to animate Hampi through a festival inevitably engages with that past, not as nostalgia, but as interpretation.

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Festival as Spectacle

Conceptually, this makes sense. A place that was once dense with courtly life, music, trade, ritual, and movement now stands as a field of ruins. A festival appears, with its performances, processions, lighting, and staged cultural programmes, and tries to reintroduce some version of that lost vitality. The instinct is understandable. Human beings do not like silence in places that once held noise.

Yet the question remains. What kind of life is being reintroduced, and on whose terms?

During Hampi Utsav, the site is transformed. Classical dance performances unfold against temple backdrops. Folk traditions from across Karnataka are brought together and presented in curated sequences. There are processions, music concerts, and visual spectacles designed to draw both domestic and international audiences. Illumination plays a central role. Structures that once stood in a functional relationship to a living city are lit in ways that emphasise their visual drama.

On one level, this is effective. It works. The festival creates access. It brings people to a site they might otherwise ignore. It offers a way in, especially for those who are not historians or archaeologists. In that sense, it keeps Hampi in circulation, not just as a static monument, but as something that still matters in contemporary cultural life.

But effectiveness is not the same as accuracy, and access is not the same as understanding.

The tension begins here.

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A festival compresses time into something legible. It draws from multiple traditions and arranges them into a sequence that can be experienced within a few hours. This act of arrangement is not neutral. It privileges what can be performed and appreciated in a limited frame. In a place like Hampi, where the remains already reflect fragmentation, this layering of coherence can feel both helpful and misleading at once.

The Battle of Talikota marks a turning point that cannot be ignored. The empire’s decline was not a slow fading but a violent disruption. What remains today is not simply the residue of time but the aftermath of destruction. To place a festival within this landscape is to enter into conversation with that rupture, whether consciously or not.

Does Hampi Utsav acknowledge this history, or does it smooth it over?

To be fair, no festival can hold the full complexity of a historical site. Nor should it try to become a textbook. Its purpose is different. It works through experience rather than argument. Through atmosphere rather than analysis. Expecting it to carry the entire burden of historical truth would be unreasonable.

Yet it is also worth asking whether the festival risks creating a version of the past that is too coherent. Too resolved.

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The Ruins Themselves

The Vijayanagara Empire, in its historical reality, was not just a site of cultural brilliance. It was also a political entity with its own hierarchies, conflicts, and limits. The life of the city extended beyond temples and courtly performance into labour, trade, and everyday existence.

A curated festival tends to privilege the visible and the aesthetic. It foregrounds performance traditions that can be staged, appreciated, and circulated. Less visible are the structures that made that culture possible. The workers, the systems of patronage, the social arrangements that sustained the empire’s scale.

This is not a flaw unique to Hampi Utsav. It is a broader pattern in how heritage is presented. Across sites as different as Angkor Wat or the evening illuminations at the Colosseum, the same logic appears. What can be staged, lit, narrated, and circulated becomes what survives in public memory. What resists performance recedes.

At the same time, dismissing the festival as a mere spectacle would be too easy and also inaccurate.

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There is something undeniably compelling about seeing classical dance unfold within the architectural grammar that once hosted similar expressions, even if the continuity is partial. There is value in gathering diverse traditions from across Karnataka and placing them in dialogue within a shared historical setting. There is a certain seriousness in the attempt, even when the execution leans towards display.

Perhaps the more useful question is not whether the festival is authentic or artificial, but how we, as observers, choose to engage with it. This is where Hampi differs in a subtle but important way. In many global heritage sites, the staging is designed to create a seamless experience, one that resolves the past into something consumable. Hampi resists that, even during the festival. The terrain interrupts. The scale refuses neat framing. The ruins do not fully cooperate.

If one arrives at Hampi Utsav expecting to experience the Vijayanagara Empire, disappointment is almost guaranteed. No festival can reconstruct a living city. But if one approaches it as an interpretive layer, one among many ways of encountering Hampi, then it becomes more interesting.

The ruins remain. They do not disappear under the lighting or the performances. They continue to resist full explanation. The festival, in this sense, does not replace the site. It sits on top of it, sometimes uneasily, sometimes effectively, but never completely.

And this brings us back to the original instinct. The desire to make a place speak again.

There is a risk in that instinct. It assumes that silence is a problem to be solved. But silence can also be a form of presence. The ruins of Hampi do not need constant interpretation to remain meaningful. In fact, some of their power lies in what they refuse to resolve.

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Festivals like Hampi Utsav sit at the edge of this contradiction. They are necessary, and they are insufficient.

They are necessary because cultural memory does not sustain itself automatically. It requires attention, repetition, and sometimes even spectacle to remain visible. Without such interventions, places like Hampi risk becoming distant, admired in theory but rarely encountered.

But they are insufficient because they cannot hold the full weight of what they attempt to represent. They simplify, even when they do so carefully. They organise what was once organic. They present what was once lived.

The more precise question is whether they encourage a deeper encounter, or whether they allow us to feel that we have already understood.

If the festival becomes an endpoint, a complete experience in itself, then it reduces Hampi to something manageable. Something consumed.

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But if it functions as an entry point, a way of drawing attention that leads to further curiosity, then it begins to justify its own existence.

Hampi Utsav matters. But perhaps it matters most when it leaves something unfinished. In a world where heritage is increasingly packaged into complete experiences, there is something valuable about a place that still resists closure. The place we first encountered in our imagination was never complete to begin with. It arrived as fragments, as a suggestion, as quiet persistence. The festival does not need to resolve that. It only needs to point us back to the ruins and allow them to remain what they are.