The Heartlogue

     ✍️  By Subhasri Devaraj The Weight of Tomorrow I stood there for what felt like forever, my hand resting on the stack of papers I'd organized probably a hundred times that morning. The HSBC logo on the wall behind me had become as familiar as my own reflection over the past four years, but today it felt different. Today it felt like goodbye. My resignation letter was already submitted. HR had processed everything. My laptop would be returned in an hour. But here I was, unable to move away from my desk, drowning in a flood of memories that hit harder than I'd expected. Four years ago, I was 24 and desperate. Fresh out of university with a commerce degree that felt worthless in my hands, drowning in student loans, and watching my parents worry about money they'd never admit they didn't have. This cubicle, this very spot where I'm standing, felt like salvation back then. My first real job. My first real paycheck. The first time I could tell my mother to stop work...

    ✍️  By Subhasri Devaraj Image by Author “Kanna, today is Aadi Sevvai… one of those days Amman walks around checking houses, seeing who’s calling her in with love. This pooja isn’t about grand rituals—it’s about your paasam (affection), your veedu (home), and your samayal that smells like memories. You don’t need to be an expert. You just need to start. I’m here to walk you through every step—from your doorstep to the pooja room and even that little thodaththu pakkam you forgot existed. Let’s get ready together.” Early morning, before even the sun thinks of waking up, I open the front door. I sprinkle water mixed with turmeric—from the gate till the kolam space. This is not just cleaning, kanna… it's telling our Amman, “Vaanga, veetukku.” The entrance must smell of turmeric, not of phenyl and perfume. 🧹 Cleaning is not mopping… it’s welcoming First, sweep the whole house—start from thinnai (portico), sweep inside, and lastly the backyard. Boil water with neem leaves. ...

    ✍️  By Subhasri Devaraj Image cretaed BY Subhasri Devaraj (Author) The swing groaned softly under her weight—not in welcome, but in quiet protest. Kavitha didn’t sit because she wanted rest. She sat because there was nowhere else to go. The sunlight creeping across the marble tiles didn’t comfort her; it just reminded her the day had started without asking permission. The brass lamp still flickered from the early puja, but it didn’t feel sacred this morning. Just routine. She held a glass of tea she didn’t want—too strong, too sweet, just like yesterday’s. Her saree clung to her in the humidity, stiff with starch and obligation. Outside, life roared—a pressure cooker whistle, motorbikes in the street, a baby crying in the neighbor’s flat. But inside, Kavitha felt like a ghost moving through a museum of her own choices. She caught sight of the brass statue on the shelf—Lakshmi, maybe Saraswati. She couldn’t remember. They all looked the same now. She took a sip of her ...

   ✍️  By Subhasri Devaraj Image by Subhasri Devaraj (Author) (Spoiler: You’ll look better, feel smarter, and maybe even outlive your neighbor.) 🛑 You’re not just snacking. You’re secretly biohacking. Almonds, cashews, pistachios, red grapes, and black raisins = nature’s tiny data chips. Pop 'em daily and watch what happens. 1. 🔥 Brain Upgrade Mode Almonds and raisins fuel brain cells—faster decisions, better memory, fewer “wait, what was I saying?” moments. 2. 💤 Burn Fat in Your Sleep Almonds boost brown fat = you burn calories while binge-watching shows. Lazy metabolism? Consider it handled. 3. 😌 Calm Vibes Activated Black grapes + raisins = dopamine balance + mood stability. It's like therapy with zero awkward eye contact. 4. 👀 Sharper Vision, No Carrot Required Pistachios pack lutein = clearer vision, better contrast. Even foggy days feel 4K. 5. 🛡️ Immune Upgrade Cashews = zinc boost. Almonds = Vitamin E. Together? Your body's defense system gets an AI update...

  ✍️  By Subhasri Devaraj The Not-So-Secret Superpower of Indian Homemakers So here’s the scene: a woman stands on a modest balcony, the afternoon sun pouring in like she's been personally scheduled for a cosmic glow-up. In one hand, a cup of chai. In the other? Invisible emotional spreadsheets tracking who’s eaten, cried, yelled, or lost a sock. And guess what—she’s not spiraling. She’s sipping. This isn’t just about tea. It’s about strategic survival . Homemakers don’t get sick leaves, swipe breaks, or motivational speeches. They get laundry mountains, toddler tornadoes, and relatives who casually drop, “What do you do all day?” And yet, in that one golden moment, they claim something rare: a pause . You know that chai isn’t even hot anymore. She reheated it twice, got distracted by ten other things, and now it’s lukewarm—but divine. Because it’s hers. That balcony? Her version of Bali. The breeze through her saree? A five-star spa treatment. The smell of drying clothes? Ok...

