Reporting a Block

The last thing I wrote was in June, 2025. 

We are talking about 6 months of zip, zilch, zero. Half a year of nothing to say. 

But that isn’t strictly true. 

I would get random thoughts, things I wanted to talk about. They just never seemed meaty enough for a full blog post. After all, I have readers, fans, whose expectations I need to fulfill. 

(Now, I understand how these big stars feel and why they take up movies that are 90% slo-mo walks!)

See, just the other day, some devastating news came my way. My favorite juice shop — Fruit Shop on Greams Road — seemed to have discontinued my favorite drink, The Walnut Twist.

I was all geared up to write a teary ode to the drink, to my journey with Fruit Shop that began when I was 13, to the people of my past who sat across me as I imbibed this walnut-based ambrosia. I moaned and groaned and ordered something else and moaned some more. Then, two days later, it was back on their menu. 

Wonderful for Shyama, the Walnut-Twist lover, but not so great for Shyama, the writer. 

Another day, as Kartik and I sat talking about things in general, we chanced upon the topic of parenting. Kartik was commenting on how, even now, many men behaved like child rearing was a female activity, and I replied with “Appo vayal-la velai senju thooli aatittirundhanga, ippo work from home la thooli aataranga (Before, women were rocking the cradle as they farmed, now they rock the cradle as they work from home. It sounds better in Tamil). My husband, impressed with my poetry, thought I should write about this. 

I can’t, I told him, I don’t relate to it. I am privileged enough to not relate to it, because I married a solid dude. 

Wonderful for Mrs. Shyama, a little tough for Shyama, the writer. 

Besides, I had other reasons too. My blog is a slice-of-life, happy place. I don’t really like to openly address harsh, unsavory realities. Like how even in 2026, 50% of the population needs to scream and cry and beg to be treated as equals.

Instead, I usually use subtlety and sarcasm, but I don’t think I can write about the struggles of moms around me without getting completely riled up. So I let go of that idea. And held on to my boy and my privilege.

Then there is always the option of writing about my kids. The things they say, the things they do, the things they make me feel are more than sufficient to fill out multiple posts. I have written about them before, but it does feel like taking the easiest way out! 

Imagine if Robert Frost had taken the road more travelled. Would that still have become a poem?

(Probably, if he was going through writer's block too…)

Besides, the thing about being a (proud) parent is that sometimes, you really want to keep those moments to yourself. It's either ridiculously cute or surprisingly profound, or belly-achingly funny, and I want to hold all of them close to me, to us, and reflect on them in secret, like I would an old diary. 

Wonderful for Shyama, the mom, but I don’t think Shyama, the writer, needs to have a part of this.

When December came, I thought I had finally found the solution — the End of the Year post. What better way to get writing again than to reminisce about the year gone by?

But what do I say about 2025? 

Nothing ground-breaking happened, nothing bad happened either. I didn’t discover something new about myself, nor did I finally manage to overcome some problem. I didn’t even get a wacky hair colour!

It was steady, stable, nice, comfortable. 

Basically, all those words we use to indicate monotone and pretend to dislike, but secretly crave.

Wonderful for Shyama of 2025, no fodder for Shyama, the writer.

But does it really take heartbreak to make music like Jordan(Ranbir) was told in Rockstar? What do the sorted people do? Is this why stories end as “and they lived happily ever after”?

Or am I just losing my touch at making the mundane more entertaining?

Let us not dwell too long on that thought!

I’d like to think that all this is because my creative juices have been completely sapped up by all the cooking I have been doing. We have heard of the feeding frenzy, but I have been on a cooking frenzy. The need to knead has overtaken me, and I have been baking art rather than making it. 

Unnecessary puns, but well, kneads must! 

The cooking craze, though, has been wonderful for every version of Shyama because even Shyama, the writer, has to eat.

While I don’t believe in resolutions (sour grapes and all that), I really want to write more this year. There is a lot of joy in writing, some more in getting feedback and comments, and even more in reading these posts later.

So here’s me, entering 2026, hoping that it is wonderful for Shyama the writer, and Shyama the everything-else!

P.S. If you haven’t been to Fruit Shop on Greams Road, please go! It/they are definitely something Chennai can be proud of.

P.P.S One really heartwarming thing I wanted to write about was all the cutesy PDA I have been seeing around me these days. I DON’T condemn it. It makes me immeasurably happy, especially coming from the generation that heard a lot of “naal per paatha enna solluvanga”

More P.S. Also wanted to write about why Neelambari WAS NOT a feminist. My hot take is that Maggi>>>Neelambari, but I feel like this is more of a conversation than a blog post.