Book Bhook

 

Books. What would we do without the treasure trove.

I grew up in a house where books were not kept aside. They were in the middle of everything. Conversations would slip into quotes without announcement. Characters would come up like familiar people.

And because it wasn’t just one reader but everyone, the conversation never really ended.

One person would pass a book, another would respond with a different one, and slowly you found yourself inside that flow without deciding to enter it.

That is how most of my memories around books are held together. Not as separate moments, but as people passing something to me at the right time.

My grandfather did that first. While others speak of summer outings, mine meant walking into Higginbotham’s and coming back with illustrated books. He was an accomplished teacher, known among his students as a walking dictionary. With him, books weren’t a hobby. They were the most natural gift.

At school, my mother extended that same rhythm. She would bring home library books for the holidays, and I remember feeling quietly included in something important. That soon turned into rental libraries, where the pace picked up. Two books a day. Read, return, exchange. It wasn’t pressure. It was momentum.

So when I watched R. K. Narayan’s short story series on television in fifth grade, it didn’t feel new. I had already met that world through Swami and Friends. This was just the story continuing in another form. My uncle, who watched it with me, seemed to understand that. The next time we met, he gave me the published version of those stories. Another handoff. Another continuation.

That’s really how it kept growing. A library teacher placing The Good Earth in my hands. My brother bringing in non fiction that stayed with me through my corporate years. My mother reading Shakespeare and, without saying much, showing me what language could hold.

And then, much later, Srikanth slipped into that same pattern without trying to. When we first started talking, the conversations didn’t really stop. Somewhere in between, he mentioned that the latest book he had read and discussed with his grandmother was The Tao of Physics. It sounded like a conversation already in motion. And I remember thinking, I want in. So I read it. Cover to cover. Entirely to keep up, and also, if I’m being honest, to impress that very interesting grandmother. It gave me a place in that conversation. That’s all I needed.

Even now, it hasn’t changed. I still read across genres. I take recommendations from my niece. I return to the same people to talk about what stayed after the last page.

When I look at it now, it doesn’t feel like a series of memories. It feels like one continuous exchange. Books moving through people, and people shaping how those books stayed with me.

Writing, then, didn’t arrive separately. It grew out of that same exchange.

Books have always been there. But more than that, there has always been someone placing the next one in my hands.

From a Tamil aficionado aunt who drops a line so precise it sends me back to the book, to a cousin who insists, “Akka, you have to read this,” to a friend who checks in on my take on whatever is on the bestseller charts, to someone who sends a quote with a quiet smile because it mirrors a core idea I often return to, all of you are part of this.

Which is to say, I am always one recommendation away from a good book. What’s yours?

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P.S. If you’re curious about what I’ve been writing, you can find it here: https://www.amazon.in/stores/Janani-Srikanth/author/B0BTX2G413

 

Philophobia vs Philosophy — how one shift in perspective can change your experience of love.

I’ve been thinking about the word philo.

In ancient Greek, it means love.

In philosophy, it becomes a love for wisdom.

In philophobia, it sits next to fear.

The word itself doesn’t change. What follows it does.

sophia — wisdom.

phobia — fear.

And that difference changes everything.

Because love, on its own, does not decide how we experience it.

What we bring into it does.

When wisdom sits next to love, there is a certain openness. A willingness to stay, to understand, to not rush to conclusions. You don’t feel the need to control what is unfolding. You allow it to reveal itself.

But when fear sits next to love, the movement shifts.

You begin to hesitate.

You start questioning what once felt simple.

You look for reasons to step back.

Not because love has changed, but because your response to it has.

This is where most confusion in relationships begins.

We assume something is wrong with the person, or with the connection. But often, what has changed is what we are bringing into it.

And fear rarely announces itself clearly.

It sounds like needing more time.

It feels like being careful.

It looks like clarity.

Which is why philophobia is not always recognised as fear of love.

It is experienced as a series of reasonable decisions that slowly create distance.

So the question is not just what you feel in love.

It is what is sitting next to that feeling while you experience it.

Because love does not distort itself.

We do, through what we attach to it.

This is exactly what I explore in Fear OFF Love — how fear quietly shapes our thinking, our decisions, and our relationships.

Fear OFF Love — psychological tools to understand and overcome relationship fears.

Now available on Amazon: https://amzn.to/4rK5kr0

#Philophobia #FearOfLove #FearOFFLove #JananiSrikanth

Autism Awareness Day 2026

Every year on Autism Awareness Day, the conversation usually begins with symptoms.

Eye contact.

Speech delay.

Repetitive behaviours.

Sensory sensitivities.

Important conversations. Awareness often begins there.

But today I want to shift the lens slightly. From the child to the parents.

Because parenting a child on the autism spectrum is not simply parenting with a few additional challenges. It is a different landscape of attention, learning, and adaptation.

Parents slowly become researchers inside their own homes.

