Open Fields, Open Heart: A Day That Found Me Again

Some Days Don’t Take You Forward. They Take You Back.

There are days when life doesn’t move you ahead—it quietly takes you back. Back to where your heart first learned to see, where words meant wonder, and where silence taught more than books ever could.

This isn’t one of my usual mind or neuroscience blogs. Today, the daydreaming writer inside me decided to wake up. The one who still believes that life, in all its simplicity and chaos, is nothing short of poetry.

I’ve spent the last few years writing about the human mind—its layers, its traps, its potential—but before I became a mind trainer, I was simply a man trying to make sense of his own story. Perhaps that’s where this journey truly began—when I first started writing.

More than a decade ago, during one of the most difficult phases of my life, I wrote The Blue Moon Day. It wasn’t just a book—it was my lifeboat. Every word I wrote then was an act of survival, and when I finally finished it, I wasn’t the same person anymore. Looking back, I realise that The Blue Moon Day didn’t just happen in my life; it changed the way I live my life.

Maybe that was when the first spark of Mind Flow was born—not from theories or science, but from the raw, beating heart of a man who loved life too much to stop believing in it.

Life Lens — From Coimbatore to Continents, Same Heart

If I’ve learned one thing, it’s that life doesn’t need to be extraordinary to be special — it already is. You just have to look close enough.

I grew up in a quiet corner of Coimbatore, where my school was run by a guruji and my class teacher was a Christian. Maybe that’s where I first understood that life doesn’t fit into boxes. Diversity wasn’t something I learned later — it was my first language.

Most of my childhood was spent under a lonely neem tree near our home, surrounded by friends who were anywhere between eight and eighteen. We had no categories, no phones, no filters. Just dust on our knees, laughter in the air, and dreams as big as the sky above us. Some of the best lessons of my life came from those afternoons — how to share, how to fight, how to lose, and most importantly, how to forget and start again the very next minute.

Years later, when life turned me into a marine engineer, I carried that same boy with me across the world. I still remember standing on ship decks under foreign skies, watching waves crash in places whose names I could barely pronounce. I’ve seen the sun rise from the Pacific and set into the Atlantic. I’ve walked through the streets of Europe that looked like postcards and through markets in Africa that smelled like life itself. Even now, when I think about those days — oil-streaked decks, coffee at midnight, and the hum of machines in the belly of the ocean — it all feels like a dream that I somehow lived awake.

But through it all, I was always the same — still that boy under the neem tree, admiring people and the way the world operates. Whether it was a sailor in Manila, a cab driver in Dubai, or a fruit seller in Egypt, I loved observing the little human patterns that connect us all — the way people smile, worry, hope, and survive.

Looking back, I think Mind Flow was born much before I ever became a writer or a mind trainer. It began the day I started noticing life deeply — not through results or achievements, but through moments. Admiration became observation, observation turned into compassion, and compassion quietly became my calling.

Maybe that’s why I can never stop loving life — because even on its dullest days, it still finds a way to surprise me.

This Is Not an Autobiography — It’s Just One Day

This isn’t an autobiography. It’s just a snapshot — one ordinary day that somehow became extraordinary.

I was called upon to visit Neyveli Lignite Corporation for a presentation. Now, if Neyveli had an airport or even a simple direct train, this story might have ended there. I would have reached, presented, and returned like any other day at work. But that morning, life seemed to have different plans for me.

The journey required a bit of a patchwork— a train till Vridachalam, a bus ride to Vadalur, and then another short hop to Neyveli. It wasn’t exactly the kind of trip one dreams of. In fact, when I first saw the travel plan, I sighed. It looked inconvenient, uneventful… maybe even dull.

But as it often happens, beauty doesn’t arrive announced. It hides inside the folds of what looks boring, waiting for someone curious enough to notice. That day, somewhere between the hum of the train wheels and the warm chatter of strangers, I began to see life differently again.

What started as a work trip slowly began to feel like a quiet pilgrimage — not towards a destination, but towards myself.

The Train to Vridachalam — The Luxury of Openness

The train groaned into motion, leaving behind the rush of schedules and slipping into a world that moved to its own rhythm. The window beside me became a moving frame of art — wide, unhurried, and heartbreakingly simple.

For someone who has lived most of his life in the chaos of metros, the first thing that struck me was the silence — not the kind that feels empty, but the kind that feels full. Full of wind brushing through paddy fields, of distant voices echoing across acres of green, of a life unbothered by deadlines and notifications.

