Tag Archives: Writing

Poem: The People Who Love Libraries

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There has always been something quietly comforting about libraries and bookstores. Perhaps it is the silence, the scent of paper, or the feeling that entire worlds are waiting patiently on shelves to be discovered. For some of us, these places become more than buildings filled with books. They become sanctuaries. Spaces where we can escape, wander, reflect, and feel understood without having to explain ourselves. This poem is a love letter to libraries, bookstores, and to the people who find pieces of themselves hidden among the shelves.

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The People Who Love Libraries

There is a certain kind of person
who walks into a library
and immediately breathes easier.

You can spot us quietly.

We wander slowly between shelves
without needing help.
We run our fingers across spines
as though greeting old friends.
We stand in corners reading blurbs
for books we may never borrow,
yet somehow still feel grateful exist.

Libraries are strange places.

Thousands of voices live there,
yet nobody raises their volume.
Entire wars, love stories, heartbreaks,
adventures, philosophies and confessions
sit quietly beside one another
without demanding attention.

And somehow,
inside all that silence,
some of us feel understood.

Maybe it is because books do not judge.

They do not ask
whether you are successful enough,
healed enough, confident enough,
certain enough.

They simply open.

Growing up,
libraries were not woven
into the fabric of my childhood.
There were school libraries, yes.
Later, the British Council in Mumbai.
The American Centre.
Places that felt almost magical then.

But it was in Singapore
that libraries became part of my life.
Public libraries tucked into malls,
neighbourhoods and quiet corners of the city.
Cool air.
Soft footsteps.
The familiar scent of paper and possibility.

I visited them often.
Sometimes for books.
Sometimes for escape.
Sometimes because the world outside
felt too loud.

There is comfort
in being surrounded by stories.

Comfort in knowing
that somewhere on a shelf,
another person once felt
exactly what you are feeling now.

And bookstores carry
their own kind of romance.

Grand libraries awaken awe,
their towering shelves reminding us
how small one lifetime really is.

Tiny independent bookstores
feel like acts of faith.
Proof that people still believe
stories matter.

And secondhand bookstores…
those may be the saddest
and most beautiful of all.

A folded corner.
A handwritten name.
A forgotten receipt tucked between pages.

Evidence that a stranger
once held this exact book
in their hands
years before you did.

Two readers connected
without ever meeting.

Perhaps that is why
people like us love libraries so much.

Not because we are lonely, necessarily.
But because libraries understand
the quiet ways humans search for refuge.

Some people find peace in crowds.
Others find it in prayer.
Some in music.

And some of us find it
standing between shelves,
holding a borrowed book,
while the rest of the world
waits patiently outside.

Sacred Stones, Spaces, and Stories: Divya Desams Part 26

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Thirukkaragam Temple, Kanchipuram, Tamil Nadu
Within the sacred landscape of Kanchipuram, where several Divya Desams exist close to one another, Thirukkaragam holds a quieter presence. The presiding deity here is Karunakara Perumal, and the goddess is Padmamani Thayar. Today, the shrine is located within the Ulagalantha Perumal temple complex, which also houses a few other Divya Desams. Despite its modest scale, Thirukkaragam carries a clear identity shaped by its name and its meaning. The word Karagam is often associated with compassion and grace, and the name Karunakara Perumal itself reinforces this idea. Here, Vishnu is worshipped as the Lord of compassion, one who responds gently to the world’s struggles.

The mythology connected with Thirukkaragam reflects this theme of compassion. According to traditional accounts, sages once prayed here seeking relief from the difficulties that troubled their lives. The world around them had become uncertain, and their austerities alone did not seem enough to restore balance. Vishnu appeared before them in a form that radiated calm and kindness rather than overwhelming power. The message of the appearance was simple. Divine grace does not always arrive through dramatic intervention. Sometimes it arrives quietly, through compassion that steadies those who seek it. Because the Lord revealed himself in this merciful form, he came to be known here as Karunakara Perumal.

Historically, Thirukkaragam has been part of the long religious continuity of Kanchipuram, a city that flourished under the Pallavas and later the Cholas as a major centre of temple culture. Over time, several shrines were incorporated within larger temple complexes, creating layered sacred spaces where multiple stories could exist side by side. Thirukkaragam became one such shrine within the Ulagalantha Perumal temple. Even though the sanctum is smaller compared to the main shrine in the complex, its identity remained preserved through the hymns of the Alvars and the steady practice of worship.

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Architecturally, the shrine reflects this modest character. The sanctum of Karunakara Perumal is simple and direct, without elaborate ornamentation. The idol stands in a composed posture holding the conch and discus, embodying the familiar Vaishnavite iconography. Yet the expression of the deity carries a softness that aligns with the temple’s theme. Padmamani Thayar’s presence nearby adds warmth to the space, reinforcing the idea that compassion and grace move together. Within the larger temple complex, the shrine may appear small, but the atmosphere it creates is noticeably calm.

The daily rituals here follow the Vaishnavite tradition and take place within the schedule of the Ulagalantha Perumal temple. Priests perform the regular prayers, offerings and evening aradhanai, ensuring that the shrine remains part of the living rhythm of temple worship. During major festivals celebrated in the complex, devotees often visit the smaller Divya Desam shrines one after another, acknowledging each form of the Lord in turn. Thirukkaragam, therefore, becomes a quiet stop along a larger spiritual path, inviting devotees to pause briefly and reflect.

For pilgrims visiting Kanchipuram, the experience of Thirukkaragam often unfolds gradually. Many arrive primarily to worship Ulagalantha Perumal and then discover the smaller Divya Desam shrines within the same complex. When they step into the sanctum of Karunakara Perumal, the shift in atmosphere becomes noticeable. The space feels more intimate, almost personal. Devotees often stand quietly for a few moments, offering prayers for patience, understanding or emotional strength.

