The Disappearing Art of Doing Nothing

Posted on October 19, 2026 by memoriesandsuch

Doing nothing sounds simple until one actually tries to do it.

Sit still. Put the phone away. Do not read. Do not scroll. Do not make a list. Do not mentally draft an email, plan the week, remember the groceries, check the blood sugar reader, open a book, play a game, rearrange a thought, or wonder whether this stillness can be turned into something useful later.

Just sit.

For some people, this may sound peaceful. For me, it sounds luxurious, desirable, and almost impossible. I like the idea of doing nothing. In theory, it is sitting in a quiet room, perhaps lying down, staring into space, letting the mind settle like dust after a cupboard has been opened. But in reality, my brain does not settle. My mind behaves as if twenty browser tabs are open and one of them is playing music, usually at 2 am when I have woken up to use the toilet and should, by all logic, return to sleep.

Doing nothing is hard for me. Even when my body is still, my mind is moving. If I have a few minutes with no obvious task, my hand automatically reaches for my phone. I check social media, open a game, read Reddit, or go into my library app because if a story has hooked me, even a lift ride can become reading time. I fill small silences before they have a chance to become silence.

I do not particularly like this. But it is also part of modern life, and pretending otherwise would be dishonest.

We live in a world that has trained us to treat every gap as an opportunity. Waiting for the kettle? Check the phone. Waiting for the bus? Check the phone. Eating alone? Watch something. Sitting in bed? Scroll. Resting? Optimise the rest. Record the rest. Turn the rest into a morning routine, a Sunday reset, a wellness ritual, a slow-living aesthetic with soft lighting and a ceramic mug placed just so.

Even doing nothing, it seems, now has to work for its keep.

There is an irony in watching videos about slow living and self-care, knowing how much work must have gone into making them. The lighting, the camera angles, the editing, the captions, the music, the deliberate casualness of it all. Rest has become content. Stillness has become performance. The person filming their peaceful morning has probably spent more time arranging the shot than being peaceful.

I say this without judgment because I, too, enjoy watching such content. It is soothing in the way a clean kitchen in someone else’s house is soothing. But it also makes me laugh a little. We have become so uncomfortable with unproductive time that even leisure must be packaged, captioned, and posted.

This is perhaps why the art of doing nothing is disappearing. Not because we no longer desire it, but because we no longer know how to defend it.

As children, we had more empty time, whether we liked it or not. Growing up in Mumbai, I hated being bored. If I complained to my paternal grandmother that I was bored, she had a line in Tamil that sounded far better than any translation could manage. If I said, “Bore adikkaradu,” she would say, “Bore-a adi,” meaning “beat the boredom back”. In other words, boredom was not a crisis requiring adult intervention. It was something to be wrestled with, survived, and transformed.

And we did transform it.

We read anything we could find. We invented games. We produced little plays. We pretended. We made things up. We stood on balconies and watched the world go by. I loved doing that, standing on the balcony and observing the street below. People walking, vehicles passing, neighbours talking, vendors calling out, the ordinary theatre of city life continuing whether or not one had anything to do.

There was a kind of richness in that unstructured look. No one called it mindfulness then. No one had to. It was simply what one did when there was nothing else to do.

I also daydreamed, especially at night when I could not sleep. I still do sometimes, though less often in the day now. Adult life has a way of shrinking the room available for aimless imagination. Daydreaming becomes something we squeeze between responsibilities or something that arrives only when sleep refuses to.

Children today have less of this empty time. BB and GG’s childhood still had some creativity in it. They played with dolls, board games, blocks, and toys. They were not exposed to social media very early. But once school, tuition, enrichment classes, and devices entered the picture, childhood became more scheduled. This is not unique to them. It is the rhythm of many children’s lives now: school, homework, tuition, activities, screens, repeat.

Some structure is good. Children need encouragement, discipline, and exposure. A little pressure can help them grow. But beyond a point, childhood becomes a calendar rather than a landscape. There is no time to wander. No time to invent a game out of nothing. No time to sit with boredom long enough for it to turn into imagination.

And boredom does have a purpose. It is not merely the absence of entertainment. It is where children meet themselves. It is where they learn to create, observe, wait, and think. If every moment is filled for them, they never discover what their own minds can do when left alone.

Of course, adults are not much better.

Singapore, where I live now, is a difficult place in which to do nothing. It is efficient, achievement-driven, scheduled, expensive, and always moving. There is always something to do, and often something that should have been done yesterday. Planning is rewarded. Productivity is admired. The calendar is a survival tool. Even leisure is often organised in advance.

There are still places where I can zone out. At home, when the house is quiet. At the beach or in a park. In the library. On the upper deck of a bus, sitting by the window, watching the city move past. At the airport, oddly enough, especially when I am alone. Airports are perfect places for doing nothing because everyone is between places. No one fully belongs there for long. You can sit, watch people, imagine stories, and feel suspended from ordinary time. A long-haul flight offers something similar. Once the plane takes off, life below has to wait. No errands. No chores. No immediate demands. Just time, air, and a small screen one may or may not use.

India offers a different relationship with doing nothing. The India I grew up in was noisy, crowded, and full of constant cacophony, so doing nothing was never exactly quiet. But there were natural pauses, partly because life was less efficient. Waiting was built into the day. Waiting for buses, trains, relatives, phone calls, water, electricity, and information. Power cuts forced everyone to stop. Train journeys made one look out of the window. Neighbours dropped in. People sat around. Balconies, building compounds, and street corners became informal theatres of nothing in particular.

Now, when I go to Bangalore, I still find pockets of time to zone out. But India too has changed. Everyone has a smartphone. Everyone has internet. The pause has been colonised. Whether in India or Singapore, the hand goes to the phone. The old art of sitting and doing nothing has been replaced by the new habit of sitting and consuming something.

The phone may be the greatest enemy of nothingness. It is useful, addictive, entertaining, and always available. It rescues us from boredom so quickly that we no longer learn what boredom might have given us. It makes waiting painless but also makes thinking rarer. It connects us to everyone and disconnects us from the quiet inside ourselves.

This matters because doing nothing is not always nothing.

For a writer, especially, empty time is not wasted time. Ideas often arrive when I am not chasing them. During my morning walk with my meditation app. In the shower. While cooking. Before sleep. While drinking coffee. Sometimes in the most random places and moments. Writing needs empty space. It needs the mind to loosen its grip on usefulness. It needs time when nothing obvious is being produced, because below the surface, something is forming.

I do not usually mistake thinking time for laziness. I know that thought is part of writing. But knowing this does not always remove the guilt. When life has so many moving parts: job searching, writing, income streams, blog work, Echoes of Calm, family, health, Image Mission work, there is always something that could be done. One more application. One more article. One more Canva template. One more email. One more plan. One more post. One more idea to capture before it disappears.

In such a life, doing nothing can feel irresponsible.

This is where productivity culture becomes dangerous. It teaches us that every moment must justify itself. Rest must improve performance. Hobbies must become income streams. Walking must count as fitness. Reading must contribute to growth. Writing must build a platform. Creativity must be monetised. Even a blog, which may begin as a personal space for reflection, memory, and expression, is quickly assessed through the lens of money.

For years after I started blogging, when I told people about it, I was often asked whether it made money. The question came so frequently that I eventually had to shut it down firmly. Not everything has to earn. Not every joy has to be converted into income. Not every act of expression must be weighed on the scale of productivity.

