The thought balcony

  What Does God Need? For the past week, the news has been filled with reports of thefts in temples. Every time I hear one more story about money being stolen from a donation box, I find myself thinking about the same question. What exactly does God need from us? Recently, I found myself in a discussion on this subject. I casually suggested that perhaps temples could encourage digital donations. Not because faith needs to become modern, but because it might reduce the possibility of theft and ensure that contributions reach their intended purpose. The response came quickly. “Not everyone will be satisfied with a digital transaction.” And perhaps that is true. For many people, placing a note or a coin in a donation box is an emotional act. It is tangible. They feel they are personally offering something at the feet of the deity. Faith is often guided by the heart more than by logic. Yet the thought has stayed with me. Does God really need money? Whenever I stand before a d...

  The Fear Behind the First Book People often assume that the hardest part of writing a book is finding something to say. I have discovered that the harder part is deciding where to stop. For more than one year,I have been writing blogs. Most of them begin the same way: a thought catches my attention, a question lingers in my mind, or an observation refuses to leave me alone. I sit with it, examine it from different angles, and eventually write about it. A blog is manageable. It asks for one idea at a time. A book asks for all of them. And that is where the struggle begins. When I started writing Spectator’s Seat , I thought I was simply bringing together years of observations. I imagined the process would be like collecting pieces scattered across a table and arranging them into a meaningful picture. What I did not anticipate was that every piece would change the moment I picked it up again. Every time I revisit a chapter, I discover a different angle hidden within the sa...

  When Parenthood Becomes a Choice For generations, parenthood was treated much like the changing of seasons. Children grew up, married, built homes, and eventually became parents themselves. The cycle felt so natural that few people stopped to question it. Recently, I met a couple who had consciously decided not to have children. The decision was not born out of circumstance. It was not a temporary arrangement. It was a choice they had made together after careful thought. As they spoke, I listened with interest. But long after the conversation ended, I found myself returning to it. Not because I disagreed with them. Not because I wanted to change their minds. But because I realised I could not imagine my own life without my children. Motherhood has shaped me in ways I could never have anticipated. My children have tested my patience, rearranged my priorities, and taught me lessons that no book or classroom ever could. They have brought joy, worry, pride, frustration, and a...