Tag: life

Posted in Thoughts

Echoes of Eko: The Fine Line Between Safety and Silence

Posted on by Sophia

I recently watched the movie Eko. On the surface, it’s a fictional tale set amidst the untamed, wild hills bordering Kerala and Karnataka, revolving around a set of highly trained dogs – their loyality and how they can have only one master. But like all great storytelling, the wilderness is just a backdrop for a much deeper human examination.

The entire film hinges on a single, devastating dialogue that has stayed with me long after the credits rolled:

“Sometimes, protection and restriction look the same.”

While the movie applies this to its narrative context, this core theme reflects a harsh, uncomfortable truth about our society, our history, and even the way we love. It forces us to ask: At what point does a sheltering hand become a stifling grip?

The Historical Echo of “Safety”

If we look back in time at the lives of our mothers, grandmothers, and their mothers before them, we see this dynamic played out on a grand scale.

Generations of women were undoubtedly “protected.” Yet, this protection often came at a heavy price: restriction. They were restricted from thinking autonomously, restricted from voicing their true feelings, and restricted from pursuing dreams—all often under the heavy banner of “Family Honour.” They were safe, yes, but were they free?

It’s a complex argument. Don’t women want to be protected? Of course. Everyone desires safety. But if we step aside from gender politics and look at types of energy, we see the trade-off. The “feminine” energy—the nurturer, the healer, the carer within all of us—needs a sense of safety to thrive in abundance. Perhaps our ancestors intended for the masculine to hunt and protect so the feminine could nurture.

But that ancient equation became corrupted. The protection started coming with fine print: domination, power dynamics, and control.

The Superwoman Response

Today, we see a reaction to that historical restriction. The women of today often attempt the “superwoman phenomenon”—trying to do it all, embodying both the provider and the nurturer.

They might be exhausted, stretched thin, and overwhelmed, but many prefer this exhaustion over the suffocating restrictions their previous generations endured. They would rather burn out in freedom than rust out in a cage disguised as safety.

The Fine Line: Love vs. Fear

This brings us to the crucial question: Are protection and restriction merely two sides of the same coin? Or can protection exist as a pure act of trust, creating a space where the nurtured can grow leaps and bounds?

The answer lies in the intention. It is the incredibly fine line between Care and Control.

Often, control is disguised as care. As parents, partners, or friends, we might do this unconsciously, simply repeating patterns of how we were raised. But there is a fundamental litmus test to distinguish the two:

  • The Source of Care is Love.
  • The Source of Control is Fear.

That is the vital difference.

If a mother still micromanages a married, middle-aged son or daughter in the name of “care,” it is likely not care at all. It is her own fear—fear of irrelevance, fear of the empty nest, fear of their failure—masquerading as love. Both parties might be totally unaware of this dynamics.

We see this on a macro level, too. Societally, people often support authoritarian leaders or dictators in the desperate hope of “protection,” only to realize too late that they have been restricted from freedom of expression and basic rights all along.

The Power of Unanswered Questions

The plot of the movie may have revolved around finding the character Kuriachan, but for me, the emotional essence of Eko lay in the eyes of Soya (Mlaathi Chedathi), Kuriachan’s wife. Her silent gaze seemed to hold the weight of this very paradox.

A movie has done its job when it forces you to question your own assumptions and not trying to give you the answers. Eko succeeds brilliantly here. It leaves us looking in the mirror and introspect.

Posted in Travel

Rooted Together: A Morning of Trees, History, and the Meaning of Inclusivity

Posted on by Sophia

Some days just unfold on their own — unplanned, unhurried, yet filled with moments that stay with you long after they end.

This one began with Annie, Vee, and me taking a morning walk through Lalbagh. The Bangalore air had that familiar softness to it, the kind that makes everything feel possible. The trees stood tall — majestic, ancient — silent witnesses to countless mornings like this one. They had seen generations pass, lovers meet, walkers reflect, runners chase time.

We found ourselves stopping to hug them — maybe to hear their heartbeat, maybe just to borrow a little of their serenity. There’s something grounding about touching something that has stood in the same place for decades, unmoved by the rush of the world.

From there, we wandered to the iconic MTR near Lalbagh for breakfast — a place that feels less like a restaurant and more like a living memory. Established in 1924, MTR has watched the country transform through independence, world wars, and changing eras.

Our server that morning told us he had been working there for thirty-six years. Thirty-six years in the same place — carrying forward a legacy with quiet pride. His sense of belonging felt different from the restlessness of our gig-driven world. He wasn’t there just for a paycheck; he was part of something enduring.

After breakfast, we took the metro to Mitti Café. The moment we stepped inside, the space embraced us — warm, alive, and full of heart. The café is run by people with special needs, and what strikes you instantly is their energy. Every person there worked with such sincerity, joy, and care — no pretense, no performance. No one needed to be “managed” or “motivated.” They were simply giving their best, with a quiet, steady happiness that felt rare and contagious.

We stayed for hours without realizing how time slipped by. The space had that kind of energy — gentle yet deeply moving. Our conversation drifted toward inclusivity — what it really means beyond the buzzword.

At its core, inclusivity is not just about inviting someone to the table. It’s about recognizing that the table was never meant to belong to a few. It begins with the belief that we are all equal — not in ability or circumstance, but in essence, in worth.

Yet, from the time we are young, society teaches us separation. We are conditioned to see hierarchy everywhere — of class, color, ability, gender, intellect, privilege. We grow up learning to categorize, to sort, to measure. Somewhere along the way, this quiet conditioning starts to shape how we value ourselves and others.

And once hierarchy takes root, it becomes the silent blueprint for inequality. It’s what allows someone to dismiss a voice, overlook a person, or decide who deserves empathy and who doesn’t. It’s why “inclusivity” so often becomes a slogan — spoken loudly but felt shallowly — because the deeper belief in equality is missing.