Yet I understand why people ask. We live in a world where time is money, and therefore time spent without earning, improving, networking, or producing appears suspect. Doing nothing becomes not merely a personal failure but an economic one. What did you get out of it? What did it lead to? How did it help?

Maybe it helped me remain human. That should be enough, though it often is not accepted as an answer.

Women, in particular, are rarely allowed to do nothing without judgment. A man resting is often simply resting. A woman resting is available. If she is sitting down, surely she can fold the laundry. If she has a free hour, surely she can cook something extra, organise a cupboard, call someone, supervise homework, plan a meal, reply to messages, soothe a feeling, remember an appointment, or be useful in some way.

Women are expected to fill empty space. Cooking, cleaning, organising, remembering, caring, planning, messaging, hosting, helping. Even rest can become a waiting room for the next task.

In some families, if a woman has free time, it must be explained. She cannot just sit. She must be tired, sick, upset, or lazy. Simple rest is not enough justification. This is one of the quiet injustices of domestic life. Women’s time is often treated as communal property. Everyone may draw from it. Everyone may assume it is available.

Motherhood deepens this. When BB and GG were young, I barely had time to myself. Later, as they grew older, I reclaimed more of it, but until they finished school, there was always an undercurrent of alertness. Meals, schoolwork, activities, health, logistics, emotional needs, exam schedules, transport, forms, uniforms, tuition, everything. Even when I was not actively doing something, some part of me was on standby.

That standby mode does not switch off easily. Even now, doing nothing can feel slightly suspicious, as though someone somewhere must need something.

This is why chosen stillness feels so different from forced waiting. There is a kind of nothing that is peaceful: morning coffee in a silent house, a walk without hurry, sitting at a window, watching rain. But there is also a kind of nothing that is anxious and unpleasant: waiting when there is too much work, waiting for replies, waiting for results, waiting in uncertainty, waiting while the mind chews through every possible outcome.

Chosen stillness restores. Forced waiting drains.

This distinction matters because not everyone has the privilege to romanticise doing nothing. For someone juggling multiple jobs, caregiving, financial stress, illness, or survival, rest may not be easily available. Telling people to “slow down” can sound tone-deaf when their lives do not allow it. The issue is not simply individual choice. It is also social, economic, and cultural. Some people are not restless because they lack wisdom. They are restless because life demands it.

Still, within whatever space we have, however small, we need moments that are not claimed by productivity.

Health has taught me this in its own way. Managing diabetes means paying attention to the body, even when the mind wants to keep charging ahead. I use a CGM, and scanning it is itself a morning ritual. I know that being more rested helps me manage my blood sugar better. Stress, sleep, food, movement, and rest are all connected. The body keeps its own accounts, whether or not we acknowledge them.

Perhaps doing nothing is not nothing to the body. Perhaps it is repair.

The trouble is, I am not always listening closely enough to hear that. Like many people, I wait for the body to speak loudly before I pay attention. Fatigue must become exhaustion. Stress must become numbers on a screen. The mind must become too noisy to ignore. Only then do I pause, when pausing should have come much earlier.

Midlife adds another layer. As I grow older, I feel both more entitled to rest and more anxious about time. Doing nothing can feel like reclaiming time, but it can also feel like wasting it. The years no longer stretch endlessly ahead in the way they seemed to when I was young. There is a sharper awareness now that time is finite. This can make rest feel precious, but also make it feel dangerous. What am I doing with my life? What am I not doing? What should I have done by now?

Midlife asks uncomfortable questions. One of them is: what am I rushing toward, exactly?

We hurry through days as though there will be a final clearing where everything is done and rest becomes permissible. But that clearing never arrives. There is always another task, another worry, another plan. If rest has to be earned by finishing everything, we will never rest. The list is immortal. We are not.

Perhaps the art of doing nothing disappeared because the world prioritises busyness. Busy people look important. Busy lives look successful. Busy calendars suggest demand and relevance. To say “I am busy” is almost a badge of honour. To say “I did nothing” feels like a confession.

But what are we losing when we lose the ability to do nothing?

We lose imagination. We lose patience. We lose the ability to observe without needing to capture. We lose the inner life that grows only in quiet. We lose boredom, and with it the strange creativity boredom can unlock. We lose the ability to be alone with ourselves. We lose reflection. We lose the habit of noticing beauty when it is not presented to us through a screen.

We also lose a certain tenderness towards time. Not all time has to be used. Some time can simply be lived.

I admire people who still seem able to do this. Older people sitting at void decks, shooting the breeze with no visible agenda. Temple-goers sitting quietly after darshan, not rushing out immediately after the ritual is done. Children staring into space. People sitting in parks. Someone with a cup of tea and nowhere urgent to be. These scenes stay with me because they feel increasingly rare. They are small acts of resistance against a world that asks, “What next?”

My ideal version of doing nothing is simple. Morning. I am the only one awake in the house. The room is quiet. I have a hot cup of coffee in my hand. My phone is nearby, not for scrolling, but to capture an idea if one arrives. I sit in silence. No one needs me yet. The day has not begun making its claims.

This is not dramatic. It will never trend. It cannot be turned into a productivity hack without ruining it. That is precisely why it matters.

Doing nothing does not mean abandoning responsibility. It does not mean laziness, though a part of me still carries that old conditioning. “Don’t waste time.” “Do something useful.” “Idle mind is the devil’s workshop.” “Why are you just sitting?” These phrases were common enough growing up, and I have used versions of them with BB and GG too. The inheritance continues even when we know better. We pass on not only values but anxieties.

Maybe the work now is to interrupt that inheritance.

To tell ourselves and our children that empty time is not wasted time. That rest need not be earned through exhaustion. That boredom will not destroy us. That creativity requires space. That the mind needs to wander. That the body needs to repair. That a woman sitting down is not automatically available. That a hobby does not have to become a side hustle. That not every moment must be captured, posted, measured, or improved.

The art of doing nothing is disappearing, but perhaps it is not gone. It waits in small places. In morning coffee. In a bus window. In the hush of a library. In a beach breeze. In the airport between flights. In a quiet walk. In the few minutes after lighting a lamp. In the pause after prayer. In the space before an idea becomes words.

Maybe doing nothing is not the opposite of living fully. Maybe it is what allows us to live fully.

So tomorrow morning, if the house is still quiet and the day has not yet rushed in, I hope to sit with my coffee for a few minutes longer. I will probably still reach for my phone. I am not pretending to be a saint of stillness. But perhaps I can wait before touching it. Perhaps I can let the silence arrive first. Perhaps I can allow my mind to wander without immediately making it useful.

A few minutes of nothing. Which, I am beginning to realise, may be something after all.

Sacred Stones, Spaces, and Stories: Divya Desams Part 28

Posted on October 16, 2026 by memoriesandsuch

Thiru Parameswara Vinnagaram Temple, Kanchipuram, Tamil Nadu
Moving away from Kanchipuram town and its tightly clustered Divya Desams, Thiruputkuzhi feels quieter and more open, but no less important. This temple, dedicated to Vijayaraghava Perumal and Maragathavalli Thayar, stands in a place shaped by grief, loyalty and dignity. It is one of those temples where the central story is not only about Vishnu in his divine majesty, but about what happens when the divine pauses for sorrow. Thiruputkuzhi is tied to the Ramayana, and more specifically to the death of Jatayu, the great bird who gave everything he had trying to save Sita. That alone gives the temple a different emotional tone. It is not mainly a temple of victory, though the Lord here is called Vijayaraghava. It is a temple of compassion shown in the middle of loss. In that sense, it feels deeply human.

