Common Sense,Skeptism and Awaiting the Barbarians.

Maa BrewMala’s Spiral

November 4th has a peculiar charm. It’s apparently the day of common sense, skepticism, and waiting for the barbarian. Whoever decided that must have been reading my aura. I’m Maa BrewMala—healer by habit, vidhushika by instinct, and lifelong observer of human absurdity. I listen for wisdom hiding in jokes and folly dressed as faith. They sound the same most days.

My grandmother used to sigh, “Common sense, child, is the rarest sense.” My mother would counter, “Use your grey matter, Bulli. One expires; the other expands.” Between them I inherited contradiction—and an allergy to melodrama. Common sense, I’ve learned, is simply the art of seeing things as they are, minus embroidery. It’s unfashionable because it isn’t shiny. Everyone wants enlightenment; no one wants to remember to drink water.

As a therapist, I meet seekers fluent in chakra names but confused by their own emotions. They arrive armed with affirmations and YouTube mantras but not a shred of practicality. I tell them, gently, “It’s the boring things that save us—sleep, food, forgiveness.” The vidhushika in me adds, “Common sense died of neglect. The memorial service was sponsored by influencers.”

Still, I understand the temptation. The world rewards the exotic, not the obvious. We’d rather chase complicated salvation than practice simple sanity. Common sense doesn’t sparkle; it steadies. But in a culture addicted to velocity, steadiness looks suspiciously like laziness.

Skepticism, on the other hand, is my caffeine. People confuse it with negativity, but skepticism is just disciplined curiosity. It’s mental hygiene—washing your thoughts before swallowing them. I lead clients into their subconscious every day, and every day I wonder whether the subconscious even exists. Maybe it’s just a polite word for chaos.

Belief is mist, I remind myself. Comforting until it blinds you.
Doubt is stone—cold but reliable.

I’ve learned to build small altars on both. Too much belief and you float away; too much doubt and you sink. The trick is to alternate—hover and land, question and rest. The skeptic keeps the healer honest; the healer keeps the skeptic from becoming insufferable. It’s an uneasy friendship, but it works.

And then there’s the barbarian. Every civilization invents one—the convenient “other” who carries our collective guilt. But I’ve met mine, and he lives inside me. Civilization is just repression with better table manners. Beneath our polished calm lurk rage, greed, envy—the emotions we dress in moral language to make them palatable.

The vidhushika translates: rage is helplessness in high heels, greed is fear wearing perfume, envy is the old “I’m not good enough” story rehearsed to perfection. Overcome those, and you’ll be fine, I tell my clients.
The skeptic snorts, “Easier said than done, Bulli.”
She’s right. Knowing your story doesn’t mean you stop living it.

Still, I have affection for the barbarian. If the librarian guards knowledge, the barbarian guards truth—rough, unedited, occasionally drunk on sincerity. He’s the reminder that chaos is not failure; it’s proof of life. When my inner barbarian laughs, I know I’ve drifted too far into civility.

I live with these three voices: the healer who seeks harmony, the vidhushika who suspects harmony is a marketing trick, and the skeptic who keeps minutes of the meeting. They argue, collaborate, and occasionally sabotage one another, but together they keep me mostly human. Common sense grounds me, skepticism sharpens me, the barbarian keeps me wild enough to care. It isn’t balance; it’s coexistence—an internal parliament where no one resigns.

Sometimes, after a long day of listening to other people’s stories, I catch my reflection and think, You’re supposed to be enlightened by now.
Then another voice inside mutters, Don’t be ridiculous—enlightenment is a team sport and half the team is on leave.
I laugh, pour myself some tea, and that’s when it usually happens—the epiphany steeping gently in the cup. My wisdom isn’t lightning; it’s slow-brewed clarity. Hence the name: Maa BrewMala. A title born from a cup of TeaBox Darjeeling and a touch of self-mockery.

So here comes November 4th again—the day for the sensible, the doubting, and the uncivilized. A small festival for the quietly lucid. Common sense whispers, Look again; it’s obvious. Skepticism leans in, Are you sure? And the barbarian roars from the basement, Who cares—live a little!

If my grandmother were around, she’d tell me to stop analysing and eat something warm. My mother would remind me that grey matter only expands if exercised. And I, their hybrid descendant, would smile and agree. There’s no wisdom without a pinch of humour, no peace without a question mark, and no growth without the occasional barbarian raid on our comfort.

The world still waits nervously for its barbarians. I’ve already invited mine in for tea. We coexist—one sipping, one laughing, both quietly relieved that neither of us turned out entirely sensible.

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Author’s Note:
I’m Maa BrewMala—healer, storyteller, reluctant realist. I write to make sense of the unreasonable and laugh at what refuses to be healed.

This post is part of the Blogchatter Half Marathon series.

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