Today, in the middle of February

Out of no where, it rained in my hometown.

Not the kind of rain we wait for.

Not the monsoon.

Just an unexpected shower in what is supposed to be summer.

But….

Instead of feeling happy, I felt irritated.

Because rain meant delay.

It meant waiting.

It meant deciding whether to carry an umbrella or a raincoat.

It meant checking if I even had one.

I stood there thinking about all the small inconveniences it was about to bring.

And then all of a sudden,

It happened.

The scent of wet earth.

That familiar smell the rain carries with it — subtle, but impossible to ignore. It reached me like a quiet reminder.

For a moment, I was no longer annoyed.

I was somewhere else.

Back in my school days.

Back to a time when rain no longer used to be an interruption, but an event.

When we waited for dark clouds with hope. When getting wet wasn’t a problem — it was the plan. When falling sick felt worth it if it meant skipping school the next day.

We didn’t check the forecast.

We didn’t think about schedules.

We didn’t worry about shoes getting dirty.

We just ran.

And standing there today, I wondered — what happened to that version of me?

Somewhere between growing up, earning degrees, and building careers, we became more responsible. More careful. More prepared.

Smarter, perhaps.

But maybe also a little distant from the simple things.

The rain hasn’t changed.

That scent hasn’t changed.

Only our response has.

Maybe growing up is not about losing joy.

Maybe it’s about forgetting to pause long enough to notice it.

Today, the rain reminded me of that.

And perhaps the next time it rains — instead of checking the clock — I’ll just be there.

Sit and breathe it in.

And maybe enjoy it with a cup of tea!

Today I attended a training seminar.

And the trainer taught me something very simple that stayed with me.

Most of the conflicts in our professional and personal lives don’t happen because of the situation itself.

They happen because of our reaction.

And the difference between a reaction and a response is just one thing.

A pause.

When someone says something sharp, we react.

When something goes wrong at work, we react.

When expectations are not met at home, we react.

Reaction is instant.

It is emotional.

It is fast.

But if we pause — even for a few seconds — something changes.

That pause creates space.

Space to think.

Space to breathe.

Space to choose words carefully.

Space to remember that not every moment needs to be won.

In that space, reaction slowly turns into response.

And sometimes, that small shift is enough to save a relationship with a boss.

Or with someone we love.

It surprised me how something so small could make such a big difference.

Just a pause.

Maybe that’s all we need more often — not bigger plans, not stronger arguments, not louder voices.

Just a pause.

And perhaps

After that pause

A quiet cup of tea!

Some people speak very little.

Not because they have nothing to say.
But because they are waiting for something worth saying.

In a world that rewards quick replies and constant updates, silence can look like absence.
Those who pause too long are often misunderstood.
They are called shy.
Reserved.
Disinterested.
Unconfident.

But sometimes, what looks like hesitation is simply depth.

Not everyone is built for a hundred words a minute.
Some are built for ten words that carry weight.

Conversation today moves fast.
Rooms reward those who fill them.
Social platforms celebrate those who react first.
Speed is mistaken for intelligence.
Volume is mistaken for presence.

And in that rush, the quiet ones are often overlooked.

They may struggle to compete in noise.
They may leave gatherings feeling unheard.
They may replay conversations in their minds long after others have forgotten them.

But silence has a strange way of redirecting energy.

When voice does not find space in speech, it searches elsewhere.

It becomes a painting.
A melody.
A craft.
A page filled slowly.

Expression does not disappear.
It migrates.

After years of being mistaken for voiceless,
they discover that silence was never the absence of expression —
only its preparation.

And over time, something begins to form.
A body of thoughts that were never rushed.
A place where sentences are allowed to finish.
A space where meaning matters more than momentum.

The quiet ones may not dominate a room.
But given enough time, they often build something that speaks for them.

What begins as silence slowly gathers shape.
Thought by thought.
Line by line.

And one day, it may become something lasting.

Maybe a small corner of the internet;
Like a Blog.
A page where words are not rushed.
Where meaning is allowed to breathe.

