Rain, Aphids and Looking for Solution

November 4th and it is raining.

Its not the dramatic kind of rain that makes you want to sit by the window with a cup of tea and romanticize life. Just a steady, cold, wet November rain that has turned everything outside grey.

Almost all the trees have surrendered their colorful leaves.The reds, oranges and yellows that made October so beautiful are now scattered across the yard. There are leaves everywhere. On the grass, on the driveway, stuck to the shoes, hiding under the bushes.

Nature has officially moved on and apparently, my plants have decided to bring their own drama indoors.

With the weather getting colder, all my plants have come inside. I thought I was saving my plants, apparently, the aphids disagree.They have declared war and they are winning.

My poor Tulsi plant is the worst hit. My Tulsi, which I carefully carried indoors thinking I was protecting it from the cold, is now fighting an enemy I cannot even properly see.

I have tried solutions, I have sprayed things. I have wiped leaves, I have checked the plants, I have researched and I have tried again.

The aphids remain completely untouched. Every morning I inspect the Tulsi like a worried parent.

“Are you okay?” Tulsi, obviously, says nothing.

But I can almost hear it saying, Not really.

Meanwhile, my own days seem to be suffering from a different kind of infestation.

Time, the mornings are so rushed. There is always something to do, someone who needs something, somewhere we need to be. The morning begins with a plan, and then suddenly it is lunchtime.

Then afternoon disappears and before I know it, I am standing in the kitchen in the evening wondering:Is it still night? Or did the day simply go by too fast?

Sometimes I feel like night forgot to break into morning and the whole day has been one long continuation of yesterday.

Today, lunch was simple. Dal, Mixed vegetables, Yoghurt.

A perfectly sensible meal yet, by evening, I know another problem-solving exercise awaits me.

Dinner, What should I make?

It is funny how something as ordinary as dinner can become a daily strategic challenge.

What do we have? What needs to be used? What did we eat yesterday?What will everyone actually like to eat? Do I have the energy?

The answer to the last question is usually complicated.

Maybe November is teaching me something. Everything is changing.

The trees have let go of their leaves. The plants have moved indoors. The mornings are darker. The evenings arrive too quickly. Even the kitchen seems to require more thought.

Somewhere between rescuing my Tulsi, figuring out dinner and trying to understand where the day went, I am learning to accept that not everything needs to be solved immediately.

Except perhaps the aphids, those little creatures have crossed a line.

Tomorrow morning, Tulsi and I are going back to battle.

For now, though, it is raining, the yard is covered in leaves and dinner is still an unsolved problem.

Tanushree

November, Soups and a Thousand Little Lights

November is here.

The clocks have changed, and I am still trying to decide whether I should be happy or sad about it.

On one hand, we have been gifted an extra hour. An entire hour. It sounds luxurious until you realize that the sun now seems to disappear before the day has even had a chance to properly begin.

By late afternoon, everything looks slightly sleepy and soon, very soon, it will be cold.

I can already imagine my bones having a meeting at 5:00 AM.

“Are we really doing this?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Can we go back to bed?”

I suspect my bones are going to win.

Winter has a way of making the simplest things feel like major negotiations. Getting out of bed becomes a discussion. Going outside becomes a commitment and exercising at five in the morning suddenly requires the kind of motivation usually reserved for climbing mountains.

My body also seems to have received the seasonal reminder

Food takes longer to digest and everything feels slower and I find myself craving one thing more than anything else, Soup. Its my ultimate comfort food.

There is something deeply reassuring about holding a warm bowl between your hands while the world outside is cold and dark. It doesn't ask questions. It simply sits there, warm and comforting, waiting for you.

Diwali is next weekend.

Even though the days are getting shorter, the world seems to be getting brighter.

The shops have begun dressing up. Twinkling lights appear everywhere. There are colorful decorations, boxes of sweets, rows of beautiful diyas and all the little things that make you stop and look, even if you have absolutely no intention of buying anything.

Diwali has a different rhythm for every family.

For us Bengalis, the night of Diwali is also the night we worship Maa Kali.

So while the rest of the world may be thinking about diyas, fireworks and sweets, we are thinking about Kali Puja.

Which means preparations and preparations mean lists.

There will be flowers to arrange, offerings to prepare, diyas to find, the house to clean, food to plan and, put up the lights. But perhaps that is what makes festivals so special.

They interrupt our ordinary routines.

They give us something to prepare for, something to look forward to, something to complain about, and eventually, something to remember.

So here we are in November.

The clocks have changed. The sun is leaving early. My bones are already protesting the 5:00 AM alarm. Soup is becoming a food group of its own.

Maybe that is the secret of this season.

Tanushree

When the days become darker, we simply learn to create more light.

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