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Culturally, Thirukkaragam continues to live through the verses of the Alvars, who recognised the presence of the compassionate Lord here. Their hymns reflect a devotional tradition that values kindness and grace as much as strength. In Tamil spiritual thought, compassion is not seen as weakness but as a form of divine power that sustains the world. The shrine therefore becomes a reminder that the Lord’s greatest quality may not always be his cosmic acts but his willingness to respond with mercy.

In modern times, the shrine remains active within the temple complex, receiving pilgrims who follow the Divya Desam circuit through Kanchipuram. Renovations and maintenance of the larger temple have helped preserve the smaller sanctums as well, ensuring that their stories remain accessible to visitors. Though it may not draw the same attention as the towering image of Ulagalantha Perumal, Thirukkaragam quietly continues its role within the sacred landscape.

Thirukkaragam ultimately represents the quiet strength of compassion. Karunakara Perumal stands as the Lord who responds not with overwhelming power but with grace that steadies the heart. In the wider Divya Desam journey, this temple offers a gentle reminder that divine presence is not always expressed through dramatic miracles. Sometimes it appears through kindness that restores balance, one moment at a time.

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Thirukkarvaanam Temple, Kanchipuram, Tamil Nadu
Within the sacred geography of Kanchipuram, where several Divya Desams lie close to one another, and many shrines share the same temple complexes, Thirukkarvaanam holds a quiet but meaningful place. The presiding deity here is Kalvar Perumal, and the goddess is Kamalavalli Thayar. Like a few other Divya Desams in the town, this shrine today exists within the Ulagalantha Perumal temple complex, which houses multiple sacred sanctums associated with the Divya Prabandham. The name Thirukkarvaanam carries poetic meaning. The word kaar refers to dark rain clouds, and vaanam refers to the sky. Together, they evoke the image of a deep rain-bearing cloud stretching across the heavens. In Tamil devotional imagination, Vishnu is often compared to such clouds: dark, vast and life-giving.

The legend connected with this shrine reflects that imagery. According to traditional belief, the Lord appeared here in a form that resembled the dark monsoon clouds that nourish the earth. Just as rain clouds gather quietly before releasing life-giving water, Vishnu revealed himself here as a presence that sustains the world without seeking attention. The comparison is both visual and symbolic. The dark complexion of the deity resembles the rain cloud, while the idea of divine grace resembles rain itself — falling gently, nourishing everything without discrimination. In this way, the temple speaks about abundance and quiet generosity rather than dramatic acts of power.

Another layer of interpretation appears in the name Kalvar Perumal. In Tamil devotional literature, the word kalvan sometimes refers playfully to a divine thief, one who steals the hearts of devotees. The Lord here is believed to quietly capture the devotion of those who stand before him. The symbolism fits naturally with the rain-cloud imagery. Just as clouds gather unnoticed before the rain begins, divine grace often arrives silently, entering the heart before one fully realises it.

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Historically, Thirukkarvaanam shares the long timeline of Kanchipuram’s temple culture. The region flourished during the Pallava period, when Kanchipuram was known as a centre of religion, philosophy and artistic patronage. Later Chola rulers strengthened temples throughout the city and ensured that rituals continued through royal endowments. Over time, some smaller shrines became incorporated into larger temple complexes, allowing several sacred sites to exist within the same architectural space. Thirukkarvaanam eventually became one of the Divya Desam shrines located within the Ulagalantha Perumal temple complex, preserving its identity even within a larger setting.

Architecturally, the shrine reflects its modest scale. The sanctum is small compared with the towering form of Ulagalantha Perumal nearby, yet the presence of Kalvar Perumal remains distinct. The deity stands in a composed posture, holding the conch and discus, embodying the familiar Vaishnavite form of Vishnu. The image carries a quiet dignity rather than dramatic ornamentation. Kamalavalli Thayar’s shrine adds warmth to the space, balancing the calm strength of the Lord with compassion and grace. Within the larger temple complex, the shrine feels like a pause, a moment where the atmosphere becomes softer and more reflective.

Daily worship at Thirukkarvaanam follows the Vaishnavite ritual tradition and takes place within the schedule of the Ulagalantha Perumal temple. Priests perform the regular prayers, offerings and evening aradhanai as part of the temple’s ongoing rhythm. During major festivals such as Vaikunta Ekadasi, when the temple complex becomes especially active, devotees move from one shrine to another, offering prayers at each Divya Desam sanctum. In that journey, Thirukkarvaanam becomes a quiet stop that invites a moment of calm.

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For pilgrims visiting Kanchipuram’s Divya Desams, the experience of Thirukkarvaanam often unfolds naturally while exploring the Ulagalantha Perumal temple. After seeing the towering image of Trivikrama, visitors step into the smaller sanctums that surround it. When they enter the shrine of Kalvar Perumal, the shift in scale and atmosphere becomes noticeable. The quiet image of the Lord standing like a rain cloud offers a different kind of reflection. Devotees often pause here, offering simple prayers for peace, stability and well-being.

Culturally, Thirukkarvaanam holds its place through the hymns of the Alvars, who praised the Lord in this form and recognised the shrine as one of the sacred Divya Desams. Their verses highlight the imagery of the dark cloud and the gentle grace that nourishes life. In Tamil devotional tradition, the rain cloud is not merely a natural phenomenon but a metaphor for divine compassion. Just as rain falls on every field without preference, grace reaches every devotee without distinction.

