Subash.M | Assistant Professor

Today, my mind feels like a blank canvas filled with questions. I keep hearing people talk about being “good,” but what does that even mean? If I do something for others, I’m labelled good. If I do something for myself, suddenly I become selfish, or even bad. It makes me wonder are these labels real, or are they just masks society puts on us? I realize no one can be good to everyone. Even the kindest act might hurt someone else in a different way. If that’s true, why should I carry the heavy label of being “good”? What is the use of living for a title that changes with every opinion? I don’t want to hold onto it anymore. I’d rather live as myself, raw and real, without trying to fit into anyone’s definition. Being true to myself might not make me “good” in everyone’s eyes, but it will make me free. And freedom feels more precious than approval. If people still choose to come to me for who I am, not for the mask I wear, then that’s the bond worth keeping. I’m learning that life isn’t ab...

Yesterday evening, on my way to Usilampatti, I noticed something small yet powerful. A bus from Cumbum to Madurai  stopped near me. The conductor had been standing for a long time, moving through the crowded aisle, his face showing pure exhaustion. Finally, he found an empty seat, dropped into it, and with a deep breath said, “Apaaadaa…” That single word held a universe of struggle and love. His tired face spoke of endless miles, not just for himself but for the family waiting at home. It reminded me how every bit of hard work carries someone’s care behind it. And today, life threw in its own dose of humor and love. I asked my Anna (Appa) for a new bag. People might think, “Four degrees, certificates, diplomas… and still asking your brother for a bag?” Students and friends assume I’m a big shot, maybe even rolling in money. Truth is, I have enough to buy it myself. But I won’t. Because it’s not about the bag it’s about that bond. I ask, and he sends it immediately, without a second...

Today my thoughts feel like they are stuck in traffic. I sat down to write my daily blog, but all I could do was stare at the blank page. Have I lost my thinking? Or is my mind just taking a break without asking me? My routine is the same as usual. There are no major setbacks, no sudden changes, nothing dramatic to explain this strange emptiness. On paper, life should feel exciting. I just got selected for a six-day training program at CIT, Coimbatore. It’s a good opportunity, something I should celebrate. But instead of feeling content, I am questioning myself. Why isn’t this making me happy? Why does my mind feel so flat when something positive has happened? Maybe this is what happens when the routine becomes too predictable. The days blend into each other, and even good news gets swallowed by the monotony. Or maybe it’s just one of those days when the heart and mind refuse to sync. As I write this, I realize that this blog isn’t about achievements or routines. It’s about admitting t...

Today’s morning was like a comedy show written just for me. I woke up on time but somehow managed to be late for my college bus. By the time I reached Aundipatti, it was already 8:25 am, and my heart was beating like a drum. But life had other plans I managed to catch another bus at Usilampatti by 8:10 am. Yes, the timing makes no sense, but that’s how life plays with me! The moment I got on the bus, I realized it was moving at the speed of a lazy tortoise. My mind was screaming, “Run, I have to catch my college bus!” But the bus driver had a different goal to enjoy every second of the road. While my heartbeat raced, the bus was busy playing an awesome playlist. Old melodies, soft beats, and my favorite songs filled the air. There I was, stuck between panic and pleasure. My mind was in full hurry mode, calculating every minute, but my mouth betrayed me by humming the songs. I couldn’t decide whether to laugh at my situation or cry over my fate. At one point, I told myself, “You can’t f...

The riverbank was alive with rituals. Families sat in clusters, offering prayers to their ancestors. The smell of wet earth mixed with incense filled the air. I stood with my offerings, waiting for my turn, when I saw her, a young girl dressed like a Brahmin priest, her face calm, her hands steady as she guided each person through the rites. When my turn came, she began murmuring mantras, her lips moving quickly. I leaned forward, trying to catch the words, but they were no more than whispers, slipping away before they reached me. “Can you say it properly?” I asked. She didn’t look up. The same low murmur continued. My brows knitted. “Enakku puriyala… konjam loud-a sollunga.” She just mumbled faster. My patience broke. “Enna pannra nee? Proper-a sollu!” She didn’t respond. In that moment of frustration, my palm landed on her cheek. Smack! “Enna da idhu… drama aatamariya?” Her eyes widened, filled with fury. She hissed through her teeth, “Nee regret pannuva… paathukite eru.” And she sto...