  ✍️  By Subhasri Devaraj She didn’t believe in coincidences, which is exactly why she went alone. The Sherlock Holmes Museum had always seemed kitschy in pictures—pipes, deerstalkers, wax figures frozen mid-puzzle. But as Anika stepped inside, everything felt... off-script. The air was colder than London’s July deserved. Her emerald chiffon saree rustled as if it too sensed something unspoken. Near the fireplace, a magnifying glass lay on a velvet cloth—no display tag, no protective case. Just waiting. She picked it up. The museum remained quiet, too quiet. As she looked through the lens, the world tilted. The modern clutter dissolved. Warm gaslight replaced LEDs. The parquet floor shimmered like it had just been polished. And the sound—horse hooves on cobblestone, a steam whistle slicing through fog. She blinked. Still in the museum. But now the fire was crackling. And then she saw it: carved faintly into the stone above the mantle—her name. Anika. It wasn't graffiti. It was...

 ✍️  By Subhasri Devaraj A Love That Never Left The park doesn’t change much. Same green bench. Same stretch of trees. Same hush in the air that follows her like a shadow. Every Thursday at 12:45, she arrives. Two glass bottles. A brown cloth bag. A folded napkin that once had embroidered edges—faded now, but she still smooths it out like it matters. Inside the bag: lemon rice. Mustard seeds crackle. The tang grips just right. She remembers the way he used to mix it with his fingers, take a bite, nod and say, “Perfect today.” He said that even when it wasn’t. They’d sit here, lunch in hand, sunlight sneaking through branches. Sometimes he’d talk politics. Sometimes about the neighbor’s mango tree. Sometimes they didn’t talk at all. She still talks. “I made extra today,” she says out loud, carefully unscrewing one bottle cap. No one answers. But she pauses anyway, like waiting for a smile. He’s been gone five years. Cardiac arrest. No warning. Just a morning that ...

✍️  By Subhasri Devaraj In a modest home in Salem, every line in the household ledger tells a story—not in words, but in choices. The morning begins with ₹100 spent on milk. Not optional—tea for the elders, coffee for the working husband, and a glass for the child before school. The same child needs snacks packed in his school bag—some days it’s an apple, other days biscuits or chips. No compromise. Nutrition and love both need funding. The auto driver honks sharp at 7:45. ₹100 every day. Rain or heat, the fare doesn't change. That’s ₹600 before the week ends. A school chart project comes home like a surprise guest. Another ₹120 spent on colors, glue, and sparkle paper. The child beams with pride—the mother recalculates her budget silently. Last month’s indulgence—mutton curry on Sunday—cost ₹770. Eggs, regular staples, ₹80 for a tray. The stove repair bill came in midweek—₹450 to fix the induction coil. No fanfare. Just the quiet relief of boiling water again. Now Aadi month begin...

           ✍️  By Subhasri Devaraj Image by Subhasri Devaraj (Author) It was the kind of Seoul afternoon that felt borrowed from a film: cherry blossoms flaring like confetti beyond the misted windowpane, acoustic jazz trembling from hidden speakers, and the scent of mint steeping from a drink too pretty to stir. She chose the seat by the window—not for the view, but for the silence it offered. Her green saree, embroidered like a memory her grandmother would’ve kept folded in mothballs, shimmered against the cafe’s minimalist palette. She didn’t belong to the city, not in language, nor in rhythm—but she wore belonging on her sleeve anyway. And then there was the man. He wasn’t staring—not really. He was drawing. Rapid lines that dared to become her without asking. He was seated three tables away. A brown journal rested against a half-drunk espresso. His pencil glided across the page like it knew her better than she knew herself. She sipped her mint-ber...

          ✍️  By Subhasri Devaraj Image by Subhasri Devaraj (Author) Let’s be real—losing weight in today’s world feels like trying to delete that one embarrassing post from the internet: exhausting, slow, and sometimes downright impossible. We’re surrounded by diet hacks, shredded influencers sipping lemon water, and apps telling us to walk like we’re training for a marathon. And yet… your weight barely budges. Or worse—it goes up like it’s got a personal beef with gravity. So here’s the no-fluff truth for you, me, and anyone caught in this chaotic cycle: Weight loss isn’t a one-size-fits-all glow-up. And trying too hard without results? That pain is real. 💭 The Pressure Cooker Vibe Feeling stuck in your own skin hurts. It’s not just about jeans not fitting—it’s the emotional weight. You start your morning hyped to "get fit." By lunch, you’re googling “why does broccoli taste like betrayal?” By night, you feel guilty for eating actual food. This mental bu...