The core legend of Thiruputkuzhi begins at one of the most painful moments in the Ramayana. When Ravana abducted Sita and carried her away, Jatayu, old and weakened by age, still rose to stop him. He fought not because he expected to win, but because it was the right thing to do. He could not simply watch wrongdoing and remain still. Ravana cut off his wings and left him mortally wounded. Later, as Rama and Lakshmana searched desperately for Sita, they found Jatayu lying on the ground. With his last breath, he told Rama what had happened. The story could have ended there, with the death of a loyal ally in the wilderness. But it does not. Rama, recognising Jatayu’s sacrifice, performed the bird’s last rites with the honour due to a father. That act is what gives Thiruputkuzhi its heart. The Lord did not move on quickly. He stopped. He mourned. He honoured courage.

That moment shapes the identity of the deity here. Vijayaraghava Perumal is understood as Rama in a form touched by grief and compassion. In the sanctum, the Lord is shown in seated posture, and temple tradition remembers him as the one who granted moksha to Jatayu and performed the final rites himself. There is also a striking local detail connected with the iconography. Sridevi and Bhudevi, who usually appear in a familiar arrangement on either side of the Lord, are said here to be positioned differently, reflecting the sadness of the moment. That detail matters because it shows how deeply the temple’s mood has been built around this episode. The central feeling here is not triumph after battle. It is tenderness after sacrifice. The divine is not distant from death and grief. It enters them and gives them dignity.

The name Thiruputkuzhi itself is linked to the legend. One common explanation is that Jatayu belonged to the pul or bird lineage, and that he was laid to rest in a kuzhi, meaning pit or burial place, which over time became Thiruputkuzhi. Whether one takes this as strict etymology or devotional memory, the meaning is clear enough. This is a place where sacrifice was not forgotten. That memory stays with the site even now. The temple tank is often associated with Jatayu and his final moments, and the entire landscape feels shaped by that single act of honouring the fallen.

Historically, Thiruputkuzhi carries traces of several periods of Tamil temple building. The temple is generally associated with Pandya beginnings, while later Chola inscriptions and Nayak contributions point to ongoing additions and restoration over time. Like many South Indian temples, it was not built in one moment and left untouched. It grew through patronage, memory and repeated acts of repair. The structure seen today reflects that continuity. There is a five-tiered rajagopuram, granite walls enclosing the temple, and a layout that is recognisably Dravidian without feeling excessive. The scale is dignified rather than overwhelming. It suits the story. This is not a temple that needs grandeur to make its point. Its power lies in the emotion carried by the sanctum.

Architecturally, the temple has a quiet balance to it. The main shrine houses Vijayaraghava Perumal in seated form, and there is a separate shrine for Maragathavalli Thayar. There is also a shrine for Ramanuja, which adds another layer of significance to the site, because the temple is linked in local memory with his early years of study. Thiruputkuzhi is also associated with Yadava Prakasa, Ramanuja’s teacher, which means the temple belongs not only to epic memory but also to the history of Sri Vaishnavite thought. This is one of those places where literary tradition, philosophical history and devotional practice overlap quietly without competing with one another.

The daily worship at Thiruputkuzhi follows the established Vaishnavite rhythm, with multiple pujas performed through the day. The temple observes six daily rituals, and major festivals include Brahmotsavam in the month of Masi, Theppotsavam in the month of Thai, Pavitrotsavam in the month of Avani, and Vaikuntha Ekadasi in Margazhi. These observances keep the temple rooted in living practice. It is not just remembered because of one Ramayana episode. It continues because people still come, still pray, still fold that old story into present-day lives. There is also a local practice connected with fertility and blessing, where women seek the grace of Maragathavalli Thayar with hope and faith. That, too, tells you something about how temples live. Their meanings expand beyond mythology and settle into everyday longing.

The pilgrimage experience at Thiruputkuzhi feels slower than in bigger temple towns. The temple lies a little away from the dense sacred clustering of Kanchipuram, and that distance helps its mood. You arrive not into noise, but into space. The village setting and the relative quiet around the temple allow the Ramayana story to sit more heavily in the mind. Standing before Vijayaraghava Perumal, one does not think first of kingship or cosmic acts. One thinks of loyalty, loss and the strange nobility of Jatayu’s final fight. Something is moving about a temple built around a being who did not “win” in any worldly sense, but who acted with complete moral courage. The temple preserves that kind of victory, which is deeper and harder to forget.

Culturally, Thiruputkuzhi has held its place through the hymns of Thirumangai Alvar, who sang of the temple and ensured its place in the Divya Desam tradition. Later acharyas also strengthened their standing. Vedanta Desika is associated with the temple through hymns and lineage memory, and the broader Sri Vaishnavite world has long treated Thiruputkuzhi as a site of both devotion and learning. This matters because the temple is not only a local shrine tied to a moving story. It is part of a much wider spiritual map in which memory, theology and poetry sustain one another.

What makes Thiruputkuzhi stand out in the Divya Desam journey is the kind of divinity it presents. In some temples, the Lord protects. In some, he teaches. In some, he measures the worlds, grants clarity or rests in yogic calm. Here, he grieves without losing dignity. He performs the duty that love demands. He honours the fallen with his own hands. That is why the temple lingers in the mind. It suggests that compassion is not secondary to divinity. It is central to it.

Thiruputkuzhi ultimately represents a form of grace that takes sorrow seriously. Vijayaraghava Perumal is not remote from suffering here. He responds to it, honours it and transforms it. Jatayu’s story gives the temple its emotional centre, but the larger lesson extends beyond the Ramayana. Courage is not always successful in visible terms. Loyalty is not always rewarded with survival. And yet neither is wasted. The temple says, quietly but firmly, that nothing offered in truth is lost. In the wider Divya Desam journey, Thiruputkuzhi stands as a temple of remembrance, dignity and the kind of compassion that stops long enough to perform the final rites.

Thiruputkuzhi Temple, Thiruputkuzhi, Tamil Nadu
Thirunindravur, near present-day Chennai in Tamil Nadu, is one of those Divya Desams whose story begins not with conquest or spectacle, but with a quiet act of staying. The presiding deity here is Bhaktavatsala Perumal, and the goddess is Sudhavalli Thayar, who is also remembered in local tradition as Ennai Petra Thayar, the Mother who claimed me as her own. The name Thirunindravur is often understood through that central image of the goddess standing her ground. Nindra means stood, and the place is remembered as the sacred spot where she remained. That already tells you something about the mood of the temple. This is not a shrine built around speed, force or dramatic intervention. It is built around relationship, hurt, reconciliation and the kind of devotion that does not walk away easily.

