Travellers Stream

My biggest challenge is learning how to live with my emotions without letting them consume me.

I am deeply emotional. I don’t get mildly sad or slightly moved—I feel everything at full volume. And when it becomes too much, I cry. Crying seems to be my only language. I don’t know how to convert my feelings into anger, detachment, or silence. They simply spill out as tears.

One evening, it was raining heavily. A street dog near my house tried to take shelter at my opposite neighbour’s doorstep. They chased him away. He stood there for a moment—confused, wet, unwanted—before walking off into the rain to find another place to hide. That scene stayed with me long after the rain stopped. I cried that night, not just for the dog, but for everything he represented: helplessness, rejection, and the quiet cruelty that often goes unnoticed.

I feel the same heaviness when I see small children at traffic signals—selling balloons, pens, flowers—standing between speeding vehicles instead of being in school or at play. I cannot look at them without feeling a knot in my chest. Their tired faces, their forced smiles, their tiny hands holding out hope—it breaks something inside me. The world feels unbearably cruel in those moments, and I feel helpless knowing how little I can do to change it.

This is my struggle—to feel so much that even the pain of a stranger, an animal, or a fleeting moment becomes my own. I carry stories that aren’t mine. I grieve for things I cannot fix. My heart refuses to build walls, even when it probably should.

But perhaps this is also my strength. In a world that is learning to look away, I still stop and feel. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.

My challenge is not to become less emotional—but to learn how to protect my heart while keeping it open.

Songs… I go a little crazy listening to some of them. Certain melodies instantly take me back to a very specific moment in time. It’s almost like déjà vu—same feelings, same emotions, sometimes even the same ache in the heart. Music doesn’t just play; it transports me.

My mother has this beautiful habit of connecting life events to movies and songs. She remembers which film released when someone was born, or what song was popular during a particular phase. It’s funny, yes—but also deeply touching. For her, memories are neatly stored in reels and soundtracks.

And then there are fragrances. Some smells don’t just remind me of the past; they pull me into it without warning. A whiff of a familiar perfume, the smell of rain on dry earth, incense, old books, or even freshly washed clothes—and suddenly I’m somewhere else, someone else, in another time.

Nostalgia, for me, isn’t just remembering. It’s reliving. It arrives quietly, unannounced, through a song, a scent, or a passing thought—and for a moment, the past and present sit together, holding hands.

Sometimes it makes me smile. Sometimes it makes my heart heavy. But I’ve realised—it’s a reminder that I have lived, felt deeply, loved fully… and that those moments still breathe inside me.

😊💝

Shama

I wouldn’t say my political views have changed — they’ve quieted.

Over time, I’ve grown scared of politics rather than interested in it.

Not just national politics, but family politics, office politics, everyday power games. I find them exhausting and unsettling. I struggle to understand the language of politics, and I trust very little of what is said in speeches or debated in Parliament. It often feels less like governance and more like chaos wrapped in loud words.

What I’ve learned with age is that distance is sometimes a form of self-preservation. I choose calm over commentary, observation over outrage. Maybe that makes me uninformed in some eyes — but it keeps me sane.

If anything has changed, it’s this: I no longer expect politics to give me clarity.

I look for clarity in my own values instead.

With hope for a more thoughtful tomorrow.

Shama 🙏

I was born in Chikmagalur☘️ 🏡

A quiet town wrapped in coffee☕ plantations and misty hills in Karnataka.

By the time I arrived, most of the big headlines of the year were already over; the world had already watched men walk on the moon 🌝, listened to new music 🎶 and lived through one of the most eventful years of that decade.🌿

In many ways, I came at the end of a chapter. While the world was closing the book, my family was opening a brand new one.✨

History had already recorded the Moon landing and all those dramatic changes, but in a small corner of Karnataka, the biggest news was simply a newborn baby and the quiet joy that filled a modest home.🕊️

I like to think of my birth as a soft full stop at the end of a loud, busy sentence. The year had seen enough noise, protests and breakthroughs; December brought cooler air, slower days and the gentle rhythm of plantation life in Chikmagalur. ⭐

Somewhere between the rustle of coffee leaves and the evening cold breeze, my story began.🌸

I may not have shared the spotlight with the famous events,  but I share its spirit in another way. 🌝

That year proved how far humans could go, and I carry a small piece of that courage and curiosity in my own journey – from a December baby in Chikmagalur to a woman who now loves exploring new places, writing her heart out and quietly chasing her own “small moon landings” in life.💕

Maybe that is why I’m still drawn to new horizons – whether it is a winding hill road, a new town, or a blank WordPress editor waiting for my next story.💚

With lots of love and best wishes

Shama😊🙏

I am most happy when I am not questioned.
When I am given my own space.

I don’t want anyone to control me — because I am already controlling myself.
Every single day.

I carry my own pressure. I know my limits.
If I step out, I know when I have to return home.
No one needs to remind me.
No one needs to supervise my life.

I am already trying to break free from myself — from my own rules, my own expectations, my own inner discipline.
And when someone else starts controlling me too, it feels like I’m trapped under two sets of rules instead of one.

Please, leave me alone.
Let me deal with it in my own way.

Lately, I’ve realised something else too.
People are obsessed with perfection.

If something burns on the stove, so what?
If the motor is on and water overflows from the overhead tank, so what?
If a glass slips from the hand and breaks — so what?

It happens.
It’s not deliberate. It’s not carelessness. It’s just life being human.

Yes, water is precious, and yes, we should be careful — but accidents don’t deserve drama, lectures, or moral policing.
Not everything needs logic. Not everything needs correction.

And somewhere along the way, I’ve started hating perfection and rigid logic.
I want to make mistakes.
I want to do a few illogical things.
I want to let life spill, burn, break — and still be okay.

Because I am tired of being careful all the time.

Tired of being watched.
Tired of being corrected.

Let me be imperfect.
Let me be human.
Let me learn, fall, laugh, and figure things out on my own.

That, for me, is freedom.☘️

Travel, for me, is not about ticking destinations off a list — it’s about how a place makes you feel.

I dream of Lakshadweep, where the sea is said to be clearer than thoughts and silence feels healing. Bhopal draws me in with its calm lakes and quiet history, while Hyderabad calls with its rich culture, food, and old-world charm.

I want to walk along the beaches of Mangalore, where the sea meets simplicity, and lose myself in the slow, poetic streets of Pondicherry, with its blend of French elegance and Indian soul. Darjeeling tempts me with misty mornings, toy trains, and endless cups of tea, and Munnar feels like a pause button — green hills, fresh air, and peace in every direction.

Some cities excite you.
Some calm you.
These are the ones I want to feel before I see.