A quiet living room with books, filter coffee, and the distant sound of a koel intercepted with cacophony of horns
“just what are you doing? Siri’
‘branding the blogger ParwatiSingari” siri replied.
“should not be difficult, one quarter wool gathering, one quarter filter coffee, and rest of ancestral candor”
Hello Selvi Ma’am. Based on algorithmic analysis and keyword ranking, would you like me to generate a personal brand statement for *Parwati Singari*?
“it is not so simple” siri retorted.
“neither is it rocket science”retorted aunt Selvi.
Siri initialized, an analysis. Since she was trying to figure out if Parwati was a responsible citizen or not, there were 72 blogposts, 9 types of therapy certifications (of course every professional contributes to the society) and 1 deeply affectionate birdwatching entry… siri concluded
‘I thought she wrote nearly 2000 odd’ observed Aunt Selvi
‘well, I choose only what she catagorized as social blogger responsibility’
‘and’
‘Parwati is a Maverick Mentor, rooted in india’s soil and soul. She revives inner clarity while confronting outer chaos, offering reflective satire, conscious legacy building and ecological common sense’
‘whoa’ Aunt Selvi smirked,” that is cute, but you need to word it English, or rather a vocabulary that an elected official can understand.”
‘what’s your take Periamma?’
‘haa…let me analyze with my AI that is authentic Intelligence.’ And
Aunt Selvi began keeping count on with her fingers.
“who is Parwati Singari?” aunt selvi raised an eyebrow,” she is not a brand. So that is where you went off. She’s the nudge. The elbow in your rib when you mindlessly scroll. She’s the walking-talking reality check who knows that, WhatsApp forwards don’t build a country…but eats it away. She reminds you that a country is built in the backward villages and the lost kitchen gardens, untold stories and uncomfortable truths.”
‘well I thought she was about mudras and mandala’ pipped in Jenny Siri’s niece as she passed by.
‘oh! Do you read her too’
‘yes once in a while’
“jenny my Jan, don’t be fooled by the Mudra and Mandala. She is radical, she is rooted. She will ask that uncomfortable question why are we training kids for jobs that don’t exist, while forests burn no one learns.”
“do you want me to summerize that?” Siri asked with mock politeness.
“naa… I’ll spell it out. this by the way is inspirted the dangerously intelligent Bengoli Rabindranath Tagore.’ Aunt selvi handed Siri a handwritten paper
The proud indian’s creed.
As written by Aunt Selvi, who files her taxes, prays at her Tulsi pot, and reads constitutional amendments for bedtime stories.
I am a proud Indian.
Not because I get a WhatsApp message every 26th January.
But because I still remember how to grow methi in my balcony.
I belong to a land that’s older than most continents,
but our new map gets redrawn every election.
My nation is 5,000 years old in spirit,
75 years old in paperwork,
and 5 minutes away from a WhatsApp university degree.
I was trained for a job in a factory system that no longer exists.
My cousin was trained for Silicon Valley but now farms on Instagram.
We have doctors who want to code and coders who wish they were under a banyan tree.
We shout Atmanirbhar with imported microchips.
We call education a temple,
but the curriculum is a fossil in a digital age.
I am told to respect tradition,
but never taught to question hierarchy.
I am told to build smart cities,
but the air is too thick to breathe.
My pride is not in a GDP figure,
but in the farmer who still grows food
despite policy, poverty, and pesticide.
Reality Check by Aunt Selvi (formerly IAS, now OBS—Old But Sensible)
India is a continent pretending to be a country. Bharat is an emotion trapped in a brochure.
Modern India was “defined” in 1947, but it’s still buffering. The real revival must happen in our water tables, language, forests, and civic sense, —
Pledge Of the New Patriot:
We will plant seeds, not cement.
We will build libraries, not echo chambers.
We will fight floods, not fuel riots.
We will demand policies for biospheres, not just votes.
And next time, when the smoke from Haryana hits Delhi,
we won’t call it “bio-warfare from Pakistan”
We’ll call it what it is—”a failure of empathy and planning”
We won’t be surprised when Pahalgam sounds like Pulwama.
We’ll ask: Who’s asleep at the desk of defense?
Final Invocation
Let my country awake…
Not into superstition, but science.
Not into surveillance, but sovereignty.
Not into pride, but purpose.
From the Desk Of Selvammal
Footnote: ¹Tagore, Rabindranath. *Gitanjali*, Poem 35. Public domain.
Parwatisingari's Weblog 
Leave a comment