The core legend of the temple is tied to Varuna, the god of the waters, and to his daughter. According to temple tradition, Sudhavalli was born as the daughter of the oceanic powers and was married to Vishnu. At some point, a disagreement arose between her and her father, and in that moment of emotional rupture, she chose not to return with him. Instead, she remained at this place. Because she stood here and made it her own, the place came to be known as Thirunindravur. The emotional centre of the story is not anger in the usual sense. It is dignity. The goddess does not disappear into silence. She remains, and her staying transforms the place into sacred ground. Varuna, burdened by regret, later came here to seek forgiveness and to worship Vishnu. The Lord responded with grace, and that act of response gave him the name Bhaktavatsala, the one who is deeply affectionate toward his devotees. Tradition remembers the site as the place where Varuna worshipped Vishnu, and that memory remains one of the temple’s defining features.

That legend gives Thirunindravur its deeper tone. The temple is not simply about a god granting blessings. It is about what happens when hurt is acknowledged and healing is allowed to take shape. Sudhavalli Thayar is central here, not secondary. Her presence changes the way the temple is experienced. Even the title Ennai Petra Thayar carries unusual warmth. It suggests not just divine motherhood in the abstract, but a personal claiming. She is not only the goddess of the temple. She is the mother who says, in effect, ” “You are mine”. That emotional intimacy gives the shrine a softness that stays in the mind. Bhaktavatsala Perumal, in turn, is not mainly remembered here as a cosmic ruler or warrior. He is the Lord who receives the devotion of those who come with sincerity and responds with tenderness rather than distance.

Historically, Thirunindravur belongs to the older sacred map of northern Tamil Nadu. The temple is a recognised Divya Desam praised by Thirumangai Alvar, and that alone places it firmly within the early Vaishnavite devotional tradition. The site likely took shape under the broad influence of the Pallavas and later the Cholas, whose patronage helped establish many Vishnu temples in this region. Like many temples that remain active over long stretches of time, it was not built all at once and left untouched. It grew by stages, through donations, renovations and local care. Today, the temple is administered under the Tamil Nadu Hindu Religious and Charitable Endowments system, and tradition also connects it in practical stewardship to the Pedda Jeeyar of Tirupati as permanent trustee, which adds another layer to its continuing religious life.

Architecturally, the temple does not depend on excess to make an impression. The structure follows the familiar Dravidian pattern, with a gopuram, enclosed prakarams and the usual progression inward toward the sanctum. The mood, however, is gentler than grand. Bhaktavatsala Perumal stands in the sanctum in a composed posture, holding the conch and discus. The form is stately, but not severe. The very name of the deity shapes how one sees the image. This is the Lord who loves his devotees, so the visual presence of the idol feels welcoming rather than distant. Sudhavalli Thayar’s shrine deepens that atmosphere. In many temples, the goddess’s shrine offers emotional balance, but here she feels even more central because of the legend that explains the temple’s name. Her staying is what gives the place its memory. Her presence is not merely an accompaniment to the Lord’s. It is one half of the temple’s meaning.

There is also a striking image of Hanuman in the temple, shown carrying Rama and Lakshmana on his shoulders. That detail may seem small, but it adds another note to the shrine’s devotional world. Hanuman, the bearer and servant, fits naturally within a temple dedicated to loving devotion. Service, loyalty and emotional closeness are not side themes here. They are everywhere, woven into the temple’s visual and ritual life.

The ritual life of the temple remains active and structured. The temple follows the Tenkalai tradition of Sri Vaishnavism and the Pancharatra mode of worship. Daily pujas are performed six times a day, from the morning through the night, with each service including decoration, food offering and the waving of lamps for both Bhaktavatsala Perumal and Sudhavalli Thayar. As in many Tamil Vishnu temples, the soundscape matters too. During worship, the nagaswaram and tavil accompany the ritual atmosphere, while Vedic recitations continue the old liturgical rhythm. Weekly, fortnightly and monthly observances are also maintained, which tells you that this is not a temple remembered only because of its literary importance. It is still very much lived in through worship.

Its festivals also reflect that continuity. The temple’s important celebrations include Chitra Pournami, Tiruadyana Utsavam in Margazhi and Brahmotsavam in Panguni. Other observances such as Sri Jayanthi, Navaratri, Vijayadasami, Deepavali, Makara Sankranti, Thai Pongal, Ratha Saptami, Masi Magam and Vaikunta Ekadasi keep the temple firmly woven into the seasonal religious life of the community. Dinamalar’s temple record also notes Panguni Tiruvonam as an important festival date, along with celebrations connected to acharyas and Alvars. This range of observances matters because it shows the temple is not frozen inside one legend. It continues to meet the year as it unfolds, carrying old meanings into present time.

The pilgrimage experience at Thirunindravur has its own pace. Unlike the tightly packed temple clusters of Kanchipuram, this shrine feels a little more open in its setting, even though it lies within a growing urban region. Pilgrims often come here as part of a northern Tamil Nadu Divya Desam route, but the mood shifts once one enters the temple. The story invites inwardness. One thinks less about spectacle and more about relationships: between parent and child, between devotee and Lord, between hurt and forgiveness, between staying and returning. That is one reason the temple stays in memory. It carries a domestic emotional truth inside a sacred frame. The divine world here does not feel abstract. It feels recognisably human in its emotional texture, and that makes the grace of the place more accessible, not less.

Culturally, Thirunindravur holds its place because of Thirumangai Alvar’s praise and because the temple embodies a devotional value that runs deep in Tamil Vaishnavism: the Lord’s affection for the devotee. Bhaktavatsala is not just a name. It is a theological statement. In this shrine, devotion is not transactional. The devotee is not one more supplicant in a queue. The relationship is warm, almost familial. That is why the temple’s goddess being remembered as Ennai Petra Thayar matters so much. Together, the Lord who loves the devotee and the Mother who claims the devotee create a complete emotional world.

In modern terms, the temple continues to draw both local worshippers and pilgrims following the Divya Desam circuit. Its management remains active, the festivals continue, and the rituals have not lapsed into museum-like formality. The temple still functions as a living sacred space. For a visitor today, especially one used to temples framed mainly through architecture or tourist significance, Thirunindravur offers something different. It reminds you that the emotional idea behind a shrine can be stronger than sheer scale.

Thirunindravur ultimately represents the kind of grace that grows through a relationship. Sudhavalli Thayar stays, and that act of staying becomes a sacred memory. Varuna returns in repentance, and that return becomes part of the temple’s healing story. Bhaktavatsala Perumal receives devotion with affection, not distance, and that becomes the temple’s spiritual centre. In the wider Divya Desam journey, this shrine adds something deeply tender. It reminds us that divine love is not always revealed in miracles or cosmic acts. Sometimes it appears in the simple fact that someone stays, someone returns, and someone is received with grace.

Adulting 101: Understanding Insurance

Posted on October 12, 2026 by memoriesandsuch

Stepping into adulthood means more than just paying your own bills and cooking your meals. It means facing risks you once ignored or didn’t understand, like what happens if you fall sick or have an accident and can’t work. That’s where insurance comes in. But insurance is confusing. It seems like a complicated set of policies, legal jargon, and never-ending choices. Add to that Singapore’s unique healthcare and insurance landscape, and it’s easy to either overbuy or skip insurance altogether. Neither is ideal.

At its core, insurance is a safety net, a way to share the financial load of unexpected problems with many people so no one person bears the full cost alone. You pay a regular fee called a premium. In return, the insurance company promises to cover certain costs or pay a sum if bad things happen.

