To my little one In heaven

I only knew you were with me for a short while, but in that time, you became part of me in every way.

I carried you with such love - quietly, deeply - even before I saw you. I was already imagining what life would look like with you in it. How I wished to see you and hold you, not only from within, but also in my arms..

More than anything, I wished El had gotten to meet you. She talks about wanting a baby sibling almost every day.. her little heart so full of love and excitement. I had started picturing you both together: her proudly introducing you to everyone, reading stories to you, showing you how to play. I wanted that so badly for her… for all of us.

But Allah had a different plan.

We lost you.. and with that, we lost the future we had already begun to dream of.

The pain that followed is something I’ll carry for a long time. It was physical, yes; but it was also emotional and spiritual. It drained every part of me. The two days it all unfolded were some of the hardest I’ve ever lived through.

At one point, we thought we’d made it.

We heard your heartbeat for the first time, and in that moment, I believed. I held on to hope.

I didn’t know it would also be the last time.

And then, just like that, everything changed. You were gone. And it felt like my heart broke all over again.

But even through this heartbreak, I remind myself: HasbunAllahu wa ni’mal wakeel.

We trust Allah;  His plan, His mercy, His wisdom. We believe in His perfect timing, even when it hurts.

I read something that brought peace to my aching heart:

“You have sent forth a child who now waits at the very gates of paradise. You have given birth to an intercessor for you on the Day of Judgment. Imagine the profound beauty of a home in jannah, specifically described and named Bayt al-Hamd, the House of Praise. Picture this house as yours. Could any home in this transient world ever surpass such a divinely titled dwelling in the eternal realm?” 

- Yaqeen Institute. 

That is where you are now : safe, whole, and surrounded by light.

And the most comforting part: you are not alone.

Your sibling is there too.

Two little souls.. waiting for El.

Waiting to play with her, to love her, to know her.

And one day, Insha’Allah, we’ll all be together again.

For now, I hold on to the hope that when this storm passes, Allah will send us our rainbow. And until then, I carry you in my heart; always.

Love always,

Mama

Monsoon Memories

There’s a scent I will never forget:

the smell of wet earth,

rising softly with the wind

through the arched window of my little corner room,

upstairs, in our home in Kerala.

It was my sanctuary;

the place where I found a little bit of me,

as I sat with pen and paper,

ready to scribble whatever words found me,

unfiltered and free,

while the monsoon played its lullaby outside.

From that perch, I’d watch

little children wade home from school,

laughing, kicking at puddles,

their umbrellas swaying side to side.

Auto rickshaws with their rain flaps down

would glide past like boats,

curious faces peeking through slits,

eyes wide with wonder.

Coconut palms swayed to the rhythm of the rain,

and Amma’s garden bloomed anew;

roses and hibiscus lifting their faces

to receive their sky-sent blessings.

Sometimes, I’d slip out onto the side terrace,

just to feel the rain on my skin,

arms outstretched,

the world quiet except for the whisper of the drops.

It was bliss in its purest form.

And then came Amma’s call from below..

beckoning us in for tea and banana fritters.

But it wasn’t just a snack;

it was comfort; an emotion altogether.

It was : laughter with cousins, shared stories in candlelight

when power would blink out and leave us

bathed in the amber glow of togetherness.

Even during hostel days,

that last piece of homemade pazhampori

Brought all the way from home

sparked playful fights and homesick joy;

every bite a memory.

Years have passed,

yet the view from that window still holds its magic.

And now, I watch from that same room,

as my little girl runs across the same old yard,

holding her tiny, colorful umbrella.

She jumps, she splashes,

mud and water dancing around her frock,

laughter echoing into the rain-drenched air.

She’s living the monsoon

that once lived in me.

And in these moments,

the seasons loop back on themselves,

folding time into something tender;

a memory reborn.

The monsoons in Kerala are more than a season.

They’re a feeling; a rhythm; a homecoming.

And I carry them in me,

like a secret melody:

soft, familiar, and forever.

The Art of Doing It All

When I was younger, I often heard this proverb: “Jack of all trades, master of none.” 

It lingered in the back of my mind like a quiet warning, whispering that trying too many things might mean excelling at none. At the time, I didn’t question it. But I also didn’t let it stop me.

