The Things They Say No

It was one of those fall days when the sun seemed more like a visitor than a resident.

It appeared for a little while, quietly warmed the rooms, and then disappeared behind the clouds. Outside, the leaves were falling rapidly. Some drifted gently to the ground. Others were carried away by the wind before they even had a chance to settle.

I stood by the window watching them and found myself thinking about rejection.

At this juncture of my life, I have faced quite a few of them, some came at work. Some came when I was trying to build something new, while some arrived when I was hoping for an opportunity, a change, an acceptance, or simply a different outcome than the one life had handed me.

Some rejections I processed well. I shrugged, told myself, It wasn't meant for me, and moved on while others stayed.

They sat quietly somewhere in the back of my mind, resurfacing at unexpected moments. Sometimes a rejection has very little to do with the actual event. It touches something deeper, the question of whether we are good enough, whether we are still relevant, whether we missed our moment.

Perhaps that is what has been bothering me lately, not the word no itself.

But everything I have attached to it. I looked outside again.

The trees didn't seem embarrassed about losing their leaves. They weren't trying to hold on to every one of them. They weren't questioning why some leaves stayed longer than others. They simply let them fall.

Maybe there is a lesson there, not everything that leaves us is a loss. Not every closed door is a verdict and not every rejection is a reflection of our worth.

Sometimes it is simply life changing direction.

I don't know if I have completely learned that yet. Perhaps I am still processing some of the rejections I have collected along the way but today, watching the leaves fall, I felt a little lighter.

Maybe I don't have to understand every no. Maybe I just have to keep standing.

Like the trees. Quietly, patiently, waiting for the next season.

Tanushree

Sarees, sweets and October

Hope you all are doing well.

My account wasn’t working for a while. Maybe I had gone on a little hiatus, unplanned, unexplained, and apparently very necessary, and in between, life happened.

We celebrated Durga Puja. Then came Lakshmi Puja. There were sarees, lots of them. Sweets, far too many to count. Cultural programs, familiar faces, endless conversations, catching up with people we hadn’t seen in a while, and those little moments that somehow make you feel connected to a place that is thousands of miles away.

For a few days, life felt wonderfully full.

There is something about Puja that is difficult to explain if you didn’t grow up with it. It is not just a festival. It is a rhythm, a feeling. A memory that comes back every year, no matter how far away you are.

There are the sarees, of course. The elaborate ones you carefully choose, wear for a few hours, and then wonder when you will ever get another opportunity to wear again. There are sweets that mysteriously multiply. There is food everywhere. There are people asking, “Kemon acho?” and somehow the answer becomes a twenty-minute conversation.

There is music, laughter, photographs, and the inevitable promise that we must all meet again soon and then suddenly, Puja is over.

The decorations come down. The sarees go back into the closet. The last piece of mishti disappears from the refrigerator and you realize you have completely forgotten what day it is.

It took me two full days to get back to our routine, and before you accuse me of becoming too relaxed, let me clarify we did not actually miss work or school. Drum rolls, please.

Somehow, despite all the festivities, late nights, dressing up, socializing, eating, and general Puja chaos, everyone still showed up where they were supposed to.

But mentally? We needed two business days and now it is the end of October.

How did that happen?

The leaves outside have changed colors almost overnight. The greens have turned into gold, orange, red, and brown. And just when they become impossibly beautiful, they begin falling rapidly, almost as if they are in a hurry to leave.

I find myself standing by the window sometimes, watching them fall.

Maybe that is what I love most about October. It reminds you that beauty does not always stay.

The trees don't hold on to their leaves forever. They let them go when the season changes.

Perhaps we can learn something from that. Some seasons are meant for celebration. Some are meant for slowing down. Some are meant for holding close to family, friends, traditions, sarees, sweets, music, and memories and some seasons simply ask us to let go.

For now, I am grateful that we got to celebrate.

Grateful for the laughter, the food, the beautiful clothes, the cultural programs, and all the catching up.

Also grateful that, after two days of recovering from our very responsible festive hiatus, we eventually found our way back to routine.