In modern times, the shrine continues to function quietly within the temple complex, receiving pilgrims who follow the Divya Desam circuit across Kanchipuram. Renovations and maintenance of the larger temple have helped preserve the smaller sanctums as well, ensuring that their stories remain part of the living tradition. Though it may not draw the same attention as the towering Trivikrama image, Thirukkarvaanam continues to hold its place in the spiritual map of the city.

Thirukkarvaanam ultimately represents the quiet generosity of divine grace. Kalvar Perumal stands like a rain cloud in the sky: steady, dark and full of promise. In the larger journey through the Divya Desams, this temple reminds devotees that nourishment often arrives quietly. Like rain that falls without noise, grace enters life gently, sustaining the world one drop at a time.

Why Some Friendships Last Decades and Others Fade Quietly

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Some friendships survive continents, marriages, career changes, illnesses, and years of silence. Then some friendships disappear almost without notice. No fight. No betrayal. No dramatic final conversation. One day, the messages simply stop. The annual birthday greeting becomes a reaction emoji. Eventually, even that disappears. Most people have experienced both. 

Modern life likes to celebrate friendship in loud ways. Television gives us tightly knit circles that remain inseparable for decades. Social media gives us endless declarations about “besties,” “tribes,” and “found family.” Yet real friendship often looks far less cinematic. It ebbs and flows. It changes shape. Some relationships deepen with time while others quietly dissolve under the weight of adulthood, distance, shifting values, or simple neglect.

The uncomfortable truth may be that not all friendships are built to survive forever. Some exist because of circumstance rather than deep emotional compatibility. Others endure because two people keep choosing each other long after convenience disappears. The difference between the two is not always obvious while the friendship is happening.

One of the easiest ways to mistake proximity for intimacy is during youth. Schools, universities, neighbourhoods, workplaces, hobby groups, religious communities, and even military service create environments where people spend large amounts of time together. Shared routines create familiarity, and familiarity can feel like permanence. It is only later, when the structure holding the friendship together disappears, that its true strength becomes visible.

This is why certain friendships fade almost immediately after a life transition. A workplace friend who felt indispensable during daily lunch breaks may vanish within months of a resignation. A university friendship built around assignments and campus life may struggle once careers, partners, and children enter the picture. Sometimes there is no conflict at all. There is simply nothing left holding the relationship in place.

That does not necessarily mean the friendship was fake. Temporary friendships can still be meaningful. A person may accompany someone through a difficult season, a lonely phase, or a transformative period of life without remaining in the story forever. Modern culture sometimes treats every fading friendship as a failure, but human relationships have always been shaped by time and circumstance.

Still, some friendships survive these transitions remarkably well. These are often the friendships people describe as “picking up where we left off.” Months or even years may pass with little communication, yet the emotional rhythm returns almost instantly when the two people reconnect. There is no awkwardness about the silence because the friendship does not depend entirely on constant contact.

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Shared history plays a powerful role here. Long friendships accumulate layers. There is comfort in being known by someone who remembers earlier versions of a person. Old friends remember awkward teenage years, failed relationships, family histories, youthful ambitions, and forgotten dreams. They carry memories that newer friendships cannot replicate. In an age where identity is constantly curated and updated online, something is stabilising about people who remember who someone was before the carefully managed digital persona emerged.

Yet shared history alone is not enough. Many people maintain old friendships out of nostalgia, even when the present-day compatibility has faded. The reality is that people change. Priorities shift. Political beliefs evolve. Financial circumstances diverge. Personal values harden or soften over time. A friendship that felt natural at twenty may feel strained at forty because the two individuals no longer see the world in similar ways.

This emotional imbalance is often underestimated in discussions about friendship. One person may continue investing deeply in the relationship while the other slowly disengages. Sometimes resentment grows quietly beneath the surface. In other cases, jealousy creeps in when lives begin moving in dramatically different directions. Watching a friend achieve professional success, financial comfort, marriage, or personal fulfilment can trigger complicated emotions, especially if someone feels stuck in their own life.

Few people openly admit this because friendship is supposed to feel generous and uncomplicated. Yet long-term friendships are not immune to envy or comparison. In fact, they may be especially vulnerable to it because friends often begin life from similar starting points. When adulthood produces sharply different outcomes, emotional tension can quietly build. This is one reason adulthood can be surprisingly hostile to deep friendship.

Childhood and youth naturally create spaces for friendship. Adulthood often fragments them. Careers consume time and emotional energy. Marriage and parenthood shift priorities. Migration scatters social circles across cities and countries. Exhaustion becomes normal. Even maintaining immediate family relationships can feel demanding, leaving little room for the sustained effort friendship sometimes requires.

At the same time, modern adulthood has also normalised busyness as identity. Many people proudly describe themselves as overwhelmed. Social calendars become transactional. Free time becomes scarce. Emotional availability shrinks. Friendship, unlike work or family obligations, often becomes the first thing sacrificed because it lacks formal structure and consequences.

There is also the question of maintenance. Some people dislike applying that word to friendship because it sounds clinical or transactional. Friendship is supposed to feel natural, not managed. Yet most enduring relationships require deliberate care. Not necessarily constant messaging or daily updates, but gestures of attention. Checking in during difficult periods, remembering important moments, and making time despite inconvenience.

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The friendships that survive decades are rarely accidental. They endure because both people continue making small choices in favour of the relationship. One person sends the message first. Another makes time for a call despite a busy schedule. Someone books the ticket for a reunion. Someone forgives delayed replies instead of keeping score. These actions may seem minor individually, but together they form the quiet architecture of long-term friendship.

Technology complicates this further. Social media has simultaneously preserved friendships and diluted them. It is now possible to maintain loose awareness of hundreds of people without speaking to most of them directly. Someone may know where an old school friend travelled last summer, what they ate for dinner, and which political opinions they currently hold without having had a meaningful conversation in years.

