I Don’t Want to See Death!

I Don’t Want to See Death!

Some days, I don’t want to see what life has created. I don’t want to witness what death has taken away.

I don’t want to attend every birth, every farewell, every gathering where life and death become spectacles for the curious. It isn’t indifference. It is exhaustion of a different kind—the kind that comes when you have seen enough to understand how fragile we all are.

Perhaps age, grief, and the quiet departure of people we love change the way we look at the world. You begin to crave gentleness. You want fewer ceremonies, fewer explanations, fewer images that stay with you long after you have looked away.

I still celebrate life. I still believe in miracles. I simply don’t want to be present for everything that proves life exists or death is inevitable.

For once, I want to protect myself.  Because sometimes, the most compassionate thing we can do is look away—not out of fear, but out of respect for our own hearts. Emotional exhaustion takes more toll than physical or mental. 

Not every creation needs an audience. Not every death needs a witness. And not every silence needs an explanation.

Somewhere between the first heartbeat and the final goodbye, I am learning that I, too, deserve the grace of looking away.

— Juju’s Pearls

Life Is a Scam

Life is a scam.

Not because everyone is out to cheat you, but because the packaging is rarely what it promises to be.

The world outside has its share of predators. But with age, you discover something more unsettling—sometimes the confusing ones are sitting across your dining table, sharing your roof, or smiling at you like everything is perfectly fine.

And suddenly, you don't know what to believe. A word? A promise? A story? Your own version of what happened?

So perhaps the answer isn't to become suspicious of everyone. That would be a terrible way to live.

Perhaps it is simply to trust yourself a little more.

That instinct that makes you pause.
That discomfort you cannot explain.
That tiny voice saying, something doesn't add up.

Listen to it. You don't need to investigate every person or decode every conversation. You don't need to carry the exhausting responsibility of figuring everyone out.

Keep life uncomplicated. Say what you mean. Do what feels right. Keep your boundaries quietly. Don't overshare. Don't chase explanations from people who have already shown you who they are.

And don't let someone else's behaviour turn you into a person you don't recognise. I am learning that peace doesn't come from knowing whom to trust.

It comes from knowing what you will do when trust is broken. Perhaps that is what growing up really is—not becoming cynical, but becoming discerning.

The world may continue to be a little crooked. Let it. I would rather walk through it with open eyes, a soft heart and a spine of my own.

Because if life is indeed a scam…

I am no longer interested in beating it. I simply refuse to be fooled twice.

In Popsie's words - Do what you believe is right! Just do it right. 

— Juju

When Love Learns to Divide

 

When Love Learns to Divide

Sometimes, the most damaging family conversations happen in the softest voices.

A mother speaks lovingly to her son about his sibling.
A son shares something about his wife.
A daughter mentions something about her brother.

Nothing dramatic. Nothing that sounds like a family crisis.

Just little conversations held in private—about the person who isn't in the room.

Perhaps they begin with concern. Perhaps with affection. Perhaps with the innocent thought, “I am only telling my own child.” But words travel.

A passing remark becomes an impression. An impression quietly becomes a belief. And before anyone notices, siblings who once shared a childhood begin carrying different versions of one another.

Sometimes even a son and his wife begin seeing each other through conversations that happened outside their marriage.

And the cycle can be strangely universal—today the conversation is about someone else; tomorrow, it may be about you.

Even grandchildren can become accidental witnesses to these invisible alliances, learning that some things are said freely when one person is absent and denied just as quickly when they return.

The saddest part is that nobody may have intended the eventual hurt.

“I didn't say it like that.”
“You misunderstood.”
“It was nothing.”

Maybe it was nothing when it was spoken. But once words leave us, we no longer control where they go or what they become. A small conversation can create a distance that grows quietly for years—until even the original reason is forgotten.

Perhaps families don't need perfect harmony. They simply need enough trust for every relationship to breathe without being constantly interpreted through someone else's words.

Because children grow up. Marriages change. Generations move on. And one day, when all the conversations have faded, what remains is the family we managed to preserve—or the distance we unknowingly created.

I hope our children inherit our love, not our versions of one another.

And perhaps that is the gentlest way to leave a family richer than we found it.

Lets pledge to love our children unconditionally.

Love Juju. 

Maybe This Time, Things Are Different

Maybe This Time, Things Are Different

For more than two decades, I have been falling for the same little magic.

A sudden, “Beta, you look tired.”Cooked meals appearing beside me. “Leave it, I’ll do it.” “Have you eaten?” “Don’t work so much.”

And every single time, despite twenty-seven years of experience, something inside me quietly says— “Maybe this time… things are finally falling into place.” Maybe the years have softened us. Maybe the distance has disappeared. Maybe this is the beginning of that easy, affectionate relationship I had secretly hoped for. I enjoy the moment. I smile more. I feel a little closer.

And then, somewhere between the second and the third expression of concern, comes the innocent revelation: “Beta, actually, I have a club trip next week…”

Ah.

The missing piece of the puzzle finally arrives.

Someone needs to look after the house. Papa needs his routine. The son needs his meals and his familiar comforts. The son is my husband (amusing!) 

And suddenly, the shower of affection makes perfect logistical sense. I laugh—not with irritation, but with the kind of fond amusement that more than two decades of knowing someone gives you.

Perhaps this isn't manipulation. Perhaps it is simply family management with a very affectionate preface. After all, even love sometimes needs a little delegation. And I have learnt not to question the timing too much. Because the next time I hear,

“Beta, take care…”

I shall still smile as I am apparently still an incurable optimist.

Maybe this time, things really are different. Or perhaps… someone has another club trip coming up.

Let me soak in the moment and enjoy the attention.  

Love Juju. 

Sometimes, You Have to Stop Running

 

Sometimes, You Have to Stop Running

For years, I thought travel healed me.

Whenever life felt too heavy, I packed a bag.

A new place.
A different sky.
Long drives. Airports. Hotel rooms. Strange streets.
A few days where nobody knew what was going on inside my head.

And for those few days, I felt lighter.

But perhaps lighter is not the same as healed.

Because eventually, every trip ends.

The suitcase comes home.
The photographs become memories.
The clothes go back into the cupboard.

And there you are.

Back to the same home.
The same routines.
The same relationships.
The same questions you had quietly carried away with you.

Only now, you know something you didn't want to admit:

You cannot keep travelling away from yourself.

Some problems don't need another destination.

They need attention.

Some wounds don't need a change of scenery.

They need to be acknowledged.

And some chapters don't need to be escaped from.

They need to be lived through.

Perhaps this is what growing older has taught me.

There comes a point when you stop looking for healing outside yourself and begin sitting with the uncomfortable things inside.

The grief.
The disappointments.
The changes.
The things you cannot control.
The versions of yourself you have outgrown.

It isn't always pretty.

But it is honest.

I still love travelling. I probably always will.

But I no longer want every journey to be an escape from something.

I want to travel because I am curious.
Because I want to experience life.
Because somewhere, something beautiful is waiting to be seen.

And then I want to come home.

Not because my problems have disappeared.

But because I am learning not to abandon myself while facing them.

Travel should add to your life.

It should not become a way of postponing it.

Sometimes the journey you desperately need isn't to another country.

It's inward.

And honestly, that journey has been the longest one of my life.

— Juju