Long after conversations fade and timelines move on,
those quiet thoughts may remain —
waiting patiently for someone else to find them.

And perhaps, somewhere in the noise of modern life,
someone will pause.
Sit down.
Read slowly.

And discover that silence, when given time,
can leave a mark far louder than noise ever could.

Maybe even with a cup of tea!

I was watching a series today.

There’s a scene where a woman, who has just survived a heartbreak, is shown riding her bicycle at night.
Attached to it is a small setup — at first glance it looks like she’s selling tea.

I remember thinking,
Who drinks tea after 8 pm?

The scene shifts.

She is inside a house where she works as a maid.
She pours a drink into small glasses and says it’s called kava.
She smiles and asks them to taste it and tell if it’s good.

Then the scene returns to the bicycle.
This time she has stationed her setup and there’s a line of people waiting to buy her drink, and she looks happy.

When I heard the word kava, something inside me paused.

I knew I had heard it before.

For a few seconds I couldn’t place it.
And then it came back.

More than a decade ago, I met someone online.
We were young.
It was long-distance.
And we had a habit of giving each other names.

One day she told me, excitedly, that she was drinking something called kava.
She said it was special.
She said I should visit her country one day and she would make one for me.

At some point in the conversation, she addressed me by the name “kava.”

I remember laughing and asking,
“I’m your kava?”

We broke up a long time ago.
Life moved on.
We haven’t spoken in years.

But today, on Valentine’s Day of all days, a word from a show brought that memory back — not painfully, not dramatically — just softly.

It’s strange how some stories don’t end the way we imagined.
They don’t get the big closure scene.
They don’t get the airport reunion.
They simply become part of who we are.

I don’t know if I’ll ever drink real kava.
But I know that for a brief time in my life, I was someone’s.

And that feels enough.

Not all relationships are meant to last.
Some are meant to leave a taste.
Like a cup of tea!

( Or why I almost didn’t post this )

I have a habit.

When I want to buy a gaming handheld, I don’t just buy it.

I compare.

I watch reviews.
I read Reddit threads.
I check performance charts.
I look at benchmarks I barely understand.
I imagine future games I might play.

I tell myself I’m being careful.

But if I’m honest — I’m trying to eliminate regret.

If I choose the perfect device, I won’t feel bad later.
If I research enough, I won’t make a mistake.
If I optimize properly, I’ll finally feel satisfied.

Except… that feeling never really comes.

Look at smartphones today.

They’re not just phones.

They’re cameras.
Gaming consoles.
Workstations.
Movie theatres.
Maps.
Torches.
Radios.
Fitness trackers.
Payment machines.

Every year they promise to do everything — better, faster, sharper.

And every year we ask:

Should I wait for the next version?

Should I choose the Pro model?

What if a better one comes out in three months?

At some point, it stops being about usefulness.

It becomes about optimization.

And I recently noticed something uncomfortable.

Sometimes I’m not improving things.

I’m delaying things.

It feels productive.
It looks smart.
It sounds responsible.

But underneath, it’s just fear wearing a well-designed outfit.

Fear of choosing wrong.
Fear of missing out.
Fear of not being “ready.”

This blog is proof of that.

I created it three months ago.

I adjusted the homepage.
I tweaked the wording.
I rearranged sections.
I thought about what kind of content it should be.

Light? Reflective? Practical? Personal?

I told myself I was refining the vision.

In reality, I was waiting.

Waiting to feel fully ready.
Waiting for the design to feel perfect.
Waiting for the first post to feel important enough.

Perfection becomes procrastination disguised as perfection.

So today I decided something small but important:

Maybe not everything needs to be optimized before it’s shared.

Maybe some things can just exist — imperfect, unfinished, human.

So this is my first post.

Not perfectly timed.
Not perfectly structured.
Not perfectly optimized.

Just published.

If you’ve ever waited a little too long because you wanted to get it “just right,”
consider this your gentle reminder.

Sometimes tea tastes just as good
even if the cup isn’t perfect!