This creates the illusion of connection. The modern friendship ecosystem is full of passive interaction masquerading as intimacy. Birthday wishes appear because Facebook sends reminders. Instagram reactions substitute for actual conversation. WhatsApp groups remain technically active despite containing people who would probably never meet individually anymore.

Many people recognise this phenomenon instinctively. The annual flood of social media birthday greetings often feels emotionally different from a message sent by someone who remembered the date without digital assistance. In some ways, technology has made remembering easier while making connections thinner.

Yet social media is not entirely to blame. For migrants, expats, and globally dispersed families, digital communication has preserved relationships that earlier generations might have lost completely. 

Long-distance friendship today is far more sustainable than it once was. Video calls, group chats, voice notes, and shared online spaces allow people to remain emotionally present across continents.

Still, there is a difference between accessibility and closeness. Some friendships survive because there is genuine emotional substance beneath the communication tools. Others survive merely as digital residue. They exist because nobody formally ended them. This may explain why fading friendships can hurt more than dramatic endings. A betrayal at least provides clarity. There is a moment of rupture, a reason to grieve, a narrative that explains what happened. Quietly fading friendships offer no such resolution. The relationship simply weakens slowly until one day both people realise they no longer really know each other.

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There is often guilt attached to this process, too. People wonder whether they should have tried harder. Whether adulthood made them selfish. Whether they abandoned someone who once mattered deeply.

Yet friendship endings rarely receive the emotional recognition given to romantic breakups. Society has rituals for divorce, heartbreak, and family conflict. Friendship grief is often treated as trivial or immature. Adults are expected to move on quietly. This can make friendship loss strangely isolating.

Losing a long-time friend can feel like losing part of one’s personal history. Certain memories become inaccessible because the other witness to them is gone. Particular versions of oneself disappear with the relationship. Unlike romantic breakups, friendship endings also lack clear social language. Few people say, “We broke up as friends.” Instead, they say things like, “We lost touch.” The phrase sounds harmless. Often it is not.

Cultural attitudes also shape how friendships are expressed and maintained. In many Asian cultures, friendship may operate with less overt emotional language compared to Western ideals of constant vulnerability and verbal affirmation. People may not openly discuss feelings or maintain frequent communication, yet still consider the friendship deeply important.

Indian social culture complicates this further because personal boundaries often operate differently. Friendship networks can remain highly involved in one another’s lives across decades, with expectations of emotional and practical support extending well into adulthood. At the same time, these close-knit dynamics can sometimes create pressure, obligation, or difficulty adapting to changing personal identities.

Generational differences matter too. Younger generations are growing up in an environment where communication is constant, but attention is fragmented. Friendships now exist across multiple digital platforms simultaneously. Group chats create ongoing low-level interaction, but not necessarily emotional depth. Online communities can provide intense feelings of belonging while also remaining surprisingly transient.

Older generations often formed friendships around physical presence and repeated in-person interaction. Younger people may form meaningful bonds entirely online. Neither model is inherently superior, but they shape expectations differently. Constant digital accessibility may create pressure for continuous responsiveness, while also making silence feel more loaded than it once did.

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At the heart of all this is a difficult reality: friendship is both durable and fragile. Some relationships survive extraordinary stretches of time because they are rooted in mutual respect, shared history, emotional generosity, and adaptability. Others disappear because the conditions sustaining them quietly changed.

Neither outcome necessarily invalidates what existed before. There is perhaps a tendency to over-romanticise lifelong friendship. Popular culture celebrates the idea that true friendship should remain unchanged forever. Real life is more complicated. People outgrow one another. Lives diverge. Emotional needs evolve. Sometimes the kindest thing a friendship can do is remain meaningful in memory rather than force itself into an artificial permanence.

At the same time, modern life may genuinely be eroding some of the conditions that allow friendship to thrive. Constant busyness, geographic mobility, digital distraction, and hyper-individualistic lifestyles leave less room for sustained emotional investment. Friendship often survives in the margins of life rather than at its centre.

And yet, despite all this, certain friendships endure. Perhaps what separates them is not frequency of communication or dramatic declarations of loyalty. Perhaps it is something quieter. A willingness to make room for change without abandoning the relationship entirely. An ability to survive silence without resentment. The understanding that friendship, like people themselves, evolves over time.

The strongest friendships are often not the loudest ones. They are the ones that remain steady beneath the interruptions of adulthood. The friend who remembers the difficult years. The one who can speak honestly without performance. The one who reappears after a long silence and still feels familiar.

Not every friendship is meant to last forever. But the ones that do often reveal something important about human connection itself. That closeness is not built only through proximity, convenience, or constant communication. It is built through accumulated trust, shared memory, repeated choice, and the quiet decision to remain present in one another’s lives even as everything else changes.

In the end, perhaps that is why some friendships survive decades while others fade quietly. Some relationships are carried by circumstance. Others are carried by intention.

Are We Becoming Too Busy to Be Kind?

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Some questions sound simple until we sit with them. Are we becoming too busy to be kind? At first glance, the answer seems obvious. Yes, of course we are. Look around. Everyone is rushing. Everyone is tired. Everyone has deadlines, bills, errands, worries, children, ageing parents, work messages, health issues, school matters, and a phone that never really lets them rest.

But the question is not only whether we are busy. Most of us are. The real question is what that busyness is doing to us.

Is it making us less patient? Less thoughtful? Less willing to pause? Less likely to notice someone else’s discomfort? Less able to help unless it is convenient, scheduled, and does not interfere with our own carefully planned lives?

There was a time when, if something happened in public, the instinct might have been to run towards the person who needed help. Today, too often, the instinct seems to be to take out a phone. A fall, an argument, an accident, an uncomfortable scene, all of it becomes content before it becomes concern. There is something deeply unsettling about that. The urge to record has begun to compete with the urge to assist. In some cases, it has replaced it.