Today felt like running a marathon inside my college campus without wearing sports shoes. The workshop brought so many faces together, but what burned my calories was not the sessions ,it was my endless walk from the Principal’s chamber to the auditorium and back again. Everyone, including the faculty, worried about every small thing. I just smiled because I knew one truth no matter how much we stress, things will flow on their own. My highlight of the day was not the workshop sessions, but arranging lunch for the chief guests. The menu? The king of all dishes chicken biriyani. I couldn’t resist being part of it (well, not the workshop part, but the biriyani part!). By evening, my energy was almost gone, but duty called. I dropped our Principal and treated myself to a strong sugarless coffee at a tiny tea shop. That coffee didn’t just wake me up it tasted like a well-earned medal after a long day. Just when I thought it was over and I could finally go home, another faculty needed a dro...

Tomorrow is going to be a landmark day for our college as we are arranging and organizing an international workshop. The campus is buzzing with excitement, but honestly, what I’m witnessing behind the scenes is even more entertaining. Our Head of the Department is moving around like a busy bee, cross-checking every single detail. My fellow faculty members are running here and there, carrying papers, adjusting mics, and making sure every corner is perfect. The funniest part? Everyone keeps asking me the same set of questions “Sir, where is the banner? Sir, what about the seating? Sir, did you check the projector?” And my calm, classic answer to all is just one thing: “Enakku theriyala!” (I don’t know!) I really wonder why people hurry so much. It’s an international workshop, yes, but shouldn’t we enjoy what we do instead of just doing it for the sake of work? Life becomes so mechanical if we forget to add a pinch of joy. In my mind, I could even hear the background score of “Anbil Avan....

This morning, our English Department was buzzing with the usual energy staff talking about deadlines, students chasing assignments, and someone mentioning the never-ending syllabus. But me? I was in my own zone, silently humming Hakuna Matataaaa  the Tamil version from Timon and Pumbaa that I’ve loved since childhood. It’s not just a cartoon song. It’s a life motto. While my colleagues debated over question papers and student discipline, I was smiling to myself, thinking, “Why so serious?” I don’t mean I don’t care I just don’t carry unnecessary tension. Some days, like today, I can even hear a drum set playing in my mind, like a personal background score. But instead of worrying if I’m losing it, I enjoy the beat and move along with it. In the middle of class, a student asked, “Sir, how do you stay so chill all the time?” I just replied, “Timon and Pumbaa, my dear. No worries, no tension!” My department is full of wonderful, hardworking people, but I’ve realized that stressing doe...

Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s “To Flush, My Dog” is more than just a poem it is a portrait of a love that doesn’t speak, yet says everything. As I read her tribute to her spaniel Flush, I felt every line echo in my heart, for I too am blessed with a companion who has never asked me for anything except my presence. His name is Aathi. Aathi doesn’t need words to speak. Every day, when I return from college, he’s there waiting not at the door, but in my world, like a heartbeat I had left behind. No matter how tired I am, his eyes shine with a single, unchanging hope: “Take me for a ride.” And I do. Because that moment  wind against his ears, joy in his bark, and a tail wagging to the rhythm of my return  feels more alive than most things in life. He bites me sometimes, but lovingly. It never hurts, in fact, it reminds me I’m needed. His little jumps, his wild runs across the house, the chaos he brings that’s the calm I never knew I needed. In those moments, I forget my responsibil...

Today, I stood quietly at the funeral of my professor’s father. He had five sisters and just one brother that’s him. I watched him carry the weight of grief not just as a son but also as the only son. The air was still, heavy with a longing that words couldn’t express. It reminded me of W. H. Auden’s poem, “Funeral Blues”, where grief feels so absolute that even the universe should pause for the one who is gone. “Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone…” Auden writes, as if to say, stop the world, my world has ended. As I saw the lifeless face of my professor’s father, I couldn’t stop thinking how many times had those tired eyes looked upon his children? How many roads had his feet walked for their sake? How many burdens had his hands carried, in silence, without asking for anything in return? And now, everything is still. His hands, once so busy, rested. His face, which might have smiled in quiet pride, was calm. A father’s presence is like a roof not always noticed, but deeply fel...

Today was like any other day in my department, classes, casual talks, and the usual movement of students and staff. But something felt different inside me. While I sat at my desk, waiting for the next hour, I came across Keats’ poem “When I Have Fears.” I’ve read it before, but today, it struck a little deeper. The poem talks about fear the fear of dying too soon, before achieving dreams or experiencing love. For years, I carried the same fear. I often thought of my past, things I missed or messed up. Regret sat silently beside me like a shadow. I knew thinking about the past was killing my present, but I couldn’t stop it. But not today. Today, I didn’t feel regret. I looked around, smiled at the breeze from the open window, and realised, I am free. Truly free. Nothing is permanent, and permanent is nothing. Why should I let my past decide my today? One of my colleagues mentioned an old memory involving me. Normally, I would’ve turned away, felt uncomfortable. But today, I just smiled....