They learn the language of sensory triggers. They notice how sound, light, textures, food, temperature, transitions, and crowded spaces affect their child. They observe patterns in sleep, behaviour, emotional regulation, and communication.

A meal is not just a meal.

A sound is not just a sound.

A crowded place is not just a crowded place.

Everything carries meaning.

Every day becomes careful observation.

You learn which fabrics your child can tolerate.

You notice which sounds overwhelm.

You understand how transitions need to be prepared.

You adjust routines until something finally works.

You realise that what looks small from the outside can decide how the entire day unfolds.

This work happens quietly.

By the time a parent mentions a difficulty, they have usually already tried many things. Doctors. Therapists. Diet changes. Routines. Sensory strategies. Repeated trial and error.

Which is why one common response often misses the mark.

Someone hears a concern and immediately offers suggestions.

Try this.

Give that.

Play this music.

There is a therapy for that.

Someone’s child improved with this.

The intention is kindness. The problem is assumption.

It assumes the parent has not already explored the obvious.

Most parents in this space are already deeply informed about their child. Their understanding comes from lived experience, not surface knowledge.

Empathy begins when we recognise that.

If a relative in your family were raising a child with autism, you would likely listen more and suggest less. You would understand that their daily life holds layers you may not see.

If a colleague quietly shares they are managing therapy schedules, school challenges, sleep disruptions, and still showing up every day, you would recognise effort before offering advice.

That is empathy.

Autism awareness is not only about understanding the child. It is also about understanding the parents and caregivers walking beside them.

They are coordinating therapies.

They are advocating in classrooms.

They are studying patterns.

They are building systems that help their child feel safe.

And they are doing this while managing homes, work, relationships, and their own emotional load.

Many of them are also constant learners. They read. They consult. They observe. They adapt.

I am not an exception to that.

As a psychologist, I may bring professional knowledge. But like many parents and caregivers in this space, I too read, explore, experiment, and learn continuously. 

Each child is different. Each day teaches something new.

Another quiet challenge parents often face is comparison.

You may see another family who seems to have it all sorted.

Their child travels easily.

Their routines appear smoother.

Their child communicates more comfortably.

Their posts show calm outings and cheerful milestones.

And sometimes, a well-meaning friend or relative adds to this by sharing reels, videos, or stories of a “super parent” who seems to have figured everything out or given their child every possible opportunity.

It is often intended as help.

But it does not always help.

Because every child on the spectrum has a different profile.

One child may struggle with speech but tolerate crowds.

Another may speak fluently but experience intense sensory overload.

One may regulate well at home but struggle in school.

Another may do well in structured settings but find unpredictability difficult.

Families also live in very different realities.

Different support systems.

Different work flexibility.

Different access to therapy.

Different financial and emotional bandwidth.

And sometimes what is shared publicly is only a highlight reel. The same way every family, including those with neurotypical children, shares only parts of their life.

Or perhaps some families have genuinely found a rhythm that works well for them.

Both can be true.

Neither should become a benchmark.

Because another family’s journey does not diminish yours.

Also, not every parent wants to share every detail of their child’s struggles. And they should not have to.

You do not publicly share every difficult moment of a neurotypical child’s life. The same right to privacy exists here.

Curiosity is natural. But there is a difference between learning and probing.

Reading, understanding, and educating yourself about autism helps. Asking thoughtful, respectful questions when invited helps.

But persistent comparison, unsolicited examples, or intrusive questioning does not.

It overlooks the effort already being made.

Another area that is often misunderstood is social participation.

When parents decline invitations, it is not always disinterest.

It may mean the environment is overwhelming.

It may mean the child is having a difficult phase.

It may mean the parent simply does not have the bandwidth that day.

Declining is not a lack of effort. It is often a reflection of how much they are already managing.

At the same time, withdrawing completely is not the answer either.

Do not stop inviting them.

Being included matters. Being remembered matters.

A simple invitation, even if declined, tells someone they are still part of your circle.

There is no need to avoid them out of discomfort or uncertainty.

Stay. Ask. Include.

That is support.

And in the middle of all this, there is something else that deserves attention.

Progress.

Not the dramatic kind. The quiet kind.

The day your child tries a new food.

The day they tolerate deodorant.

The day they sit through a haircut.

The day they manage a transition.

The day they sleep without disruption.

The day they wear a new fabric.

The day they use a new word.

The day they hold eye contact a little longer.

The day they tolerate a crowded space.

The day they express a feeling instead of melting down.

These are not small things.

They are milestones.

Progress in autism rarely announces itself loudly. It builds slowly, through patience, repetition, and consistent effort.

Which is why real awareness must go beyond symptoms.

It must include respect for the families doing this work every single day.

Sometimes the most supportive response is not another suggestion.

It is listening.

It is acknowledging effort.

It is trusting that the parent already understands their child deeply.

Autism awareness grows not only through information.

It grows through empathy.

And through the quiet shift from trying to fix

to learning how to understand.