Of course, not everyone behaves this way. People still help. Strangers still step forward. Quiet goodness still exists all around us. But there is also a growing hesitation. Why get involved? What if I get blamed? What if this becomes complicated? What if someone records me? What if it is not my problem?

And so we look away.

Perhaps people have not become less kind. Perhaps they have become more tired, more afraid, and more overwhelmed. Kindness may still exist, but it is buried under stress, deadlines, financial worries, caregiving responsibilities, commuting fatigue, and the mental load of modern life. The heart may still be soft, but the day is hard. And when the day is hard for too long, softness begins to feel like a luxury.

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To me, kindness is not about grand gestures. It is not about public charity, dramatic declarations, or social media posts about how compassionate one is. Kindness is far simpler and far more difficult. It is being a decent human being. It is helping when one can. It is being thoughtful. It is treating everyone around us with the same basic dignity, regardless of their social or financial status.

That last part matters.

Because very often, the measure of our kindness is not how we treat those above us, or those we want to impress. It is how we treat those who have no power over us. Service staff. Cleaners. Domestic helpers. Delivery riders. Security guards. Receptionists. Cashiers. The person clearing our tray. The person answering our call. The person who cannot talk back because their job depends on remaining polite.

It is easy to be charming to someone important. It takes character to be respectful to someone who is tired, underpaid, and invisible to most people.

And yet, this is where unkindness often shows itself. A sharp tone. A dismissive gesture. No eye contact. No thank you. An assumption that because someone is serving us, they are somehow beneath us. It is as if social or economic hierarchy gives people permission to forget basic decency.

It does not. Kindness is not kindness if it is selective. If we reserve courtesy only for those we consider our equals, then what we are practising is not kindness. It is social calculation.

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I first moved to Singapore many years ago, and some of my earliest memories of public life here are complicated ones. I remember older Chinese passengers not sitting next to me on the bus or train, even when there was space. I remember people tapping the seat after I vacated it, as though removing my traces. These were small moments. Nobody shouted. Nobody said anything directly. But small unkindnesses can stay with us precisely because they are small. They make us question whether we imagined them. They leave a faint bruise.

At work too, unkindness often arrives in quiet forms. A message ignored, a reply delayed without explanation, someone pretending not to see your contribution, or a person in authority using silence as a weapon. No single incident may seem large enough to complain about, but together they create an atmosphere. Busy workplaces can become unkind workplaces, not always because people are cruel, but because pressure makes everyone transactional.

Kindness at work is not about being sweet all the time. It is about clear communication. It is about not dumping urgent work unnecessarily. It is about giving credit. Respecting people’s time. Saying thank you. Not weaponising hierarchy. Assuming good intent until proven otherwise. These are not soft things. They are the foundation of a healthy workplace.

But we do not always value them. Today’s culture praises productivity, ambition, speed, confidence, hustle, excellence, leadership, success, and resilience. These are not bad qualities. But where does kindness sit among them? Is it praised? Rewarded? Promoted? Or is it seen as soft, weak, inefficient, naive, not strategic enough?

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Too often, kind people are taken advantage of. They are expected to absorb more, forgive more, stretch more, and understand more. Their kindness becomes part of the system’s convenience. This is why kindness also needs boundaries. Being kind does not mean becoming a doormat. It does not mean tolerating disrespect. It does not mean saying yes when every part of you is exhausted. True kindness includes honesty. It includes respect for oneself too.

That may be the hardest form of kindness for many of us.

We speak often about being kind to others, but what about being kind to ourselves? Many of us are far harsher inwardly than we would ever be to another person. I know I am guilty of this. When things do not go my way, I can very quickly slip into self-blame. I think of all the things I did wrong, all the ways I could have done better, all the moments where I was not perfect enough. It is exhausting, this private courtroom we carry within us.

And perhaps that is part of the problem. People who are constantly unkind to themselves may have very little softness left for others. If our inner voice is always impatient, critical, and unforgiving, it becomes harder to speak gently outwardly. The tone leaks. The pressure spills.

Still, this cannot become an excuse. “I am stressed” may explain unkindness, but it does not erase its effect.

We all know this because we have all done it. I try to be conscious about how I treat people, but I am sure there have been times when I have been inadvertently unkind. And if I am honest, I am probably most unkind to those closest to me: S, then my children, then my helper. I have also been unkind to my parents and my sister. I apologise when I realise it, and I try to walk back. But the truth remains. We are often least guarded with the people who love us most.

Perhaps because we know they will forgive us. Perhaps because we assume they will understand. Perhaps because home is where the mask comes off, and unfortunately, sometimes the manners come off with it.

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This is a painful thing to admit, but an important one. Any essay on kindness that only points outward becomes too easy. The rude stranger, the impatient commuter, the harsh boss, the ungrateful customer, they are all convenient examples. But the real test of kindness is not only how I behave when I am rested, admired, and in public. It is how I behave when I am tired, disappointed, anxious, and at home.

Motherhood has taught me this in unexpected ways. I became more patient as a mother, so much so that my father once noticed it with surprise. I suppose having twins does that to you. When there are two babies, two sets of needs, two cries, two schedules, two small humans depending on you at once, something in you either hardens or expands. For me, it expanded my patience.

I have often been more patient with BB and GG than with many others in my life. And now that my parents are older, I find myself more patient with them too. Age reverses many roles quietly. The people who once waited for us now need us to wait for them.