Sounds simple? Yet, many young adults assume:

Insurance is just another way for companies to take your money.
Buying more insurance always means better protection.
Insurance is only necessary once you have dependents or big assets.

These beliefs are misleading. Insurance is a tool. Like any tool, it works best when chosen for the right job and used wisely.

Singapore’s healthcare system is highly subsidised and structured. Every citizen and permanent resident has MediShield Life, a basic national health insurance that helps cover large hospital bills. But MediShield Life isn’t enough for most real-world scenarios:

It covers only public hospital stays in subsidized wards (C to B2 class). If you want to stay in better wards or private hospitals, you’ll need additional coverage. The government encourages personal responsibility through schemes like MediSave and CareShield Life, which help with healthcare and long-term disability but have limitations.

Because of this setup, many Singaporeans get additional private insurance plans to top up their basic coverage and protect themselves against gaps.

Here are the insurance types you should consider seriously in Singapore, with a practical lens on what each does and doesn’t cover.

Health Insurance
Often underestimated, health insurance is crucial. Basic coverage like MediShield Life provides a starting point but won’t cover everything. If you expect to use private healthcare or want better than basic wards, a private Integrated Shield Plan (IP) is important. But think twice: Do you really need an expensive plan covering private hospitals you might never visit? Can you afford the premiums long-term, especially if you have no serious health issues now? The truth is, health insurance is about risk management: buying peace of mind rather than betting on something going wrong.

Life Insurance
Life insurance pays a lump sum to your beneficiaries when you die or become permanently disabled. This sounds like something to think about only when you have a family, but what if you have debts or want to leave a financial legacy? Term life insurance is usually the better buy for young adults: it costs less and covers you for a fixed period. Whole life insurance lasts your whole life but can be expensive and confusing with cash value features many don’t need. Be clear about why you want life insurance. Without dependents or large debts, it might not be urgent.

Critical Illness Insurance
Singaporeans face rising risks of critical illnesses like cancer and heart disease. Critical illness plans pay you a lump sum on diagnosis, which can help with treatment costs or lost income. But beware fancy riders that add costs without clear benefit. Ask if early-stage coverage or multiple claims are covered because treatments now vary widely from patient to patient. Critical illness insurance fills a gap that neither health nor life insurance covers fully. Prioritising this depends on your family history and financial resilience.

Personal Accident Insurance
This covers accidents resulting in injury, disability, or death. It’s usually cheaper than health or life insurance and gives some financial buffer if you’re hurt in a mishap. If you’re active or work in higher-risk jobs, this coverage can be valuable. But it won’t cover illnesses or routine healthcare needs, so it’s an add-on, not a replacement.

Disability and Income Protection
As you grow older, disability insurance (like Singapore’s CareShield Life) ensures you’re supported if you can’t perform daily tasks. Income protection helps if illness or injury stops you from working temporarily. These are less common for young adults but worth knowing about as you plan longer-term.

A trap many fall into is thinking more insurance equals better protection. That’s not true. Overinsurance wastes money on unneeded coverage. Underinsurance leaves you vulnerable to financial shocks. Find your balance. Assess your risks honestly. Build a basic portfolio starting with health and term life insurance. Add critical illness or personal accident cover if your budget and needs allow. Review your insurance regularly as your life changes.

So how much should you spend on insurance? Experts often suggest spending 5-10% of your income on insurance, but this varies widely. Young adults with minimal responsibilities may spend less initially, focusing on essential health and accident coverage. Be skeptical of aggressive upselling or complex products promising cash value or investment returns hidden in insurance.

Insurance is a tool, not a burden. Insurance prevents financial disasters but won’t make you rich. Think of it as a necessary cost for life’s unpredictable hits. Educate yourself on what you really need, make decisions based on your situation, and revisit your choices as you age. Everyone’s insurance needs differ. There’s no one-size-fits-all policy in Singapore or elsewhere. But understanding the basics and the local healthcare context helps you take control rather than feeling overwhelmed.

Sacred Stones, Spaces, and Stories: Divya Desams Part 27

Posted on October 9, 2026 by memoriesandsuch

Thirukkalvanur Temple, Kanchipuram, Tamil Nadu
In Kanchipuram, where temples often sit inside other temples, and sacred stories overlap without fuss, Thirukkalvanur has a particularly unusual place. This Divya Desam is located within the Kamakshi Amman Temple complex in Kanchipuram, which already sets it apart from many other Vishnu shrines. The presiding deity here is generally identified as Aadhi Varaha Perumal, and the goddess is Anjilaivalli Thayar. The temple is small, almost hidden when compared to the larger sacred space around it, but that hidden quality suits its name. The word kalvan in Tamil means thief, and in this case, the meaning is not harsh or criminal. It refers to the divine thief, the one who quietly steals the heart of the devotee. That idea gives the temple its emotional tone. It is not a place of spectacle. It is a place of quiet recognition.

The central legend linked to Thirukkalvanur is simple but memorable. According to temple tradition, Goddess Parvati once referred to Vishnu here as Kalva, the thief. The story is usually understood in a devotional sense. Vishnu is the one who steals hearts, enters quietly, and takes away pride, restlessness and false certainty without making a dramatic show of it. In another layer of interpretation, the name reflects the playful intimacy often found in Tamil bhakti poetry, where the divine is not always approached with distance and formality but sometimes with familiarity, affection and teasing. That emotional nearness matters. It means that the relationship between devotee and deity is not cold or rigid. It is alive, personal and capable of tenderness.

The form of the deity deepens this feeling. Aadhi Varaha Perumal is worshipped here in a standing posture, and the Varaha association gives the shrine another layer of meaning. Varaha, the boar incarnation of Vishnu, is the one who lifted the earth out of danger and restored what had sunk into darkness. That image of rescue blends naturally with the gentler identity of Kalvan, the one who steals into the heart. Put together, the temple suggests that divine grace often works quietly. It does not always arrive with thunder. Sometimes it enters unnoticed and lifts what had become heavy, buried or forgotten. That is very much the mood of this shrine.

Historically, Thirukkalvanur belongs to the old sacred geography of Kanchipuram, a city shaped by Pallava, Chola and later Vijayanagara patronage. Over time, temples here grew in layers rather than in isolation. Shrines were built within larger complexes, and traditions lived side by side more naturally than later categories often suggest. Thirukkalvanur’s location within the Kamakshi Amman Temple reflects this older temple culture, where the presence of Vishnu within a Shakta setting did not seem strange but entirely possible. The shrine’s continued place in the Divya Desam tradition rests not on size or monumental architecture but on its recognition in the Alvar tradition and on the continuity of worship that kept it alive across generations.

Architecturally, Thirukkalvanur is modest to the point of almost being overlooked. It does not announce itself the way a large gopuram does. Instead, it sits within the larger Kamakshi complex as a smaller, quieter sacred presence. That actually strengthens the identity of the place. A hidden shrine suits a deity called Kalvan. Devotees often describe it as a place that must be sought rather than simply seen. The deity faces west and appears in a standing posture, while the associated theertham is known as Nithya Pushkarini and the vimanam is traditionally called Vamana Vimanam. These details matter because they anchor the shrine within the established language of Divya Desam worship, even though the physical space is small.