This afternoon, I witnessed something that left a mark on my heart. I was sitting near a roadside mess in my town when I saw a physically challenged man trying to eat with great difficulty. His hands were trembling, and the food kept falling from his fingers. People around glanced at him and looked away, too busy with their own plates. But one woman sitting nearby, probably a daily wage worker, noticed his struggle. She quietly finished her meal, went to him, sat beside him like a mother, and started feeding him with her own hands. There were no words exchanged, no camera, no crowd clapping just a pure act of kindness. It felt like I was witnessing something sacred. That simple scene reminded me of William Blake’s poem The Human Abstract. In the poem, Blake talks about pity, mercy, and peace, but he also shows how these so called virtues often exist only because of suffering. We feel pity because someone is poor. We offer mercy because someone is weak. Blake even says that such virtues...

Today, while returning from college, I sat near the window seat on the bus. The sun was soft, and the breeze was kind. As the bus moved through the quiet roads, I saw something that completely pulled me in clouds gently drifting over the distant mountains. They were slow, graceful, and calm. For a moment, I forgot everything. It instantly reminded me of Percy Bysshe Shelley’s poem “The Cloud”. In that poem, the cloud speaks of its own endless cycle how it forms, travels, brings rain, hides the sun, and returns again. Shelley doesn’t just describe a weather pattern he gives the cloud a voice, a soul, and a story. As I watched the clouds floating freely above the hills, I couldn’t help but feel jealous of the people living near such beauty every day. But more than that, I felt connected to the cloud. Like the cloud, nothing in my life feels permanent. I am also just moving from one place to another, one thought to another, never still, never certain. Yet Shelley’s poem gave me a strange ...

I proudly missed writing my blog on July 11, 15, and 16. Not by accident, but by pure talent of distraction. Those three days taught me that doing nothing can sometimes be a full-time job. On July 11, I was fully prepared to write. I even told myself, “Today’s going to be productive.” I made coffee, opened my laptop, and stared at the screen like it owed me money. Then somehow, I ended up organizing my desktop icons and reading quotes about writing instead of actually writing. Classic move. July 15 had real potential. My research article topic was ready, my documents were open, and my brain was (almost) working. But then came the villain my mobile phone. One harmless message pulled me into a vortex of reels, memes, and random scrolling. Hours passed. My phone battery dropped faster than my productivity. At one point, I felt like even my phone was disappointed in me. Then came July 16, the day I was supposed to bounce back. I planned a study-related trip to Madurai, but instead of prepa...

Today, as I stood before Lord Ayyappan at the sacred Sabarimala temple Kerala, a deep peace settled within me. The long journey, the chants, the fragrance of incense, and most of all, His divine smile touched something in my soul. I felt something shift, something heal. In that moment, I remembered the lines from John Henry Newman’s timeless poem, “Lead, Kindly Light.” Newman’s verses were born out of personal despair during his travels, yet they echo a universal longing for light, guidance, and faith. “Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, Lead Thou me on!” These opening lines resonate with anyone who has ever walked through uncertainty. Like Newman, I too have felt lost in life, unsure of the next step, but today at Sabarimala, I felt as though the Light has finally begun to lead me again. The poem doesn’t promise a sudden end to struggles. Instead, it assures us that we don’t need to see the whole path just the next step is enough. This message mirrored my own reflection as...

Today, as we sat planning for our upcoming international workshop discussing the agenda, assigning responsibilities, and balancing pressure. I couldn’t help but remember Rudyard Kipling’s poem If. In the midst of work stress and team coordination, Kipling’s words echoed in my mind like a quiet guide through the noise. If is not just a poem; it’s a life lesson written in verse. Kipling speaks directly to the heart, reminding us that true strength is not loud, but calm. It’s about keeping your head when everyone around you is losing theirs. As we struggled to manage tasks and meet expectations today, I realized how much patience, clarity, and steady effort the poem teaches us to hold onto. Kipling encourages us to dream without being ruled by dreams, to face triumph and disaster as equals, and to keep going even when our body and mind are tired. That felt so relevant. Preparing for a big event like this workshop isn’t easy, it demands teamwork, time management, and emotional control. We ...