Kindness is harder when one is tired. There is no point pretending otherwise. But I also believe that if someone is intrinsically kind, that quality remains, even under pressure. It may wobble. It may fray at the edges. But it does not disappear. Real kindness is not a mood. It is a muscle. It is also, perhaps, like a bank account. The more we deposit into it, the more it grows. A small act here, a patient response there, a thoughtful pause, a decision not to snap, a decision to help, all of it adds up.

What would happen if everyone around us became just ten percent kinder? Not saintly. Not self-sacrificing. Just ten percent more patient. Ten percent more thoughtful. Ten percent less likely to assume the worst. Ten percent more willing to say, “Take your time.” Would we not live in a better society?

Singapore is an interesting place to think about this question because it is such an efficient society. Things work, trains arrive, queues move and systems are clear. Time is respected. There is much to admire in this. But efficiency can sometimes look like coldness, even when it is not intended that way. When everyone is moving fast, softness can seem like delay. Pausing can feel like obstruction. The person who needs extra time becomes an inconvenience.

Singaporeans are often kind in practical ways. There are people who give up seats on buses and trains, neighbours who help without fuss, colleagues who cover for one another quietly, strangers who step in when needed. But perhaps, as a society, there can be impatience in emotional spaces. A discomfort with messiness. A preference for order over tenderness. A tendency to move quickly past anything that slows the system down.

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India, at least the India I grew up in, offered a different model. Not necessarily better in every way, but different. Growing up, it was common to go into a neighbour’s house to drink water or wait if one’s parents were not home. My parents could travel and leave my sister and me alone, secure in the knowledge that neighbours would help, feed us, and be there in an emergency. I remember a neighbour picking me up from the station when my parents could not.

That kind of neighbourliness was ordinary then. Not heroic. Not worthy of an announcement. Just what people did.

I do not know if that India exists in the same way today. Cities have changed. Lives have changed. Trust has changed. People are busier, more guarded, more private, perhaps with reason. The old neighbourhood could be kind, but it could also be intrusive. Warmth came with unsolicited advice. Help came with commentary. Everyone knew your business, sometimes before you did. Still, there was a human net. Imperfect, nosy, sometimes annoying, but real.

Today, in many cities across the world, that net has thinned. We may live closer together physically, but further apart emotionally. We know the delivery rider’s location on an app, but not our neighbour’s name. We can track parcels, flights, investments, and calories, but still fail to notice when someone near us is struggling.

Online life has complicated this further. Social media has made people more visible, but not necessarily more compassionate. It has made it easier to perform concern and harder to practise it quietly. Outrage is instant. Judgment is instant. Cancelling is instant. Mockery is instant. People assume the worst with remarkable speed. Anonymity gives courage to cruelty. And the desire to go viral can turn someone else’s pain into opportunity.

Perhaps social media has not made people unkind. Perhaps it has simply made visible what people always thought privately. But visibility changes behaviour. When every act can become content, kindness itself can become performative. The public declaration begins to matter more than the private action.

This is why I respect small private kindness most. The kindness no one sees. The colleague who covers for someone without announcing it. The neighbour who helps without keeping score. The stranger who gives up a seat. The person who replies gently when they could have been sharp. The one who treats the cleaner and the CEO with the same courtesy. The friend who remembers a detail. The family member who notices tiredness before it becomes collapse.

Everyday decency matters more to me than grand gestures. Consistency matters more than spectacle. Action matters more than words, though words too can heal when they are sincere.

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Who taught me kindness? Many people. My family. My neighbours. Books. The world I grew up in, where values like Athithi Devo Bhava, the guest is God, were part of the cultural fabric. At its best, this idea is rooted in generosity and hospitality. It teaches us to make space for another person. To feed, welcome, and care. Of course, like all traditions, it can also become performative or burdensome, especially for the women expected to do all the feeding and welcoming. But at its heart lies something beautiful: the idea that another person’s comfort matters.

Maybe that is what kindness really is. The belief that another person’s experience matters.

It does not always require a lot of time. Sometimes kindness happens in a second. Holding the lift. Letting someone go ahead. Saying thank you. Not honking. Smiling at someone who looks nervous. Replying to a message with care. Giving someone the benefit of the doubt.

But deeper kindness does require attention. And attention is what busyness steals first.

When we are too busy, we stop noticing. We stop noticing the helper who looks tired. The parent who is repeating a story because they want connection, not because they have forgotten they told us before. The child who is quieter than usual. The spouse who has done ten invisible things before breakfast. The colleague who is overwhelmed. The cashier who has dealt with rude customers all day. The cleaner whose work makes our comfort possible.

The opposite of kindness is not always cruelty. Sometimes it is simply not noticing.

And this is where busyness becomes dangerous. Not because having a full life is wrong. Most of us cannot opt out of responsibility. We have to work, care, plan, earn, cook, commute, manage, and keep going. But if we are so busy that we no longer have time to be decent, then something has gone wrong. If our schedules leave no room for patience, our ambition no room for gentleness, our efficiency no room for humanity, then we have built lives that may function well but feel emotionally poor.

The world does not need more performative kindness. It needs more ordinary kindness. The unglamorous kind. The kind that does not photograph well. The kind that does not need applause. The kind that shows up in tone, timing, patience, respect, and restraint.

It means helping when we can. Not recording when someone needs assistance. Not turning away simply because “it is not our problem.” Not using “I’m busy” as a blanket excuse to avoid care, courtesy, or responsibility. Yes, genuine overwhelm is real. There are seasons when people are stretched beyond capacity. But the line between genuine overwhelm and careless self-importance is thin, and we cross it more easily than we admit.

Maybe the question is not only whether we are too busy to be kind.

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Maybe the question is whether we are willing to become less busy in the ways that matter. Less busy judging. Less busy proving ourselves. Less busy performing goodness. Less busy chasing productivity at the cost of tenderness. Less busy assuming that our urgency is more important than someone else’s dignity.