The experience of visiting Thirukkalvanur is shaped by that sense of discovery. Pilgrims entering the Kamakshi Amman Temple are often first absorbed by the scale and energy of the larger complex. To then find this smaller Vishnu shrine inside it creates a different rhythm. The mind shifts. The pace becomes slower. There is something intimate about standing before a deity who is not placed at the centre of public attention and yet carries the full weight of sacred presence. The shrine does not try to dominate its surroundings. It simply remains there, steady and inward. That is perhaps why the temple leaves a quiet impression rather than a dramatic one.
Ritual life here follows the ongoing rhythm of the larger temple complex. Because the shrine is located within Kamakshi Amman Temple, worship unfolds within a shared sacred environment. This also gives Thirukkalvanur a distinct character among the Kanchipuram Divya Desams. It is one of the two Divya Desams in Kanchipuram, located inside temples primarily associated with another tradition, the other being Nilathingal Thundam. That fact alone says something important about Kanchipuram. The city’s sacred map was never as narrow as people sometimes imagine. Devotion flowed through shared spaces, and shrines like Thirukkalvanur preserve that older memory.

Culturally, the temple carries the flavour of Tamil bhakti at its most intimate. The idea of the divine as thief appears often in devotional literature. It does not suggest wrongdoing but rather irresistible grace. The Lord steals the mind away from distraction. He steals the heart away from attachment. He steals the ego away from its own certainty. In this sense, Thirukkalvanur is not merely about one local legend. It reflects a much larger religious imagination in which God is not only ruler, protector or teacher, but also the beloved presence who enters quietly and changes a person from within.

This temple also says something about scale. Not every Divya Desam needs towering walls or vast courtyards to leave a mark. Some are remembered because of the mood they hold. Thirukkalvanur belongs to that kind of sacred place. It is smaller, more inward and easy to miss if one is rushing. But if one pauses, its meaning becomes clearer. The hidden shrine within a larger temple, the Lord called the thief, the Varaha form associated with rescue, and the atmosphere of stillness all work together. The result is a temple that feels less like public declaration and more like a private conversation.

In modern times, Thirukkalvanur continues to draw devotees who follow the Divya Desam circuit through Kanchipuram. Many come specifically looking for it because of its unusual location inside Kamakshi Amman Temple. Others discover it during a broader visit and are struck by the way the shrine holds its own within a much larger complex. Its physical modesty has not erased its devotional importance. If anything, it has made the temple’s identity more memorable. It remains one of those sacred places that teaches by tone rather than argument.

Thirukkalvanur ultimately represents the quiet, inward movement of grace. Aadhi Varaha Perumal as Kalvan, is not the Lord of dramatic conquest but the Lord who enters without noise and takes hold of the heart. In the wider Divya Desam journey, this temple adds something subtle but essential. It reminds us that not all transformation arrives with visible force. Sometimes it comes gently, almost unnoticed, like a divine theft. And by the time you realise what has happened, the heart has already been claimed.

Thiruppavalavannam Temple, Kanchipuram, Tamil Nadu
In Kanchipuram, where one temple often leads quietly into another, and each shrine seems to hold a different mood of the divine, Thiruppavalavannam stands out because of its colour. The presiding deity here is Pavalavannar Perumal, with Pavalavalli Thayar as the goddess. The name itself gives the temple its character. Pavalam means coral, and the Lord here is worshipped in a coral-red form. In a sacred town where Vishnu is seen as light, rain cloud, messenger, teacher and protector, this temple presents him through colour and the idea that the divine appears differently in different ages and for different needs. That makes Thiruppavalavannam quietly distinctive. It is not only about the form of the deity but about what that form suggests.

The mythology of the temple is tied to the belief that Vishnu appeared in different colours across the yugas. In Satya Yuga, when truth and order were said to be strong, he appeared in white. In the Treta Yuga, he was seen in a coral-red form. In Dvapara Yuga, he appeared in an emerald or green hue, and in Kali Yuga, he is often associated with a dark cloud-like colour. Thiruppavalavannam preserves the memory of that coral form. The symbolism is simple but layered. Colour here is not decorative. It reflects mood, era and the state of the world. The coral-red tone suggests warmth, life, energy and a certain immediacy. It is gentler than fire but more vivid than stillness. The temple, therefore, becomes a place where devotees encounter Vishnu in a form that feels alive, alert and present.

There is also a local legend connected with sage Bhrigu. According to tradition, Bhrigu once wished to test the patience and greatness of the Trimurti. When he approached Vishnu and behaved with disrespect, Vishnu did not react with anger. Instead, he responded with calmness and compassion. Ashamed of his own conduct, the sage was asked to continue his penance at Kanchipuram, where Vishnu later appeared before him in the coral-hued form of Pavalavannar. This story gives the temple another emotional layer. It is not just about colour, but about the grace that follows correction. The sage arrives in ego and leaves with humility. The Lord does not humiliate him. He simply reveals himself. That tone matters. It makes this temple feel less like a place of judgment and more like a place of inward softening.

Historically, Thiruppavalavannam belongs to the long religious life of Kanchipuram and carries clear traces of Chola and later Vijayanagara patronage. The temple is generally believed to have been built or expanded under the Cholas, and inscriptions on its walls date to the reigns of rulers such as Kulothunga Chola I and Rajadhiraja Chola. These records point to an active temple culture supported through endowments, ritual practice and continued upkeep. Later rulers added to that continuity rather than replacing it. Like many temples in Kanchipuram, Thiruppavalavannam was not frozen in one era. It grew through care, additions and repeated acts of preservation. That layered history gives the temple a steady dignity. It feels lived in rather than merely remembered.

Architecturally, the temple reflects the classic grammar of South Indian temple design while remaining manageable in scale. A granite enclosure surrounds the shrine, and the Rajagopuram rises above the entrance with enough presence to mark the temple clearly without overwhelming the neighbourhood around it. Inside, the sanctum houses Pavalavannar in a standing posture, facing west, which already gives the shrine a slightly different orientation from many other Vishnu temples. The roof above the sanctum is known as the Vedasara Vimanam, and the temple tank is called Chakra Theertham. There are also shrines for the Alvars and other Vaishnavite figures within the complex, which helps situate the temple firmly within the larger Divya Desam tradition. The pillars and halls carry images linked to Vishnu’s stories, but the focus remains where it should be—on the coral-hued Lord in the sanctum.

What makes the architecture work is not ornament for its own sake but proportion. The temple feels balanced. The path inward is clear, the sanctum remains the emotional center, and the atmosphere supports attention rather than distraction. Pavalavalli Thayar’s shrine adds warmth to the temple’s tone. Her presence softens the visual intensity of the coral imagery and makes the space feel complete. As with many Kanchipuram temples, there is a sense that the deity and the goddess must be understood together. One brings radiance, the other reassurance.

The daily ritual life of the temple follows the Vaishnavite tradition, with six daily pujas said to be observed throughout the day. Worship unfolds in an ordered rhythm, and the temple becomes especially active during annual festivals, of which the Brahmotsavam in the Tamil month of Vaikasi is considered one of the most important. These observances keep the temple rooted in living practice rather than only literary memory. Devotees continue to come not just because the temple is old or celebrated in the Prabandham, but because it remains part of an active spiritual routine. That continuity matters more than grand claims. It is what keeps a sacred place alive.