Although, looking at these falling leaves, I have a feeling October isn't quite finished with us yet.

Tanushree

The Address Changes, Not the Memories

Some days, all you can think about is your childhood home.

You can be busy, surrounded by people, finishing a hundred little things, and yet somewhere in the background, your mind keeps wandering back to that one place.

Today was one of those days. I still don't completely understand why, as women, we are expected to leave the home we grew up in and create another one somewhere else. We learn to pack our belongings, change our address, build new routines, make new memories and somehow, we are expected to leave the old home behind.

But how do you leave behind a place that has shaped you? An address can change, memories don't.

I think of the rooms I once knew without thinking. The familiar corners. The sounds that belonged only to that house. The ordinary mornings that meant nothing then but feel priceless now.

Perhaps that is the strange cruelty of growing up. We don't realize we are living inside our happiest memories until they become memories.

Today was a warm October Monday. Outside, the trees were slowly beginning to surrender their leaves. Yet in the afternoon sun, they still seemed to shine, almost as if refusing to accept that another season was changing.

Maybe that is what we do too. We change because life asks us to. We move, we build, we adapt, we become someone else's wife, someone's mother, someone's friend. We create a home of our own and fill it with new stories. Yet, somewhere inside us, the little girl who once belonged completely to another home remains. Today, she was missing her house.

Lunch was simple, mixed dal and a dry curry. Nothing extraordinary. I ate quietly, thinking about how many meals must have been eaten in that old home, how many conversations must have happened around that table, how many ordinary days once passed without anyone knowing they would someday become precious.

Maybe home is not a place we lose. Maybe it is a place we carry.

The address changes, the memories don't.

Tanushree

When She comes Home

Subho Mahalaya to everyone.

May her homecoming bring prosperity, peace, good health, and positivity into all our lives. May good triumph over evil, and may we find a little more hope in the days ahead.

In Bengal, we wait for her homecoming all year.

For us, Goddess Durga is not only the divine mother who comes to destroy evil. She is also a daughter coming home to her parents. For those few precious days, we imagine her arriving with her children, leaving behind the grandeur of the heavens and returning to where she belongs.

Maybe that is why her arrival feels so personal. We wait for her as though we have been waiting for a daughter, a sister, a friend.

We believe that when she comes, she doesn't simply bless our homes. She listens.

She listens to our stories, our worries, our little disappointments, the things we couldn't say to anyone else. She wipes our tears without asking too many questions. And somehow, when she is around, our complaints seem smaller.

For those few days, we almost forget everything that went wrong. Perhaps that is the greatest magic of Durga Puja.

It isn't only the lights, the beautiful clothes, the food, the music, or the celebrations. It is the feeling that someone we have been waiting for has finally come home.

And we wait for her again the moment she leaves.

For everyone celebrating Navratri, may these next nine days bring happiness, devotion, laughter, family, and beautiful memories. For those fasting, may your days be peaceful and your hearts light.

Today was a busy Saturday for me, lots of running around, a birthday lunch, and admittedly ate quite a lot of food!

Now, as the evening settles in, I am simply grateful.

Grateful for another Mahalaya. Grateful for traditions that travel across distances and grateful for the comforting belief that somewhere, somehow, Ma is coming home.

Enjoy your weekend, everyone and may her presence bring warmth into every home.

Tanushree

The Mahalaya Morning

Tomorrow is Mahalaya.

In a couple of hours from now, people in my hometown will slowly wake up, reach for their radios or more likely, their phones these days and listen to the familiar chants that have announced the arrival of Durga Puja for generations.

Mahalaya is the sacred beginning of the Durga Puja season. It marks the invocation of Goddess Durga and the beginning of Devipaksha, the auspicious period leading up to her arrival. For Bengalis, however, Mahalaya has always been more than a religious occasion. It is a feeling a sound, a morning that somehow lives in memory.

When I was growing up, there were no smart speakers, phones, or headphones. There was one radio and somehow, that one radio brought everyone together.

We would wake up early and listen to Birendra Krishna Bhadra's voice as Mahishasura Mardini filled the room. His voice was so powerful, so beautiful, that as a child I almost believed the Goddess had truly descended to earth and would soon knock on our door.