A kinder life does not require grand transformation. It may begin with a pause. A breath before replying. A thank you. An apology. A decision to help. A decision not to humiliate. A decision to treat the person serving us as a person, not a function. A decision to be gentler with those at home, because love should not have to survive our worst tone simply because it can.

Kindness matters because it makes the world a better place. That sounds almost too simple, but simple truths often are. A kinder world is not built only by policies, institutions, or public campaigns, though those matter too. It is built in kitchens, trains, offices, hospital corridors, school gates, WhatsApp messages, hawker centres, lifts, and living rooms.

It is built when we notice.

Perhaps we are not becoming too busy to be kind. Not yet. But we are busy enough that kindness now requires more intention than before. It has to be chosen. Practised. Protected. Passed on.

And maybe that is where we begin. Not by trying to become saints. That would be unbearable for everyone involved. But by becoming ten percent kinder. Ten percent slower to judge. Ten percent quicker to help. Ten percent more aware of the people around us.

It may not change the whole world at once.

But it will change the world immediately around us. And that is not a small thing.

Sacred Stones, Spaces, and Stories: Divya Desams Part 25

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Thiruooragam Temple, Kanchipuram, Tamil Nadu
In Kanchipuram, where many Divya Desams sit close together within the sacred rhythm of the town, Thiruooragam stands with a story that reaches far beyond its walls. The presiding deity here is Ulagalantha Perumal, a towering form of Vishnu representing the moment when the Lord measured the worlds. The goddess is Amudhavalli Thayar. The name Thiruooragam itself is associated with the place where the Lord manifested in a form so vast that the entire universe seemed to rest within his stride. Unlike many temples where the deity stands in a composed posture, the image here captures a moment of expansion. One foot stands firmly on the ground while the other rises upward, reminding devotees of the cosmic act that reshaped the balance of power between gods and kings.

The legend behind this temple comes from the well-known Vamana avatar. The demon king Mahabali had grown powerful and generous, ruling his kingdom with confidence and pride. Although he was not cruel, his growing influence unsettled the gods, who feared that the balance of the universe was shifting too far in one direction. Vishnu appeared before Mahabali as Vamana, a small Brahmin boy, and asked for three steps of land as alms. Mahabali, amused by the modest request, agreed without hesitation. In that instant, the boy transformed into Trivikrama, the vast cosmic form. With the first step, he covered the earth, with the second, he spanned the heavens, and there was no space left for the third. Realising the divine presence before him, Mahabali bowed his head and offered it for the final step. In that moment, the Lord did not merely claim the worlds; he restored balance.

Inside the temple, the image of Ulagalantha Perumal reflects that exact moment. The idol is unusually tall, filling the sanctum in a way that immediately commands attention. One leg is lifted high, symbolising the stride that measured the heavens. Yet the expression on the deity’s face remains calm, almost compassionate. The form reminds devotees that divine power is not displayed for domination but for restoring harmony. Amudhavalli Thayar’s shrine nearby adds a softer dimension to the temple’s atmosphere. Her presence balances the dramatic form of Trivikrama with reassurance and grace.

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Historically, Thiruooragam carries deep roots in the sacred history of Kanchipuram. The temple likely developed during the Pallava period, when the city flourished as a center of both religion and scholarship. Later Chola rulers expanded the structure, strengthening the stone foundations and supporting regular worship through royal patronage. Vijayanagara kings contributed additional mandapams and architectural refinements. Over time, the temple complex also came to house several other Divya Desam shrines within its walls, making it an important spiritual centre for pilgrims visiting Kanchipuram.

Architecturally, the temple reflects the grandeur associated with the Trivikrama form. The sanctum is designed to accommodate the height of the idol, creating a sense of vertical space that draws the eye upward. The gopuram at the entrance rises prominently above the surrounding streets, signaling the temple’s presence from a distance. Inside, the mandapams provide space for rituals and festivals, while the stone pillars carry carvings that reflect centuries of craftsmanship. Despite this scale, the temple does not feel overwhelming. Instead, it feels ordered and balanced, much like the story it represents.

The daily rituals at Thiruooragam follow the Vaishnavite tradition, with worship conducted throughout the day in a steady sequence. Devotees gather in the morning for the first prayers, return for alankaram and offerings, and often visit again in the evening when lamps illuminate the sanctum. During Vaikunta Ekadasi and other major festivals, the temple becomes especially vibrant. Processions carry the deity through the streets, and the sight of Ulagalantha Perumal moving through the town reinforces the image of the Lord whose stride encompassed the universe.

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For pilgrims visiting Kanchipuram’s Divya Desams, Thiruooragam often becomes one of the most memorable stops. The moment one steps into the sanctum, the scale of the idol changes the experience. The raised foot creates a sense of motion frozen in time. Standing there, devotees often reflect on the deeper meaning of the story. Mahabali was not destroyed but transformed through surrender. The act of measuring the world became a reminder that humility restores balance where pride once stood.

Culturally, Thiruooragam holds an important place in the hymns of the Alvars. Their verses celebrate the Lord who expanded beyond human comprehension while still remaining compassionate toward those who recognised him. These hymns continue to be recited in the temple, connecting modern worshippers with the devotional voices of the past. The temple also plays a central role in the Divya Desam pilgrimage circuit within Kanchipuram, where several sacred shrines exist within walking distance of one another.

In modern times, Thiruooragam continues to function as a living temple within the city’s spiritual landscape. Renovations have preserved the structure while allowing pilgrims to move through the complex comfortably. Visitors arrive throughout the year, some following the Divya Desam circuit and others drawn by the iconic form of Ulagalantha Perumal. Despite the steady flow of devotees, the sanctum retains its quiet gravity.

