The Heartlogue

 ✍️  By  Subhasri Devaraj Image Courtesy: Author [Subhasri Devaraj] Margazhi doesn’t arrive loudly. It comes softly — with cold air on the skin, faint kolams at doorsteps, and the smell of ghee slowly waking the house. In many homes, Margazhi meant 30 days, 30 different prasadams . Not grand feasts. Simple offerings made with devotion, one morning at a time. Today’s prasadam is Sakkarai Pongal . Rice, moong dal roasted just right, jaggery melted patiently, ghee poured without measuring, and cashews fried till golden. When the pongal comes together, the aroma fills the house — warm, sweet, comforting. That smell alone feels like a prayer. In earlier days, this pongal wasn’t just for the family. Before sunrise, groups of devotees would walk through the streets singing bhajans — slow, rhythmic, full of meaning. They would stop near houses, voices blending with the silence of dawn. No microphones. No stages. Just faith and tired feet moving together. Homes would open their d...

 ✍️  By  Subhasri Devaraj There is something about Margazhi that makes my heart wake up before I do. Even before the alarm rings, the house feels different. The air is cold, but gentle. The kind of cold that doesn’t hurt — it holds you. I step out before sunrise, the floor still damp, the sky still undecided between night and morning. The first thing I notice is sound . Conches. Temple bells. Someone’s radio softly playing a Thiruppavai. Somewhere, a distant chant floats in the air like it has always lived there. Margazhi doesn’t announce itself loudly. It just arrives . Rangoli Is Not Decoration. It Is Emotion. Every morning, I draw kolam slowly — not to finish it, but to feel it. White powder against the dark floor. Fingers moving without thinking. The designs don’t need to be perfect. They only need to be honest. Then come the colours. Soft blues. Warm reds. Gentle yellows. I don’t rush. Margazhi teaches patience without teaching lessons. By the time I finish, my ...

 ✍️  By  Subhasri Devaraj Image Courtesy: Author [Subhasri Devaraj] At 4 AM, the world is still asleep. No traffic. No notifications. No noise. Just the soft chill of Margazhi, a quiet doorstep, and a small agal vilakku waiting to be lit. This is how many Tamil homes begin the day in Margazhi — not loudly, not in a hurry, but gently. A head bath before sunrise. Hair wrapped in a wet towel. Bare feet touching the cold stone floor. Kolam drawn slowly, line by line, sometimes white, sometimes filled with colour — because Margazhi is also about joy. The lamp is lit using another lamp. That moment matters. Not rushed. Not decorative. Just enough light to say: the day has begun, respectfully. There’s something grounding about this ritual. Before work, before responsibilities, before the world demands attention — there is silence. And in that silence, the mind settles. Margazhi mornings don’t try to impress. They don’t perform. They simply exist. And maybe tha...

 ✍️  By  Subhasri Devaraj Image Courtesy: Author [ Subhasri Devaraj] There is a moment every Margazhi morning that feels sacred—not because of rituals, but because nothing has started yet . The sky is still undecided between night and dawn. The streets are empty, holding their breath. Even the birds seem to wait for permission to sing. This is Margazhi Day 2. Today is not about doing more. It is about waking up before the world remembers itself . The Silence That Heals Before phones light up. Before vessels clang. Before the day begins asking questions. There is silence. Not the awkward kind—but the comforting one. The kind that wraps around you like a shawl. This silence doesn’t demand answers. It simply says: “Be here.” A Slow Start Is Also Devotion Margazhi doesn’t rush you. The chill in the air makes you walk slower. Your breath becomes visible—reminding you that you are alive. The floor is cold, grounding your feet. Lighting a lamp feels different at this ho...

  ✍️  By  Subhasri Devaraj Image Courtesy: Author [ Subhasri Devaraj] Margazhi doesn’t announce itself loudly. It arrives softly — with the alarm ringing earlier than usual and the sky still half asleep. The first morning of Margazhi feels sacred. Cold floor under bare feet. Water sprinkled outside the house. White kolam powder waiting to become something beautiful. Colors appear slowly on the ground — careful lines, quiet focus, a prayer drawn without words. Even before the sun rises, the day already feels blessed. Inside the house, something is always simmering. Prasadam being made before breakfast. The sound of vessels, the smell of ghee, the warmth of the stove. No rush. No noise. Just devotion. The streets look different in Margazhi. Oil lamps glow outside homes. Temples open earlier. The air feels still, as if it’s listening. Women step out in simple sarees , hair neatly tied, flowers tucked in gently. Not for style. For the feeling. Margazhi mornings...

 ✍️  By  Subhasri Devaraj There’s something special about December in Tamil Nadu. It isn’t just winter. It isn’t just Christmas lights. It’s that slow, familiar whisper in the air… Pongal is coming. Every breeze feels like a reminder. Every early morning sunlight feels like a hint. The fields look greener, the sky looks softer, and our hearts? They’re already counting days to January. This is the month when mothers check the old Pongal pots… When grandmothers start planning the menu… When sugarcane sellers quietly appear near the streets. Everything around us is saying the same thing — Just one more month… our festival of gratitude is on its way. In December, even a simple village scene feels like a preview. Women in sarees stirring fresh pongal, the smell of smoke from a clay stove, the land waking up with the sun — it all feels like a trailer of the beautiful days ahead. Pongal isn’t just a festival. It’s a feeling that starts early. A feeling that slowl...