And maybe that’s where the real divide begins.

The same hierarchical mindset feeds so many of our collective struggles — from anti-immigration sentiment to patriarchy, from gender inequality to caste and racial intolerance.

True inclusivity is not performative. It doesn’t require a diversity statement or an awareness month to come alive. It shows up in how you treat someone who serves you food, in how you listen to someone who thinks differently, in how you choose to look into someone’s eyes instead of down or up at them.

It’s about dissolving the invisible hierarchies that live in our daily interactions — the small assumptions, the subtle dismissals, the unconscious ranking of people based on what they have, what they can do, or what they look like.

And maybe that’s where the real work lies. Not in policies or pledges, but in a shift of perception — in seeing sameness where we’ve been taught to see difference.

As we left Mitti Café that day, I kept thinking of the trees at Lalbagh. How they stand side by side — different shapes, sizes, and shades — but rooted in the same earth. Watching quietly. Holding space for everyone.

Maybe inclusivity, in its truest form, is just that — standing tall together, without needing to look up or down, simply being alongside one another. Rooted, equal, and enough.

Posted in Travel

Souvenirs: Echoes of Moments Lived

Posted on by Sophia

There is a glass door cabinet in our living room which is home to all the souvenirs that became part of us after each travel. Each time I pass by hurrying with day to day errands, it’s a gentle reminder to pause and to savour back in time a certain moment of time and space . There are stories around them, whispers of past journeys. The cabinet feels like a portal to cherished memories, holding whispers of our adventures.

A 20 Rupee Note from Andamans: What Makes This Old, Worn-Out Note So Special?

The reverse side of the 20 Rupee note features a stunning depiction of the picturesque Andaman Islands—a fact many may know. But the magic lies in how this particular note came into our hands. While Rishon was swimming at one of the serene Andaman beaches, he stumbled upon this drenched currency note, intact despite its journey through the ocean waves.

It felt like a perfect gift from Mother Ocean, delivered amidst the soft hues of an evening twilight. This simple note, now a cherished keepsake, holds a deeper meaning for us. It’s a constant reminder of that blissful evening in the middle of the ocean—a moment of pure serenity and connection with nature’s beauty.

Pebbles from the Jurassic Coast Walk, UK

One of my most cherished experiences was walking along the southwest coastline for eight long hours with two little kids. We kept motivating ourselves with promises of soft serves at every milestone, all while soaking in the breath taking coastal views from the cliffs. Time seemed to slip away as we trudged along, exhausted yet utterly mesmerized. I fondly recall collecting pebbles from the shore, the coolness of the water against my fingers. Sanju surprised me with two special pebbles, and in that fleeting moment, those pebbles meant the world to me.

Whispering Tibetan Flag, Sikkim

Among the souvenirs in our glass-door cabinet is a Tibetan flag from Sikkim—a seemingly cliché keepsake often seen fluttering on bikes or cars. Yet, it holds a quiet magic. In Sikkim, we were captivated by the countless prayer flags lining the roads, some pure white, others vibrant with colors. Each flag carries a purpose—some are prayers for loved ones who have passed, others spread goodwill and compassion

It’s believed that as the wind passes over these flags, carrying the sacred mantras written on them, the air itself is purified and blessed. Even the faintest breeze sets them in motion, whispering ancient prayers into the vast expanse of space.

There’s something deeply poetic about it—prayers carried by the wind. And now, in our home, we have our own small Tibetan flag, gently whispering its blessings to every passing breeze.

A Scottish Pop up book, Great Glen Map, Celtic Prayer – Scotland

Scotland, to me, is a realm of myth and magic—a land steeped in legends and timeless tales. We brought along the story of the Loch Ness Monster, fondly known as Nessie, in the form of a pop-up book. With curious hearts, we truly searched for her along the shores of Loch Ness, but it seems she chose to remain unseen that day

The crumpled Great Glen map we carried still brings back memories of that journey. I vividly recall the moment we stopped to feed a flock of ducks—only for one to nip Ruhie’s fingers, making her frown and exclaim, “Why are all the birds only mean to me?” Meanwhile, Rishon, in a moment of dramatic surrender, raised his hands in front of the flock, declaring he had no food to offer. It’s these little, unexpected moments that have woven themselves into the fabric of our being.

The Little Wooden Cow from Switzerland

This little Swiss cow souvenir instantly takes me back to a chilly, foggy day when we decided to trek with the kids. Ruhie still needed a travel buggy since she wasn’t up for walking long distances. The thick fog made visibility poor as we moved along the trail, but after a while, we began to hear the faint, melodic clanging of cowbells in the distance.

The sound grew louder until, out of the mist, a herd of cows emerged, seemingly charging toward us. On the narrow path, we—and a few other trekkers—had no choice but to stand still and let the herd pass. It was both nerve-wracking and surreal, a moment etched forever in our memories, captured in the charm of that tiny Swiss cow.

It was the day Ruhie outgrew her need for a stroller, walking with a newfound determination as if she had been doing it all along. She braved the trail with us. After the trek, sitting down to enjoy some hot soup felt like pure heaven—a simple comfort that made the day even more memorable.

These memories are like the mantras on the Tibetan flag, softly whispering love into our souls. Yet, just as the ink on the flag fades with time, so too might these moments blur as our memory falters. Does that mean they are bound by the limits of our memory? Perhaps.

But even as the details fade, the essence of those moments—the emotions, the connections, the sheer presence of being—will linger in our consciousness. Like the wind carrying the prayers from the flag, their impact remains, woven into the fabric of who we are, long after the specifics are forgotten.