The landscape stretched endlessly — open fields like green pages, scattered with coconut groves and narrow canals glistening in the sun. A woman in a bright red saree carried fodder on her head, walking gracefully as though time itself slowed down for her. Children ran along the railway line, waving at the train with the kind of excitement we lose somewhere between childhood and ambition. In the distance, an old man guided a pair of bullocks through wet soil, his every movement deliberate, purposeful, peaceful.

I sat there, watching them all, wondering what their thoughts might be. Did they dream like we do? Did they crave success, or were they just content being alive under the same sun, surrounded by the same familiar faces each day? Their lives looked so precious, yet invisible to the rest of the world — untouched by the noise that so often clutters ours.

For a moment, I wished I could gather them all — the farmers, the herders, the women with their steady strides — and just talk to them. To tell them not to let life’s temptations—loans, debts, intoxications—steal the peace that they already possess. But I was just a traveller that day, carried forward by the rhythm of steel and wind, with my heart lingering behind at every passing field.

There was something therapeutic in that journey — the way the open land reminded me of open hearts, the way simplicity itself looked like a luxury. As the train began to slow down, Vridachalam arrived not as a destination, but as a pause — a gentle invitation to step out and meet life, one more time, in its rawest, most beautiful form.

Vridachalam Temple — The People Are the Prayer

When the train finally slowed into Vridachalam, it felt like entering a postcard left untouched by time. The air itself moved slower here—carrying the scent of temple flowers, filter coffee, and something else I hadn’t felt in a while: peace.

With only a little time to spare before my next connection, I decided to visit one of the oldest Shiva temples in town. An auto driver with a smile as wide as the road itself agreed to take me there. The vehicle rattled through narrow lanes where cows stood unbothered and schoolchildren walked in neat lines, their chatter blending with temple bells echoing from somewhere ahead.

The temple stood tall—over a thousand years old, they say—and yet its walls breathed the confidence of centuries. Moss ran along the carved stones, sunlight filtered through age-old pillars, and the faint rhythm of a conch gave the entire place a heartbeat.

When I entered, my eyes didn’t immediately seek the idol. They wandered—to people. To life. To faith in its purest, simplest form.

There were old men sitting on the cool stone platform outside, trading tales of their youth and debating politics with animated hand gestures. A flower-seller near the entrance arranged jasmine garlands like constellations, her fingers moving in a rhythm that matched the temple drums. A group of newlyweds circled the sanctum, too busy stealing glances at each other to notice the deity watching over them. Somewhere in the corner, college students in half-buttoned shirts posed for selfies near the gopuram, laughing in the carefree tone of youth.

A little girl, no more than five, tugged at her grandmother’s saree, holding a single rupee coin for archana. Her smile when she dropped it in the box was brighter than the diyas flickering around us. A priest, tired but patient, recited mantras with the same sincerity as if each syllable could move mountains.

And I—stood there quietly—praying not for myself, but for all of them. I’ve always done that whenever I visit a temple. I pray for the ones who come seeking miracles, for the ones who come out of habit, and for the ones who simply come to rest in peace for a while. I wished for their small dreams, their health, their laughter—everything that keeps this world beautiful in its simplicity.

Before leaving, I bought a small ladoo from the prasadam counter. It was warm, sticky, and perfect. I sat on a stone ledge beneath a sculpted pillar, watching the world unfold around me—the bells ringing, pigeons fluttering near the ceiling, a boy sweeping dry flowers into a corner. The sweetness of the ladoo lingered on my tongue while I looked at people who didn’t know they were part of something sacred just by being themselves.

For a few minutes, I felt time stop. Nothing more, nothing less—just life in motion. And it was beautiful.

As the sun began to tilt westward, I wiped my hands, smiled to myself, and walked back to the auto. It was time for the next leg—to Vadalur.

Vadalur — Vallalar’s Light, A Quiet Reboot

The next stop was Vadalur, a small, unassuming town that holds one of the most powerful spiritual messages this land has ever known. This is the place of Vallalar, or Ramalinga Adigal, the saint who believed that light knows no boundaries and hunger must know no shame.

The road from Vridachalam to Vadalur was short but filled with a certain calmness that words rarely capture. The auto driver who took me there spoke about Vallalar with a kind of reverence that only devotion can give. He pointed out landmarks, the schools built on Vallalar’s principles, and explained how even today, lakhs gather here during auspicious days. He smiled and said, “Today you are lucky, sir. You will see the light without the crowd.”

When I reached the Sathya Gnana Sabhai, the sacred hall where Vallalar’s eternal light burns, the place felt almost deserted. On most auspicious days, they say over two million people gather here to witness the divine flame. But that day, I was the only visitor. Just me, the silence, and the light.

