Raya's Realm

I used to think receiving flowers was something that only happened in movies. You know the kind of scene,  soft golden lighting, a gentle breeze that somehow always knows when to move, slow motion footsteps, someone smiling like they’ve been waiting for that exact moment. The kind where music swells in the background and everything feels perfectly timed. It never felt like something that would happen in my real, ordinary life. In my world, flowers were things you saw in other people’s hands. In Instagram posts. In carefully curated Valentine’s captions.  I always told myself it wasn’t a big deal. That flowers wilt. That gestures are overrated. That I didn’t need something so cinematic. And then this year, I received flowers for the first time . Which was totally unexpected. We don’t even live far from each other. It’s barely a 10-kilometre journey from my house to theirs. But that day, instead of showing up at my door, something showed up through Blinkit. A cuboid box. My mom ...

Today felt like one of those rare days that quietly stay with us. We had a poet meet organised by the Prakriti Foundation, where three poets were introduced to us each bringing a different world, a different rhythm, and a different way of seeing life through words. What followed was not just a session of readings, but an experience that woke up the entire classroom. Dibyajyoti Sarma:   The first poet introduced was Dibyajyoti Sarma, a teacher, journalist, copy editor and writer. One of the poems he read, “ Things You Can Do with Your Lover’s Wedding Card” , instantly transformed the atmosphere of the class. It was sharp, playful, and painfully funny. The kind of poem that doesn’t ask for attention.. it demands it. The classroom, which usually survives on the sleepy silence, suddenly erupted into laughter. That poem alone made the session lively, proving how poetry doesn’t always have to be heavy to be powerful. Gayatri Majumdar :  Next came Gayatri Majumdar, whose poems carrie...

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...