Raya's Realm

This is for the ones who are constantly told to “be normal.” Not just by strangers… but sometimes even by their own families. This is for the ones who don’t express love, happiness, or sadness the way everyone expects. The ones who take time to open up. The ones who only show their deepest emotions when a space feels genuinely safe. You are not cold. You are not emotionless. You simply protect your heart until it feels understood and that's not wrong. This is for the ones who hate fights and arguments. The ones who find conflict exhausting instead of exciting. The ones who choose peace over winning, silence over unnecessary drama, calmness over chaos. Wanting a gentle life doesn’t make you weak, it makes you emotionally mature. This is for the people who love talking, laughing, and connecting with others… but also fiercely guard their “me time.” Your alone time isn’t selfish. It’s healing. It’s your safe corner. It’s where your thoughts breathe, where your heart resets, where your...

One thing I’ve always noticed about Tamil literature is how certain works refuse to change their names, even when they are translated. திருக்குறள் remains Thirukkural, not "The Book of Couplets". சிலப்பதிகாரம் stays Silapathigaram, not "The Tale of the Anklet". The same goes for Manimegalai, Akananooru, Purananooru, Kurunthogai, Paripadal, and Naladiyar. Their meanings may be explained in English, but their names are left untouched. I once read a story where people feel a sudden excitement the moment they hear a word from their own language. To someone else, it may sound like just another word, but to the person who belongs to that language, it carries familiarity, warmth, and a sense of identity. Hearing one’s language spoken in an unfamiliar country feels almost like hearing the national anthem abroad, it makes the eyes light up without conscious effort. That feeling explains why some words and texts resist translation. It is not that they cannot be translated, bu...

Today in class, our teacher asked us to watch a YouTube video and share our views and perspectives on it. The scene was from VIP-2 , the contract scene where Dhanush and Kajol are competing to be chosen to build a hospital. At first glance, it looked simple. Two professionals. One opportunity. One decision. Kajol’s character speaks with extreme confidence. She explains her ideas fluently in English, firmly, without hesitation. There is authority in her voice, and also a certain sharpness. At one point, she even asks the client whether he can understand what she’s saying. It feels like mockery, or at least that’s how it is framed, because the client and Dhanush don’t seem fluent in English. Dhanush, on the other hand, stays calm. He doesn’t challenge the client. He switches to the vernacular language, explains things softly, patiently, almost gently. His approach feels emotionally intelligent, grounded, respectful. In the end, the client reveals that he actually knows Englis...

Language is never innocent. The way we name things reveals the way we think, and often, the way we unconsciously inherit power structures. Today, I find myself questioning a term that has been academically normalised, culturally repeated, and rarely interrogated: Black Literature. We speak of American Literature and British Literature without attaching the colour of skin to them. We do not call them White Literature . Their identity is rooted in geography, history, and nationhood. But when it comes to African or Nigerian writing, we frequently abandon geography and reach for colour. Why Black literature? Why not African Literature, Nigerian Literature, Kenyan Literature, or Ghanaian Literature? This naming is not neutral. Ironically, while critiquing Western racism and colonial hierarchies, we continue to reproduce a racial lens ourselves. By foregrounding colour instead of culture, we reduce an entire continent’s literary richness to skin tone. Africa becomes an identity defined by p...

This is Another day of gaining wisdom and learning the art of interpersonal skills while working as an intern turned out to be more inspiring than I could have imagined. Aarthi, Daphnie, and I had the chance to interview our college librarian, in the book fair conducted by our college which was a conversation that started as a routine task but quickly became a lesson in resilience, dedication, and the power of human connection. Honestly, we didn’t know what to expect. I thought it would just be a simple Q&A, but what happened completely blew us away. Right from the start, his passion for the library was clear. He talked about the kinds of books students borrow the most, English literature, drama, critical analysis, novels, and how he finds pure joy in serving students. “A library is like the nerve centre for any academic institution,” he said, and honestly, hearing that made us pause and really appreciate what happens behind the scenes. We were stunned when he explain...

I arrived more than prepared, carrying excitement that had waited a long time to breathe again. After years of silence, I was finally stepping back into a poetry competition, into unfamiliar faces and untested courage. The newness of the place made my voice falter; I stammered as I entered, my nervousness announcing itself before I could. Yet, every smile I received felt like a quiet reassurance, a gentle permission to belong. The venue was IJCCI, Teynampet. The road that led me there was lined with trees, their green stretching patiently on either side. As I walked, I was reminded of my college, the familiar path I take each day, shaded and calm. That road felt like a bridge between memory and movement, green with comfort and promise. Inside, the room rested in a near-sacred silence. Words hesitated on my tongue, and I feared breaking the stillness. But as introductions passed from one voice to another, something within me softened. Confidence did not arrive suddenly; it unfolded slow...