I removed my slippers, walked barefoot across the cool marble floor, and sat facing the glowing flame. The air inside felt still, almost alive. I closed my eyes, intending to sit for a few minutes—but time vanished. When I opened them again, I wasn’t sure how long I had been there. My body felt lighter, my mind rinsed clean. It wasn’t enlightenment, but something gentler—a quiet reboot of the soul.

Outside, I walked to the Annadhanam Hall, where free food is offered to everyone, every single day, all year round. No one is turned away here; hunger is the only ticket. Large vessels steamed with sambar and rice, volunteers served with humility, and the air smelled of simplicity and love.

The sight brought back an old memory. Years ago, when I had visited Vadalur with my family, we had stopped near a small house to rest. Within minutes, the house owners came out, insisting we eat with them. All they had was a little rasam, but the warmth with which they served it made us feel like royalty. I can still remember their smiles. They were rich by heart, and that richness overflowed into everyone they met.

As I walked around the place, the same spirit surrounded me. An old man washed plates for strangers with devotion. A young woman helped an elderly lady walk toward the hall. A child slept peacefully on her mother’s lap under a tree that swayed with the wind. The streets were lined with people who didn’t have much but gave everything they could.

And as I kept walking, I realised something profound—I wasn’t lost. I was home.

Vadalur wasn’t just a place; it was a reminder that kindness still exists in its purest form, far away from the spotlight, living quietly in hearts that believe giving is a way of worship.

Bus to Neyveli — Tears You Don’t Plan

The bus to Neyveli was already half full when I boarded. I found a window seat, the kind where sunlight sneaks in through the rusted frame and paints half your face gold. The air inside smelled of rain-soaked dust, incense from someone’s bag, and roasted groundnuts sold at the stop. I leaned my head against the window, and as the bus began to move, so did my thoughts.

The road curved through green fields and sleepy villages that seemed to float between yesterday and tomorrow. My eyes followed them, but my mind was elsewhere — retracing the quiet journey that had unfolded since morning. The temple bells of Vridachalam still echoed faintly in my ears. Vallalar’s light from Vadalur still glowed somewhere inside me. I could see the faces of people I met — the priest with his patient smile, the flower seller with jasmine-scented hands, the old woman feeding strangers with pride. Every person seemed to be stitched into a larger truth: that happiness doesn’t need grandeur; it needs heart.

As the bus rolled on, I caught my reflection in the window. Behind it, the fields rushed by — like old memories waving goodbye. I thought of my own life — the boy from Coimbatore who played under a neem tree, the young man who once stared at ocean waves from the deck of a ship, the banker chasing deadlines, the writer chasing meaning. Somewhere in between all those versions of me, there had always been one constant — a longing to understand people and make their lives a little better.

Maybe that’s why I started MindFlow. Not to preach, but to remind — that the mind, when freed from its own noise, becomes the gentlest force in the world.

The bus jolted over a speed breaker, and I smiled. Life too has its bumps, but somehow, it keeps us awake. Outside, the sun was bright, dyeing the fields orange. Inside, I felt an unfamiliar warmth rise in my chest. Before I could stop it, a tear slipped down my cheek. It wasn’t sadness. It wasn’t nostalgia. It was something deeper — the quiet happiness that comes when you realize you’ve been part of something beautiful all along.

Maybe this is what happiness truly feels like — when your heart overflows without a reason, and your eyes don’t bother to ask why.

The bus rolled into Neyveli, but I had already arrived somewhere else — closer to myself.

Return Journey — Crowd, Kindness, and a Reserved Seat of Care

The session at Neyveli went far better than I expected. What was supposed to be an hour-long presentation stretched into an entire afternoon of questions, laughter, and new connections. Time slipped away unnoticed, and by the time I stepped out, the sun had already begun to melt into the horizon. I had missed my train to Vridachalam.

The next available option was a crowded bus. It was Deepavali season, and the roads were a river of people returning home, arms full of sweets and hearts full of anticipation. I managed to squeeze myself into a corner seat, my bag half hanging, my smile half tired. The bus smelled of jasmine flowers, new clothes, and the faint scent of crackers in the air.

At the next stop, an elderly woman boarded the bus. She looked exhausted, holding a bag heavier than she should have been carrying. Without thinking twice, I stood up and offered her my seat. She hesitated, then smiled—a smile so genuine it could light up a dark alley—and sat down. What began as a polite gesture turned into a heartwarming connection.