I was the curious kid - the one who could never stick to just one hobby. I read everything I could get my hands on, doodled endlessly on notebooks in between boring lectures and played with different letterforms before I even knew what calligraphy was. I journaled like my thoughts depended on it. I experimented with makeup - not just on myself, but mostly on my friends. I braided hair, baked cookies and cakes, tried new recipes with whatever was in the kitchen. I simply did everything I could, with whatever I had.

Then came college. In India, career choices are often less about passion and more about pleasing society.. It usually boils down to two “noble” options: medicine or engineering. I wasn’t particularly drawn to either (needles made me squeamish and math stopped being appealing once alphabets took over the numbers), but architecture seemed like a loophole - a way to tick the engineering box while sneaking in some creativity. So, I chose it, hoping it would let me hold on to both logic and art. 

 And as the years passed, my list of interests only grew - photography, cooking, illustrating, storytelling. Each phase of my life brought a new layer, a new skill, a new version of me. And yet, somewhere in the back of my mind, that old proverb still echoed: Jack of all trades, master of none.

It made me wonder: was I diluting my potential by dabbling in so many things?

But life has a beautiful way of connecting the dots when you least expect it. That eye for detail from drawing served me well in architectural design.. eventually helping me finish third in my class for my thesis. My journaling evolved into storytelling, which later shaped my tone as a brand and artist. My love for fonts and handwriting turned into a career in calligraphy. I now write on paper, glass, metal, leather; anything that tells a story. My love for photography helps me create content for my brand. The hobbies I once considered random have now become the very tools that help me stand out in my work.

I’ve come to realize that every skill I picked up was never a distraction - it was preparation. It was a thread in the tapestry of who I was becoming.

And here’s the best part: the proverb? The full version actually says:

“Jack of all trades, master of none, but oftentimes better than master of one.”

Isn’t that something?

I no longer fear being “too much.” I’ve learned that I don’t need to fit neatly into a box. I’m not just one thing - I’m many.. and I think that fits me perfectly.

In Memory of a Gentle Soul

In the quiet rhythm of my daily work, especially in a city where language barriers and logistical issues can make even simple tasks feel overwhelming, I once found something rare: reliability in a stranger.

Months ago, I was struggling with a complicated delivery. A technical glitch disrupted the order, and I ended up coordinating directly with the driver. He messaged me on WhatsApp, and we sorted things out. When I met him in person, he struck me instantly - an older gentleman in a bowler hat, polite and composed. He carried himself with quiet dignity, and I felt, for the first time in a long time, that I could trust someone thoroughly with my work.

He spoke fluent English and always understood my often complicated delivery instructions, which made him my go-to person for pickups and drop-offs. And this wasn’t just about convenience. As someone who works with luxury items and brand activations, there’s a certain level of care and precision I need - and he gave me that without ever needing to be asked.

Two weeks ago, he helped me with something as small as a hand fan for an event. I said Assalamu Alaikum, but I didn’t ask how his Eid was, didn’t check in. I was in a rush. I wish I had taken a moment longer.

Then, just days later, I called him again: I needed a set of cards picked up and dropped off at a venue. A stranger answered his phone, confused. I asked for him by name. The voice on the other end said something I wasn’t prepared to hear: He passed away last night.

I asked again, certain I had misunderstood. But no - it was his number, his family, and they were at the hospital, waiting to bring his body home.

I was stunned. Not just because I had spoken to him so recently, but because I never realized how much I had come to rely on him - not just as a service provider, but as someone whose presence quietly eased the burden of my days.

We often talk about grief as something tied to deep relationships. But sometimes, it’s the people on the periphery of our lives - the kind, dependable souls who pass through it with grace and consistency - who leave a strange, aching silence when they go.

I didn’t know much about him. I didn’t even know his full story. But I knew he was kind, trustworthy, and did his work with dignity. And I am grateful to have crossed paths with him.

He reminded me that even brief encounters can leave lasting impressions. That trust, when offered without expectation, is a rare and beautiful thing. And that grief - even for a stranger - is still grief.

May he rest in peace. And may we never take the quiet blessings of everyday life for granted.