Some journeys are not straight lines.

I was born in Hyderabad, into a small family, as an elder daughter.

Those were my infancy years — soft, unknown, held by family, surrounded by the first impressions of Andhra, language, food, home and belonging.

I did not know the world yet.

But the world had already begun writing stories inside me.

Then I moved to Shimla.

Through pahadi culture, I was introduced to Shiva, Kali and Nava Durga. The mountains carried a different kind of devotion — raw, powerful, quiet and protective.

Here, divinity felt like strength. Like silence. Like snow. Like the fierce mother. Like the stillness of Shiva.

Something in me learned that softness and strength can live together.

Then I moved to Chennai.

Coming from a South Indian family, this phase slowly connected me back to my roots. Temple visits became more frequent. Tamil culture, temple energy, rituals and ancestral memory began touching something deep inside me.

But along with that connection, something unsaid began living inside me.

A quiet “I don’t know.” A question without words. A feeling that there was something more.

Then I moved to Bangalore.

Covid came. Life changed. I started my own organic company and a trust connected to my village and grandparents. I tried to build systems, support family, carry responsibility and create something meaningful from my roots.

Slowly, I began believing that working for family was my purpose. But somewhere in that process, I lost myself.

I became the person who could manage, organise, hold, speak, plan, create, adjust and keep going. But inside, I was still searching for the thread that connected everything I loved.