Today, I rode to Munnar on my bike. The wind touched my face like a friend, the hills stood like guardians, and the road whispered stories. As I climbed higher, with clouds floating beside me and the green world rolling beneath, I felt something that words can hardly capture a pure sense of freedom. This feeling reminded me of Walt Whitman’s poem, “Song of the Open Road.” Whitman writes, “Afoot and light-hearted, I take to the open road.” His words match my journey. Like him, I didn’t just travel through a place, I travelled through my thoughts. The open road becomes more than a path, it’s a space to think, breathe, and simply be. I wished the road wouldn’t end. I hoped the fuel tank would stay full forever. I didn’t want hunger to come, or time to hurry me back. For those few hours, I wasn’t a teacher or a researcher. I was just a rider, a traveler, a soul soaking in the sky. Whitman believed that the road is for everyone, it welcomes all. It doesn’t ask about your past or your plans....

Today was a memorable day at our college we celebrated Freshers’ Day, and I had the privilege of being the Master of Ceremony. Standing on stage, looking at the faces of the new students, I realized how powerful a warm welcome can be. A good welcome doesn't just begin an event, it sets the tone, connects people, and makes them feel at home. While preparing for the event, I came across a beautiful old poem titled “Welcome to the Country” by James Whitcomb Riley. Though written in a different time and place, its warmth still speaks clearly today. Riley’s words are full of simplicity and affection. He writes:  "You’re welcome as the flowers in May, An’ as the bees is to the bloom..." These lines echoed in my mind as I greeted the students. The comparison to flowers, bees, and perfume felt like nature’s own way of saying, “You belong here.” I realized that Riley didn’t need complex words just honest emotions and kindness. That’s exactly what I tried to express while welcoming...

Recently, I found myself constantly replaying moments I wish I could erase  people I trusted, words I shouldn’t have spoken, dreams that didn’t come true. I was stuck in a loop, unable to move forward. That’s when I read Emily Dickinson’s short but powerful poem “Forget.” Though just a few lines, it struck me like a quiet storm. “‘Tis easier to forget Than to remember Which is why I would forget” These lines felt like they were written for me. Forgetting is not about erasing people or events from our memory. It’s about setting ourselves free from pain that keeps pulling us down. In my own life, I have faced situations where relationships didn’t go the way I hoped. I gave my time, trust, and truth, but in return, I got silence. I realized I was carrying emotional baggage I didn’t pack. That weight was not mine to bear. Dickinson’s poem gave me permission to let go. Not because I’m weak, but because I want to make space for better things  peace, self-worth, and presence. I’m lea...

Today, as I travelled from college to home, I tuned into a spotify broadcast discussing the timeless value of books. As the speaker described how books have shaped people’s thoughts and transformed lives, I immediately thought of Emily Dickinson’s short yet powerful poem “A Book”. She writes: “There is no Frigate like a Book / To take us Lands away…” It struck me how beautifully she captured what books mean to us,they’re not just printed pages, but silent companions that carry our minds to places we’ve never been, eras we’ve never lived, and thoughts we’ve never dared to think. During my post-graduation days, there were moments I felt confused and alone. I didn’t know who to talk to or where to go for comfort. That’s when I turned to books. I still remember reading “The Alchemist” on a rainy afternoon. It felt like a conversation with my own soul telling me to chase my dreams. Books have never let me down since. Dickinson’s lines remind us that no expensive ship, no grand journey, can ...

Today, as I read Walt Whitman’s To a Pupil,  it stirred something deep within me. His words, soft yet powerful, reminded me of my own journey from sitting quietly in the back benches of my postgraduate classroom to now standing before students as a professor. In my PG days, I was eager, nervous, curious, and filled with questions and dreams. I still remember sitting with friends under a neem tree, discussing Shakespeare, translation theories particularly Derida’s deconstruction theory, and how one day we’d stand in front of a class and teach. We didn’t know then how precious those moments were, or how those dreams would slowly take shape. Now, I live that dream. Every day, I walk into a classroom not just to teach but to share, to ignite minds, to learn in return. Whitman’s poem is not just a message to a student, it’s a gentle reminder to the teacher as well. It says, “Give not just knowledge, but yourself.” I feel it’s my duty and more than that, my honor to share what I know ...

Today was one of those rare days when reality felt like poetry. In our department, a few staff members were rearranging tables and chairs. I didn’t really pay much attention to it until I saw where they had placed them. Just outside, facing the grand mountain view, stood a small temple, nestled quietly on a slope, kissed by sunlight and surrounded by still air. It was beautiful. More than that, it was sacred. The moment reminded me of Percy Bysshe Shelley’s poem Mont Blanc . In the poem, Shelley speaks of the mountain not just as a natural wonder but as a symbol of the unknown, of the silent power of nature, and of the deep thoughts that flow quietly through us when we pause and look around. “Far, far above, piercing the infinite sky, Mont Blanc appears…” Those lines echoed in my heart. Today, I saw not just a mountain, but something eternal an unmoving giant that seems to hold all secrets in silence. The little temple on the hill made it even more spiritual. It felt like the mou...