Thiruooragam ultimately represents the moment when divine humility revealed infinite power. Ulagalantha Perumal’s raised foot reminds devotees that the universe itself rests within the reach of the divine. Yet the story also carries a deeper lesson. Mahabali’s surrender transformed defeat into grace. In the wider Divya Desam journey, this temple stands as a reminder that true balance emerges when pride gives way to humility, and when the vastness of the divine is recognised in a single step.

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Thiruvekka Temple, Kanchipuram, Tamil Nadu
Among the many Divya Desams spread across Kanchipuram, Thiruvekka holds a special place because of the deeply personal relationship it reflects between the devotee and the divine. The presiding deity here is Yathothkari Perumal, also known as Sonna Vannam Seidha Perumal, with Komalavalli Thayar as the goddess. The name Yathothkari comes from a Sanskrit phrase meaning “the one who acts exactly as requested,” while the Tamil name carries the same idea even more clearly: the Lord who did exactly what he was told. In a temple town filled with stories of cosmic acts and philosophical revelations, Thiruvekka speaks about something quieter and more intimate: the moment when devotion becomes so sincere that the divine responds immediately.

The story behind the temple centres on the great Alvar saint Thirumazhisai Alvar and his devoted disciple Kanikaannan. According to tradition, Kanikaannan once refused to praise the local king in the manner expected of court poets. Angered by this refusal, the king banished him from the city. When Thirumazhisai Alvar heard of his disciple’s exile, he refused to remain in the city without him. Standing before the deity in the temple, the Alvar addressed the Lord directly and asked him to roll up his serpent bed and leave the town as well. The request was not dramatic or angry. It was simply spoken with unwavering devotion. And according to the legend, the Lord obeyed. Vishnu rose from his reclining position, folded the serpent couch of Adisesha, and followed the Alvar and his disciple out of Kanchipuram.

As the story goes, the departure of the deity plunged the city into darkness and unrest. Without the Lord’s presence, prosperity and harmony faded quickly. Realising his mistake, the king hurried to seek forgiveness and begged the Alvar to return. Thirumazhisai Alvar then turned once again to the Lord and asked him to come back to the temple. Just as before, the Lord obeyed immediately. Because Vishnu acted exactly according to the devotee’s words, he came to be known as Sonna Vannam Seidha Perumal, the Lord who did as he was told. The temple at Thiruvekka preserves this story not as a display of power but as an expression of deep trust between devotee and deity.

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Inside the sanctum, the form of the Lord reflects another unusual feature. Yathothkari Perumal reclines on Adisesha, but unlike most reclining Vishnu idols that face east or west in conventional orientation, this deity lies in a reversed direction. Tradition says this posture reflects the moment when the Lord quickly rose and moved to follow the Alvar, changing position in response to the devotee’s command. The image captures a subtle sense of movement within stillness. Even while resting, the Lord appears ready to respond.

Historically, Thiruvekka is among the oldest Vaishnavite shrines in Kanchipuram. The temple likely originated during the Pallava period, when the city flourished as a centre of art, philosophy and temple building. Later Chola rulers expanded and strengthened the structure, adding stone prakarams and supporting regular rituals. The Vijayanagara period brought further architectural additions, including mandapams and structural reinforcements. Despite these developments, the temple never grew into a monumental scale. Its strength lies in the intimacy of its story rather than the size of its complexity.

Architecturally, the temple reflects the quiet dignity typical of many Kanchipuram shrines. The entrance gopuram is modest, and the courtyard leads gently toward the sanctum without elaborate distractions. The focus remains firmly on the reclining form of Yathothkari Perumal. Komalavalli Thayar’s shrine adds a gentle warmth to the temple atmosphere. Her presence balances the story of devotion and obedience with compassion and grace.

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Daily worship at Thiruvekka follows the Vaishnavite tradition, with rituals unfolding through the day in a steady rhythm. Morning prayers open the temple, followed by alankaram and offerings. Evening aradhanai brings devotees back together as lamps illuminate the sanctum. Festivals such as Vaikunta Ekadasi and the celebrations connected to Thirumazhisai Alvar draw larger gatherings, during which the story of the Alvar and Kanikaannan is retold and remembered.

The pilgrimage experience at Thiruvekka often feels deeply personal. Visitors walking through Kanchipuram’s Divya Desam circuit frequently arrive here after seeing temples associated with cosmic events or philosophical teachings. In contrast, this temple offers a different kind of reflection. Standing before the reclining Lord, devotees often think about the relationship between prayer and response. The story suggests that the divine does not remain distant when devotion is sincere.

Culturally, Thiruvekka holds an important place in the hymns of the Alvars. Thirumazhisai Alvar’s connection with the temple makes it especially significant in the Sri Vaishnavite tradition. His life and poetry emphasise unwavering devotion and the idea that divine grace responds to true faith rather than social position or ritual complexity. The temple, therefore, continues to inspire devotees who believe that sincerity matters more than formality.

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In modern times, Thiruvekka remains an active place of worship within Kanchipuram’s sacred landscape. Pilgrims following the Divya Desam route visit the temple as an essential stop in the town’s spiritual geography. Renovations and careful maintenance have preserved the sanctum and surrounding structures while keeping the atmosphere calm and unhurried.

Thiruvekka ultimately represents the closeness between the divine and the devotee. Yathothkari Perumal is remembered not for a cosmic battle or a dramatic miracle, but for something far more intimate, the moment when the Lord listened to a devotee and responded without hesitation. In the larger journey through the Divya Desams, this temple reminds us that devotion is not always about grandeur. Sometimes it is about a quiet conversation, spoken with faith, and answered with grace.