The pilgrimage experience at Thiruppavalavannam feels very Kanchipuram in the best sense. The temple is woven into the town rather than set apart from it. You approach it through ordinary streets, and then, quite suddenly, the coral association begins to shape the way you see the shrine. Even before one thinks deeply about symbolism, the temple leaves an impression of warmth. It is not loud, and it is not severe. It feels approachable. For pilgrims moving through the Kanchipuram Divya Desam circuit, Thiruppavalavannam adds a different note after temples associated with cosmic strides, philosophical clarity or fierce protection. Here, the emphasis shifts toward tone and presence. The temple does not ask you to think only in terms of event or miracle. It asks you to notice the mood.

Culturally, the temple is also linked in popular memory with Thiruppachai Vannar, another Vishnu shrine in Kanchipuram associated with the green form of the Lord. Together, the two temples are often understood as paired reminders of Vishnu’s many colours across the yugas and moods of devotion. That pairing enriches Thiruppavalavannam’s place in Kanchipuram’s sacred map. It is not an isolated temple but part of a larger theological imagination in which colour, form and emotion all matter. The Alvars recognised this, and their hymns ensured that the temple remained within the living current of Tamil Vaishnavite devotion.

In modern times, the temple continues under the administration of the Hindu Religious and Charitable Endowments framework in Tamil Nadu, while still retaining the devotional atmosphere that gives it meaning. Pilgrims following the Divya Desam circuit continue to visit, and the temple remains an active stop rather than a forgotten one. Its inscriptions, ritual calendar and sustained worship all point to continuity rather than nostalgia.

Thiruppavalavannam ultimately represents the grace of divine presence as something vivid, changing and deeply responsive. Pavalavannar Perumal is not simply the Lord in one more temple form. He is the reminder that the divine can appear in different colours because human life itself moves through different moods, ages and needs. Sometimes grace comes like cool rain, sometimes like clear light, and sometimes, as here, like coral—warm, bright and unmistakably alive. In the larger Divya Desam journey, this temple adds a beautiful and subtle truth. The divine does not remain fixed in one shade. It meets the world as the world needs to see it.

Why Everyone Is Tired, Even When Life Is Easier

Posted on October 7, 2026 by memoriesandsuch

There is a strange contradiction at the heart of modern life. In so many practical ways, life is easier than it has ever been. We have washing machines, food delivery, ride-hailing apps, digital banking, online shopping, Google Maps, YouTube tutorials, WhatsApp, household appliances, remote work, medical technology, easier travel, and more information than any generation before us could have imagined. And yet everyone is tired.

Not just physically tired, though there is plenty of that, too. This is a different kind of tiredness. Mental tiredness. Emotional tiredness. Social tiredness. Decision fatigue. Digital exhaustion. Financial stress. The kind of tiredness where nothing is exactly wrong, but everything feels like too much. The kind of tiredness that does not always go away after one night of sleep, because it does not come only from the body. It comes from the mind being permanently switched on.

We are tired even when life is easier because convenience has not given us rest. It has given us more things to manage. This is not to romanticise the past. I have no desire to return to a world without washing machines, online banking, reliable transport apps, or medical advances. Some things are genuinely easier now. Compared with my childhood, and certainly compared with my parents’ generation, everyday life has become convenient in countless ways. We can order groceries from our phones, transfer money in seconds, find directions anywhere, learn how to fix almost anything online, and speak to family across countries without waiting for expensive trunk calls or letters. These are not small things. They matter.

But ease is not the same as rest. Comfort is not the same as peace. Convenience is not the same as lightness. In fact, many conveniences have removed one kind of labour while adding another. Food delivery means we do not have to cook, but now we must scroll through two hundred options, compare prices, check delivery fees, wonder if it is too expensive, and feel mildly guilty for not making something at home. WhatsApp makes communication instant, but now everyone can reach us instantly. Online shopping saves time, but it also creates endless comparisons. Digital banking saves a trip to the bank but adds passwords, OTPs, app updates, portals, and the quiet fear of scams. Google Maps helps us navigate, but perhaps also makes us less patient when the journey is not optimised.

The work has changed shape. It has moved from our hands into our heads. Maybe this is why so many of us feel tired in a way that is hard to explain. We are not always doing more physically, but we are thinking more constantly. Remembering more, comparing more, deciding more, tracking more, responding more, planning more, and worrying more.

I feel this myself. Some days I am more tired than others, but the tiredness is there. I am tired of trying to be a productive member of society. Tired from job searching, tired from managing health, tired from overthinking, tired from always being the planner, tired from long-distance caregiving, tired from ageing, and tired from holding too many tabs open in my head.

The sentence that describes it best is this: I am not tired because I do too much, but because I am always thinking about what still needs to be done. That is the modern condition, isn’t it? The unfinished list follows us everywhere. Even when we sit down, the list sits beside us. Even when we sleep, it waits. Even when we rest, part of us is scanning the horizon for what we have forgotten.

When I am tired, I become irritable and cranky. Sometimes I dissociate from things and simply want to be left alone. I lose interest even in things I love, including writing. I watch mindless content, not because it truly rests me, but because real rest feels too difficult. This too is a modern pattern. We choose fake rest because it asks less of us. Scrolling, watching videos, online browsing, half-reading, half-listening, half-existing. It distracts us, but it does not restore us. Real rest is harder. Real rest requires us to stop performing usefulness, even to ourselves.

Our parents’ generation was tired too, though perhaps in different ways. Their lives were physically harder. Fewer appliances, less convenience, more social obligations, fewer choices, and more rigid roles. Women, especially were expected to ignore tiredness. They carried on. They cooked, cleaned, cared, hosted, remembered, and swallowed exhaustion because saying “I am tired” was not always allowed. Tiredness could be dismissed as weakness. Weakness could be called laziness.

Children, too were not usually allowed to be tired. We were told to study, help, behave, and stop complaining. “Don’t waste time” was a common enough message. “Do something useful” was another. The idea that rest could be necessary rather than indulgent did not always exist in the language we grew up with.

But while the older generations had fewer conveniences, they may also have had less mental clutter in certain ways. There was no social media feed carrying the world into their minds every morning. No constant news alerts. No endless comparison with everyone’s holidays, homes, children, careers, bodies, meals, and achievements. No apps telling them to track every step, calorie, rupee, dollar, hour, and habit. Their lives were not easy. But perhaps their attention was less fragmented.

Today, information overload is part of our tiredness. We know too much, all the time. News, wars, elections, scams, climate anxiety, health advice, job market changes, school admissions, university pathways, investment options, AI developments, parenting opinions, diet debates, productivity hacks, skincare routines, travel warnings, and the latest thing we are apparently supposed to worry about.

Knowing more can be empowering. It can help us make better decisions. But it can also be exhausting. I often feel that the human brain was not designed to carry the whole world before breakfast. And yet many of us begin the day by reaching for the phone and doing exactly that.

The phone is both a tool and a tormentor. It helps us communicate, read, plan, bank, order, check health data, navigate, work, and stay connected. I would not want to give it up. But it also makes us reachable, distracted, anxious, comparative, and unable to fully switch off. Most of us reach for it first thing in the morning and keep it near us until we sleep. It sits beside us like a demanding little rectangle of obligation and temptation.

Work has also changed. Modern work expects too much emotional and mental availability. Emails, WhatsApp messages, Teams chats, “quick calls,” urgent requests, meetings, follow-ups, performance reviews, networking, personal branding, upskilling, and the unspoken expectation that one should be responsive at all times. Work follows people home now. It travels in pockets and handbags. It lights up on screens at dinner. It enters weekends disguised as something that will “only take five minutes.”