Within minutes, she had become the grandmother I didn’t know I needed. She spoke about her village, her children who had moved to the city, her arthritis, and the little happiness she found in watching her grandchildren laugh. She looked at me and sighed softly, “You must be working far from your family, right?” I nodded. That was enough for her to start worrying as if I were her own. “Do you cook properly? Eat on time? Don’t skip dinner,” she said. “And when you feel lonely, drink jeera water—it helps with the stomach and the heart.” I laughed, not because it was funny, but because I was touched. There’s a warmth in such unsolicited care that no modern comfort can ever match.

As the bus pushed through the evening traffic, the conductor began chatting with a few passengers about the rain. He worried aloud about the pavement dwellers and how they might be sleeping that night with wet blankets. “Poor fellows,” he said, punching tickets absentmindedly, “rain doesn’t ask who can afford a roof.” The driver, focused yet kind, kept glancing at me through the mirror, gesturing to hold an empty seat when one passenger got down. Even in that chaos, he remembered a stranger who had given up his place.

Around me, conversations flowed like music. A young man shared the best roadside tea stalls near Panruti; another explained where one could buy the softest kadalai mittai in the region. People who had never met before began exchanging laughter, local remedies, and shortcuts to happiness. Nobody guarded their stories here; everyone gave them away freely, as if they were sweets on a festival day.

In metros, we call this intrusion. Here, it is called family.

Somewhere between the laughter, the honking, and the drizzle tapping against the glass, I realized how naturally love blooms when life is simple. Every face around me seemed familiar—not because I knew them, but because I understood them. There was a shared rhythm in that bus, a quiet sense that we were all just trying to reach somewhere safe, somewhere warm, somewhere called home.

By the time the bus rolled into Vridachalam, I felt full—of stories, of gratitude, and of a strange peace that only human kindness can bring. I looked out of the window one last time, the city lights blurring through the mist, and thought, how beautiful it is when strangers care without reason.

That night, I didn’t just return from Neyveli. I returned to faith—in people, in goodness, and in the unseen hands that make this world a softer place to live.

Why MindFlow — And Why “We Are One”

That night, as I sat by the window of my bedroom in Trichy, with the sound of distant trains humming through the silence, something inside me felt complete. Every person I had met that day — the farmer, the flower-seller, the priest, the grandmother on the bus — had unknowingly reminded me why I am the way I am.

I have always loved people — their stories, their struggles, their smiles that appear even when life gives them no reason to smile. Maybe because I’ve lived through my own share of storms. Growing up wasn’t easy. There were days I questioned where I belonged, days when the world seemed too big for someone like me. But maybe those struggles were needed — they became the soil from which my compassion grew.

When I sailed as a marine engineer, I came dangerously close to losing my life at sea once. It was a night I’ll never forget — the waves roaring higher than the ship, alarms blaring, fear gripping every muscle in my body. I remember looking into the black horizon, not knowing if I’d ever see the morning sun again. But somehow, I did. I survived. And I often wonder — maybe it wasn’t luck.

Maybe it was a message from life: You’ve got more to do. More to give.

Now, at this stage of life, I see things clearly. The real purpose of living is not in building comfort for ourselves, but in making life a little easier, a little brighter, a little more meaningful for others. True happiness isn’t when you achieve everything you wanted; it’s when you look around and see someone else smiling because of you.

That’s what gave birth to Mind Flow. It isn’t a program or a brand — it’s a promise. A promise to share what I’ve learned about life, the mind, and the power of perspective. It’s about helping people remove the unnecessary weight they carry, to clear the fog inside, and to let the natural current of positivity and purpose flow again. Mind Flow is my way of giving back — of taking all the kindness I’ve received in this life and returning it to the world, one mind at a time.

And maybe that’s also why my latest book, “We Are One,” feels so close to my heart. This book wasn’t planned, it just happened. It flowed through me like a song I had carried for years without knowing the lyrics. Every page reminded me that we are not separate — not from each other, not from life, not from the light that connects us all. Out of a million possibilities, I’m grateful that life chose me to bring this book into existence.

If you’ve read this far, know this — I love you for being here. For sharing this journey with me. You didn’t just read my story; you lived it with me. And that means more than I can ever put into words.

I’ve walked through fear, failure, storms, and silence. I’ve laughed in temples and cried in buses. And through it all, one truth has never changed — the world didn’t change me, people did.

Now, I’m ready. Ready to make my small corner of this world a little more beautiful. Ready to help people see what I see — that life is not a race, it’s a rhythm. And once you find your rhythm, happiness follows.

And I assure you, no matter how long it takes, no matter how many waves rise again — I will make this world a beautiful place.

Nandri. 🌿