         ✍️  By Subhasri Devaraj Image by Subhasri Devaraj(Author) Dear Krishna, It’s quiet today. Even the river forgot to ripple. Even the breeze holds its breath — maybe it, too, is waiting for you. I came to our tree again. The swing we decorated together still hangs. The flowers — they’ve changed, bloomed, faded, bloomed again. But they remember. Like me, they never moved on. They only move with you. You know what’s strange? I sat down to weep, but I couldn’t. Not because I’m strong. But because I’m full. Full of memories. Full of your laughter that still echoes in the rustle of leaves. Full of the way you used to swing like the world was weightless. Full of the way you once looked at me like I was all of Brindavan in one girl. I’m not angry you left. But I wonder — did you forget the way back? Do the anklets of other cities sound sweeter? Do their temples echo louder than my silence? Or do you still, sometimes, hear the swing creak ...

        ✍️  By Subhasri Devaraj Today I saw a woman sitting by the river, cleaning fish. No big deal, right? But something about it made me stop. She wasn’t wearing anything fancy. Just a simple cotton saree. No gloves. No chopping board. Just a small stone block and a steel plate. She sat cross-legged, completely focused. Water dripping, fish glistening, sun hitting her face sideways. No rush. No complaints. No phone, obviously. It felt like she had done this a thousand times. Probably had. Slice, scrape, rinse. One after the other. Calm, steady, sharp. Behind her were banana trees. In front of her, silver pots filled with water. Everything looked simple. But nothing felt small. I’ve seen so many “productivity hacks” online. But she was the most efficient person I’ve seen all month. She wasn’t multitasking. She was just doing one thing, properly. No mess. No drama. No noise. And I thought—this woman probably feeds an entire family. She probably b...

       ✍️  By Subhasri Devaraj Image By Subhasri Devaraj (Author) Now I Know What She Meant. It was tucked at the very back of the shelf. Wrapped in that crinkly plastic cover. Neatly folded. Crisp. Brand new. A deep royal blue saree with the kind of golden border Amma always liked. But this one? I’d never seen her wear it. She bought it years ago. I remember asking her, “When will you wear this one?” And she smiled, the way mothers do when they know more than they say. “Later,” she said. “It’s for later.” I didn’t understand it then. Just thought she was saving it for some function or festival that never came. But today… Today I opened her cupboard — not to clean it, but because I missed her. Missed her jasmine-oil scent. Her bangles. Her soft cotton pallu that always smelled like Vibhuti and warmth. And there it was. Still untouched. Still smelling like her. I wore it today. The first time it’s ever been worn. Same temple. Same steps she once wal...

       ✍️  By Subhasri Devaraj Image by Author Every morning, the house woke up to the sound of her anklet. Ching-ching into the kitchen. Ching-ching past the laundry basket. Ching-ching while stirring sambhar and packing lunchboxes. That sound was her rhythm. A rhythm that didn’t belong to her. She was the clock everyone followed. The silence everyone expected. The invisible force that kept everything running—while forgetting herself. Until one day, the anklet snapped. Just like that. No warning. No drama. Just... a break. A soft jingle turned to nothing. She stood still. For the first time in years, she didn’t rush to pick it up. She made her tea. Sat quietly. Let the silence stretch. And in that silence—she heard something new. Or maybe something old. Something buried. A voice she hadn’t heard in a long, long time. Hers. That evening, she walked past a jewellery shop. Her instinct said, “Get it repaired.” But she didn’t go in. Instead, he...

      ✍️  By Subhasri Devaraj Image by Author You know that feeling when you walk into your house after a long day, drop your bag, and say to yourself — “Five minutes. Just five minutes for me”? Yeah. That. She had just returned from college. A Tamil professor in her late 30s. Tired — but not the kind that shows on your face. The kind that settles in your bones. No dramatic entry. No flopping on the sofa. No scrolling Instagram. She didn’t even change her blouse. Instead, she walked straight to the kitchen, poured her favourite juice into that big stainless steel tumbler (you know the one we all use when we want to avoid refills)… and sat on the entrance steps of her house. Just like that. No makeup. No filter. Just peace. A Porch. A Tumbler. A Woman Who Didn’t Ask for Permission. She didn’t go out looking for ‘me-time’. She made it. Right there. Sitting in her saree, quietly sipping juice, looking at the road — not to find meaning, but to feel the moment pas...