Those mornings were wonderfully ordinary. Nothing fancy happened.

We listened together. If the weather allowed, we went for a short walk afterward. Then came a warm breakfast, eaten without hurry, while the morning slowly became brighter. That was it and perhaps that was everything.

Today, we can listen to Mahishasura Mardini whenever we want. We have phones, speakers, recordings, and every convenience imaginable. Yet something feels different.

Maybe it isn't Mahalaya that has changed or maybe we have.

I miss those mornings. I miss the radio. I miss the sleepy voices, the shared space, the walks, the simple breakfast, and the feeling that everyone was experiencing the same moment together.

Perhaps what I miss most isn't the past itself, I miss the warmth of it.

Times change. Traditions find new ways to live and Mahalaya will still arrive tomorrow, carrying with it the same ancient call.

I just wish, for one morning, time would slow down enough for us to hear it together again.

Tanushree

The Smell of Fresh linen

Some days arrive quietly, looking no different from any other day, and yet somehow they stay with you for a lifetime.

We forget what someone was wearing that day. We forget the weather, the words spoken around the dinner table, even the little details of the place where it happened. But somehow, the feeling remains. The vibe stays somewhere deep inside us, long after the people have left and the moment has disappeared.

The same is true of people who leave us drained. Their faces may fade, their voices become distant, but the heaviness they left behind can linger. Perhaps that is how life teaches us through people, through moments, through days we wish we could forget and days we desperately want to remember.

Today was one of those days.

I realized, once again, that no matter how much I do, sometimes it still feels like something falls short. Perhaps that is simply life. Perhaps there will always be something unfinished, something that could have been better.

But I also know this about myself: I don't give up.

I keep walking. Slowly, sometimes uncertainly, but every day I try to give my best.

Outside, it was a beautiful fall day. The sun was warm, the sky was bright, and the trees seemed to be quietly celebrating the season.

I dropped our blankets at the laundromat to be cleaned. When I brought them home later, the house filled with the smell of fresh linen.

For some reason, it felt sacred. I imagined the Goddess coming home.

I don't know what the Goddess smells like. Perhaps no one really does. But if she ever walked through my door, I think she would like this smell, the softness of freshly washed blankets, the clean quietness of home, the feeling that everything has been gently renewed.

Lunch was fish curry. Dinner was bhindi ki sabzi.

Nothing extraordinary, and yet, perhaps that is the extraordinary part.

A difficult day, a beautiful sky, clean blankets, simple food and the quiet realization that I am still here, still walking, still trying.

Maybe sometimes, that is enough. What do you think?

Tanushree

The Cup of Tea in Between

The day began before the alarm, the way most of days do.

There was work to finish and children who needed to be in different places at different times. She drove, dropped off, drove back, and picked up again, before the working hours started. Between meetings and school gates, she made breakfast, packed lunch, and somewhere in the afternoon began thinking about dinner.

Today her legs ached. Yesterday it was her head. Some days she forgot something important, a form, a call, a name, and felt the small sting of it. But she had learned not to let one forgotten thing become a verdict on the whole day.

Because every day, in the middle of everything, she found ten quiet minutes for tea.

Sometimes it was green, pale and clean, the kind that made her feel rejuvenated. Sometimes it was flavored, a little cinnamon or orange, or a small candle. She held the cup in both hands, let the steam touch her face, and breathed.

In those ten minutes, nobody needed anything from her.

Then dinner came, loud and warm. Plates clinked, someone told a school story, someone laughed with their mouth full. She watched them and felt a quiet gratitude rise, not because life was easy, but because it was hers.

Later, in the stillness, she thought about how ordinary it all looked from the outside. Drop-offs. Dishes. Deadlines.

But she knew better. Every ordinary day was a page, and every cup of tea was a comma, a small pause that let the next sentence breathe.

She wasn't waiting for her story to begin.

She was already writing it, one mundane, beautiful day at a time. Its me and I will continue tomorrow with another story.

Tanushree