For those of us managing multiple streams, this becomes even more tiring. Work, freelancing, job searching, writing, family, health, and organisational responsibilities do not sit neatly in separate boxes. They overlap. A job application is mentally different from paid work, but it is tiring in its own way. The tailoring of resumes, the cover letters, the online forms, the silence, the ghosting, and the sense of wondering whether there is any point in applying anymore. It is not only effort. It is emotional exposure repeated again and again.

Then there is the achievement treadmill. Singapore makes this especially visible. It is efficient, safe, connected, and convenient, and I am grateful for many of those things. But it is also tiring. The cost of living, work expectations, school pressure, comparison, crowds, commuting, and the constant sense that everyone is progressing, upgrading, investing, studying, planning, and optimising can make life feel practically easier but mentally heavier. Everything works, but everyone is running.

India, in contrast, is tiring in different ways. The India I grew up in may have been physically harder but emotionally more spacious in some ways. But it was also noisy, bureaucratic, socially demanding, and full of gendered expectations and family interference. When I visit India now, I initially feel rested, perhaps because of memory and familiarity. But then the noise, pollution, chaos, and sheer effort of moving through daily life begin to exhaust me. Bangalore, especially, can be an exercise in patience. Travelling across the city is not a commute so much as a character-building programme nobody signed up for. So no, the answer is not that one place is restful and another is not. Modern tiredness has many geographies.

A large part of this tiredness is emotional labour, and here gender cannot be ignored. Women are often more tired than they admit because they are not only doing tasks but also managing emotional labour. They are remembering, anticipating, planning, noticing, soothing, managing moods, maintaining relationships, and keeping family life moving. Appliances may have made housework easier, but they did not remove the responsibility of noticing what has to be done.

Someone still has to know that the groceries are running low, the appointment needs booking, the child needs a form signed, the parent needs checking on, the helper needs instructions, the birthday needs remembering, the meal needs planning, the message needs replying to, the festival needs preparing for, and the family rhythm needs holding together. In many families, that person is still a woman.

I know this in my own life. I am the planner in the family and perhaps also the natural doer, so many things fall to me. Some of this is personality. Some of it is habit. Some of it is patriarchy, wearing comfortable home clothes and pretending it’s common sense.

Parenting adds another layer. Parenting today is mentally tiring in ways previous generations may or may not have experienced to the same degree. There is more information now, and with information comes anxiety. School choices, tuition, enrichment, screen time, food, safety, identity, mental health, university admissions, careers, social media, friendships, independence. Every decision feels loaded.

Parenting BB and GG was more mentally tiring than I expected, especially because they are twins. When children are young, tiredness is physical: feeding, bathing, school runs, homework, logistics. When they grow older, the tiredness changes. It becomes emotional. You worry about choices, studies, jobs, relationships, independence, and the future. You are less physically needed but not necessarily less mentally involved. The work moves inward.

Ageing changes tiredness too. Things I could do even five years ago feel harder now. Energy is no longer something I can assume will appear on command. I try to rest more willingly, but I also push myself at times. Midlife brings its own strange combination of urgency and fatigue. There is still so much one wants to do, but the body is no longer willing to be treated like an unpaid intern.

Health adds another background hum. Managing diabetes, using a CGM, thinking about food, readings, walking, sleep, stress, medical appointments, and how the body is responding. None of these may seem dramatic on their own, but together they create a constant layer of awareness. It is another form of invisible daily management. The body becomes one more thing to monitor, interpret, and negotiate with.

And then, as if all this were not enough, we live in an age of relentless self-improvement. We are told to eat better, sleep better, move more, earn more, invest smarter, build a brand, write more, declutter, meditate, journal, network, learn AI, regulate our emotions, have a side hustle, age well, dress well, parent well, rest well, and become the best version of ourselves. It is exhausting just listing it. The pressure to improve turns life into a permanent project. We are never simply people living our lives. We are always under renovation.

Even rest becomes something to do correctly. This is where comparison enters. I try not to compare myself with others, but sometimes it creeps in. Someone else seems to have the career sorted, the children sorted, the house sorted, the health sorted, the holidays sorted, the face glowing, the meals plated, and the life beautifully arranged. Of course, we know social media is curated. We know this intellectually. But emotionally, the comparison still slips through. We look at our ordinary, unfinished, slightly messy lives and wonder why everyone else seems to be managing better.

Perhaps they are not. Perhaps they are tired too. Maybe everyone is tired because nothing ever feels finished anymore. In the past, many tasks had clearer endings. Wash the clothes, cook the meal, clean the house, and finish the errand. Today, so much of life is endless. Email never ends, messages never end, news never ends, content never ends, job applications never end, self-improvement never ends, health tracking never ends, financial planning never ends, and social obligations never end. There is always more. The endlessness is tiring.

What people need less of, I think, is pressure, comparison, pretending, and the expectation of constant availability. Less noise. Less optimisation. Less of the idea that every moment must be useful and every person must be improving. What people need more of is sleep. Real sleep, not revenge bedtime scrolling until the brain gives up. More meaningful work, because meaningless work exhausts the spirit in a way even physical labour does not. More kindness, because a tired world becomes harsher when kindness disappears. And perhaps more boredom, too. Boredom gives the mind room to wander. It creates space where not everything is input, output, or performance.

For me, the rest that actually helps is simple. Sleep first, then reading and writing. Being alone in silence, meditating, praying, and talking to the divine. These things restore rather than merely distract. They return me to myself. The problem is that we often treat tiredness as a personal failure. If we are tired, we assume we are not organised enough, disciplined enough, resilient enough, grateful enough, or productive enough. But perhaps tiredness is also information. It tells us that the load is too heavy, even if parts of the load are invisible. It tells us that convenience has not solved the deeper problem. It tells us that human beings were not meant to be reachable, measurable, comparable, and improvable every waking minute.

Life is easier now, but it is also harder because everyone is stressed, worried, and overall tired. The tools have improved. The pressure has multiplied. The physical load may have reduced, but the mental load has expanded to fill the space convenience created.

So what do we do? I do not think the answer is to reject modern life. I like my washing machine; I like online banking, being able to order groceries, messaging my family, checking a map, reading on my phone, and monitoring my health. The answer is not to pretend the past was better. It was not, at least not for everyone.

But perhaps we need to stop confusing efficiency with ease. We need to stop assuming that because something is convenient, it is restful. We need boundaries around phones, work, comparison, and self-improvement. We need to see women’s invisible labour before we can share it. We need workplaces that do not treat constant availability as commitment. We need families where planning is not silently assigned to one person. We need to stop treating tiredness as weakness.

Most of all, we need permission to be ordinary human beings. Not always optimised. Not always productive. Not always reachable. Not always improving. Not always strong. Not always cheerful. Not always holding everything together. Maybe what we need is not another app, hack, system, or productivity method. Maybe what we need is the courage to admit that being human was never meant to be this constantly managed.

So perhaps the next time tiredness arrives, instead of asking, “What is wrong with me?”, we can ask a better question. What am I carrying? And perhaps, even more importantly, what can I finally put down?

Memories and Such

Memories of a very ordinary life

Category Archives: Writing