Karina Pandya

There was a time when I believed that thinking deeply and caring a lot meant I was sincere, emotionally aware, and just… a good person. I used to replay conversations, imagine different scenarios, and analyse silences or distance between myself and others. Nothing went unquestioned. But the more I thought about everything, the more stuck I felt. What I once saw as caring slowly turned into rumination, and it drained my peace more than I realised. I eventually had to ask myself: did all this thinking actually matter? And the answer was no. What mattered was how it left me feeling. I used to overthink constantly—especially the small, trivial things that led nowhere. I wondered what people thought of me, read into gifts, silences, and distance, and replayed moments that were long over and completely out of my control. I imagined how things   could’ve   gone differently or wished they had. That’s when the mental loop really kicked in. Even though these thoughts felt important at t...

For a long time, I believed my career path looked confusing on paper. A BA in Psychology, followed by years in corporate roles, and then becoming an author—it didn’t seem to add up. But now, as I begin pursuing a diploma in counselling, it feels less like a shift and more like a return. I’m circling back to psychology. What some might see as a detour feels, to me, like a homecoming. Was this my core interest all along, or was writing my true home? I’m still not entirely sure—and maybe I don’t need to be. I chose psychology for my undergraduate degree because I was drawn to the idea of a medical career, inspired by my mother’s path. I didn’t have a clearly charted roadmap back then. What I did have was curiosity—about people, emotions, behaviour, and the invisible forces that shape our choices. Psychology gave me a language for what I had always sensed: that stories, struggles, and inner worlds truly matter. Life led me into counselling rooms and clinical settings in unexpected ways alo...

  When a child throws a tantrum, becomes unusually quiet, or clings excessively to a caregiver, the behaviour is often labelled as “bad” or “problematic.” However, children do not always have the words or emotional skills to communicate exactly how they feel. Instead of using language, they express their emotions through behaviour. By observing these behaviours closely, we can begin to understand whether something is right or wrong. Throwing tantrums, displaying anger, becoming silent or withdrawn, or even showing clinginess are often signs that a child is struggling internally. What appears to be misbehaviour is usually a child’s way of expressing that one or more of their needs are not being met. For instance, a child who throws frequent tantrums may be feeling overwhelmed, tired, or frustrated. A quiet or withdrawn child may be experiencing anxiety or sadness, while aggressive behaviour can indicate difficulty coping with strong emotions. Childhood begins at birth and continues ...

Over the past decade, India’s mental health landscape has undergone a visible transformation—from a largely silenced and stigmatised topic to an active and evolving public conversation. What was once confined to hospitals and clinical spaces has now expanded into workplaces, schools, social media platforms, and everyday family discussions. This shift has been driven by growing awareness, rising life stressors, increased digital connectivity, and a younger generation that is more open and accepting of mental health concerns. Together, these factors have fuelled the rapid growth of India’s mental health ecosystem. Therapy and counselling, once viewed as urban and elitist services, are now increasingly accessible through online platforms, mobile applications, and multilingual resources. Widespread smartphone usage has enabled individuals, even in smaller towns, to explore mental health information privately and without fear of judgment. Teletherapy has further bridged geographical gaps, a...

Life does not always offer answers. More often, it leaves us holding unresolved emotions—uncertainty, quiet longing, and the acceptance of moments that arrive without closure. These feelings surface in many forms: breakup monologues we rehearse in solitude, nostalgia-tinted reflections, or gentle affirmations we lean on for comfort. And yet, amid all this emotional noise, Hindi music has a rare ability to soften the edges. It doesn’t silence our feelings; it steadies them. Songs like  Tujhse Naraz Nahin Zindagi , especially in SANAM’s rendition, invite stillness. They make me pause, reflect, and reconnect with life’s quiet tenderness and emotional honesty—without demanding resolution. Hindi music has never belonged to a single era. It grows with the listener. A song that once felt like a simple love story in youth slowly transforms, over time, into an expression of longing, memory, or quiet acceptance. This evolution is what gives Hindi music its endurance. Rooted in simplicity and...

Life can feel like it’s always rushing. Days move fast, one after another, and it’s hard to hold onto any of them. Time slips by before we even notice it. And yet, the things that matter—thoughts, feelings, conversations—move slowly. They stay with us. They echo. We start things and forget them. Tea goes cold because no one stays long enough to drink it. Feelings fade because no one sits with them. We try to keep everything together by planning more, tightening routines, and filling every hour. As if holding tighter will stop things from falling apart. People are always moving—on buses, trains, sidewalks—but their minds are somewhere else. Replaying old talks. Worrying about what they lost. Pushing feelings away for “later,” even though later may never come. Faces stare ahead, not with hope, but with habit. Being still feels wrong now. Silence feels awkward. Rest has to be planned, timed, and earned. Even slowing down feels like another task on a long list. And yet, small moments still...

Memories arrive without asking, the way grief does. Uninvited. Unscheduled. I leave his number in my phonebook because deleting it would mean accepting that it is finally over. And I’m not ready to make something final when it never felt finished. The last message still sits there like an open door—though I can’t tell if it was ever meant to be open, or if I imagined that part. Maybe it was rhetorical. Maybe it was already closing while I stood there, waiting. I keep rereading it, searching for a hidden meaning, a pause I missed, a sentence that explains itself if I look long enough. There’s no punctuation. No grammar. Not even a goodbye. Just the end of a thought. And I wonder if this is really how endings between friends are supposed to happen—so abrupt, so unfinished, so confusing. I tried for months to understand what led to this finale. I built stories in my head, stacked possibilities on top of each other until they collapsed under their own weight. None of them explained why he ...