Walt Whitman’s poem “A Noiseless Patient Spider” might seem small and quiet at first glance, but it speaks volumes about life. The spider, alone on a cliff, throws out thread after thread, hoping to connect. When I read this poem, I couldn’t help but think of my own college days at Pasumpon Muthuramalinga Thevar College. I joined PMT with hope, but also fear. I didn’t know anyone. I felt like that spider silent, patient, and surrounded by a wide, unknown world. Each time I stepped into a classroom, each time I greeted a new face, it felt like throwing out a thread, unsure where it would land. Some threads led to strong friendships. Some broke off. But over time, I built my web. I connected with students, teachers, and myself. I realized the college didn’t just give me a job. It gave me space to search, to reach out, and to grow. Just like the spider, we all stand alone sometimes, surrounded by emptiness, unsure of what will connect. But there’s beauty in trying. There’s strength in pat...

Some mornings, I wake up asking, “Why?” Why am I doing what I do? Why does life feel like a repeat of the same day? This question hits harder when everything around seems unfair, broken relationships, missed chances, pressure from society, and even our own confused hearts. Walt Whitman, in his short poem “O Me! O Life!”, asks the same questions. He looks at a tired world filled with complaints, yet ends the poem with something powerful: “That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.” That line makes me pause. We are all part of this play called life. And yes, it's tough. Life is not free. It gives us experiences but often takes something in return, our peace, our people, our strength. I’ve lost opportunities by trusting the wrong people. I’ve wasted years chasing things that never wanted me back. Yet, each failure taught me something that no book or teacher ever could. Now, when I sit alone in a park or travel in silence, I think about the verse I want to add. Not...

Today, as I pack my bags and prepare to join a new college, my heart feels heavy. I smile, talk to everyone, and try to stay cheerful, but deep inside, I’m already missing my own place, the campus I loved, the people I laughed with, and the small, familiar corners that felt like home. It’s strange how we get attached to things we didn’t even notice before. Reading Alfred Lord Tennyson’s “Break, Break, Break” made me pause. His lines,  “But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!” hit me hard. Though he wrote it out of deep personal loss, I see my story in those words. I’m not grieving a person, but a phase of life that’s ending. I know I’ll step into new classrooms and meet new colleagues, but I can’t stop my heart from aching for the old ones. I remember the tea breaks, staff room jokes, the students who brought me both joy and challenges. I remember evenings when I’d walk alone on the corridor, just thinking. All of it is now a memory. But I wo...

Derek Walcott’s poem Love after Love touched me deeply the first time I read it. It talks about something we often forget, loving ourselves after giving too much to the world. Right now, this poem feels even more personal because I’m about to start work in a new place, far from my hometown. My family wants me to settle there, but deep inside, I know I won’t. I can’t. My real home is not made of concrete walls or job offers. It’s where my mornings begin with familiar sounds, where the tea tastes better even if it’s the same brand, where I know every street by heart. It’s where my heart beats slow and steady not fast and anxious. When Walcott writes, “You will greet yourself arriving at your own door,” I feel he’s speaking to me. In this busy life, I’ve been a son, a teacher, a professional but I forgot just to be me. Everyone talks about “settling down,” but I’ve learned that real peace isn’t in big cities or jobs with titles. It’s in knowing who you are and where you truly belong. I ma...

  Today, I attended a baby shower that was soaked in happiness, laughter echoing, colors around the place, gifts wrapped in love, and eyes twinkling with hope for the little life on the way. There was something about that moment the stillness between joy and anticipation that instantly reminded me of William Blake’s “Infant Joy.”   In just a few lines, Blake captures what many struggle to express in paragraphs: the purity of a newborn's soul. “I have no name / I am but two days old,” says the baby in the poem, and there’s something so powerful in that simplicity. It's not about identity or history yet just about being, and being joy.   Looking at the glowing face of the mother-to-be today, surrounded by a whirlwind of celebration, I realized how beautifully Blake’s lines still resonate. She held her belly like one holds a dream fragile but full of promise. In her, I saw Blake’s “I happy am / Joy is my name,” come to life.   There’s an innocence that only a child can ...