MindVerse: nurturing souls through words

Dear Raju Chachu, This birthday feels different. Incomplete. Maybe because birthdays have a way of taking us back to all the birthdays that came before. And when I look back at mine, you seem to be woven into so many of them. Having been born and raised in a joint family, I have infinite memories of you etched in my mind. You weren't someone I met only at occasional family gatherings; you were simply part of everyday life. From my birth to my childhood, teenage years, adulthood, my wedding, and everything that came after, you were there. And perhaps that's why it feels impossible to think of my life story without finding you somewhere in its pages. The Chachu of My Childhood You were seventeen when I was born. I was the first child of the next generation of our family, and you were the last of the previous one. It's as if you were more of an elder brother to me than my uncle. Mom tells me that as a baby, I was almost always in your lap. Apparently, I preferred y...

Today, I am grieving. My chachu passed away after a short and difficult battle with cancer. And yesterday morning, while I was still trying to process the reality of his absence myself, I had another difficult task, I had to tell my nine-year-old daughter, Nishka. She cried. It was a natural reaction. Just six months ago, she had met him hale and hearty. How does a nine-year-old comprehend that someone she saw laughing, talking and living his normal life only a few months ago is suddenly no longer here? Then again, I am an adult, and I am struggling to comprehend it too. But somewhere in that conversation, something happened that I wasn't expecting. I thought I was going to teach my daughter about grief. Instead, she taught me. The Safety Pin of Love After crying for a while, Nishka said something that initially left me completely confused. She placed two coins on the table and connected them by resting a safety pin across them. Then she slowly removed the safety pin and said: “Tod...

  Some sentences stay with you long after the person who said them is gone. Some words sink so deep into your heart that they quietly guide you through every stage of your life. One of those sentences came from my late grandfather. When I was a teenager, I had this quiet, precious dream of writing my own poetry book, a little collection of my emotions and observations, shaped into lines and metaphors. I would fill pages with words, and then suddenly stop. Every time I got close to believing I could be a poet, a voice inside me whispered: “Who will read it? Are my poems even good enough?” That self-doubt would take over before the ink dried. I would close my notebook and walk away, convincing myself that maybe there was no point in creating something if there weren’t enough people waiting to admire it. My grandfather must have sensed that hesitation in me, even though I never said it aloud. And he carried that concern with him through the years. When I went to medical school, a phas...

Today was one of those deeply reflective days when I paused and asked myself why being left out still stings at 40, and how much of that ache comes from the way we were shaped as children. There’s a strange heaviness that sits in the chest when you feel left out, even as an adult who pays bills, manages a home, raises a child, and solves “real” problems every day. It often arrives quietly: a plan you weren’t included in a group chat that moved on without you a gathering you only found out about later. And suddenly, even at 40, the same familiar ache returns. An ache we thought we outgrew. An ache we were told to ignore. For the longest time, I believed something was wrong with me for feeling this way. But the more I understand psychology and human behavior, and the more I look back at how we were raised, the more I realize the story is bigger than just one moment of being excluded. It’s about conditioning. It’s about childhood. And it’s about the things no one ever taught us. Why it st...

  Every year when Navratri begins, I feel an inner shift. It’s not just the rituals, the fasting, or the devotion, it’s almost like being given nine gentle reminders to pause and look inward. Each form of Maa Durga holds up a mirror, showing us qualities that are not only divine but also deeply human, qualities that, when embraced, can guide us towards better mental health. Here’s how the nine forms of the Goddess connect with our well-being, and what we can all take away from them: Day 1: Shailaputri – The Mountain Daughter Shailaputri is the first form of Durga, born as the daughter of the Himalayas . She rides a bull and carries a trident, symbolizing strength and resilience. ✨ Lesson for us: Just like the mountains remain unmoved in storms, our mental health depends on grounding ourselves. Practices like mindful breathing , steady routines, or simply walking barefoot on grass can give us the steadiness to face life’s challenges. Day 2: Brahmacharini – Devotion and Disciplin...

 May 2025. I walked across the stage, heart pounding and eyes welling up, to receive my PhD in Epidemiology. After ten long years, I wasn’t just a graduate, I was a warrior, a mother, a wife, a full-time professional, and now, a doctor of philosophy. Yes, ten years. This wasn’t your traditional academic timeline. It was a marathon, a part-time PhD done alongside a full-time job and a full-time life. And at 43, with my 8-year-old daughter cheering me on and my husband proudly holding the camera, I felt something that’s hard to describe, an overwhelming mix of exhaustion, joy, relief, and above all, pride. Here are the lessons I learned through this extraordinary journey, lessons I hope will inspire anyone walking their own long, winding road toward a dream. Sometimes the Plan Will Break, But You Don’t Have To In 2015, I began my PhD at Indiana University with stars in my eyes and a scholarship to back it. I had already earned my MPH there the year before and had a couple...