Couch Potatoes: Solving World Problems – From Home

There are people who watch the news. And then there are people like us, the couch potatoes.

We don’t merely watch the news. We dissect it. We analyse it, question it, challenge it. And we occasionally shout at it.

And more importantly, if the situation demands it, we come up with a comprehensive solution to the problem at hand within seven minutes of hearing about it.

From the comfort of our sofa, my husband and I have successfully tackled wars, climate change, politics, economics, cricket, international relations, inflation, corruption, traffic, education, technology, and pretty much every other crisis currently troubling humanity. All while lounging on our sofa, wearing comfortable clothes.

Couch potatoes with opinions

Our evenings often begin coolly. We sit down in front of the television, with an innocent thought. “Let’s see what’s happening in the world.”

One channel is covering a political debate. We watch for approximately thirty seconds. “Huh, Idiots !!”

Switch channel, international news. “Ha, even bigger idiots.”

Next channel, climate change debate. ” Oh, please, does nobody understand the actual issue?”

This is where things really start going downhill. Three news channels have already irked us with their stupidity. Eventually, after hunting through half the news channels, we arrive at the startling conclusion that everyone is wrong. Everyone except us, obviously!!

Because somewhere between the third channel and the fourth cup of tea, we have single-handedly solved the problem. War? We have a solution. Climate change? Obviously, someone should listen to us. Politics? Don’t even get us started. Sports? We have watched enough matches to know exactly what the coach should have done. Economy? We have opinions. Foreign policy? We have strong opinions.

And if somebody from the government happened to walk into our living room at that precise moment and say, “Excuse me. We need your advice.” We would probably look at each other and say, “About time!”

One drawing room: Two experts

However, there is one complication. We don’t always agree. In fact, sometimes we disagree quite spectacularly. He has one opinion. I have another. Both of us are completely convinced that the other person has misunderstood the situation. Neither of us is willing to concede. The discussion becomes a debate. The debate becomes an argument. The argument becomes a bitter fight.

And suddenly, the international crisis we were discussing has become a domestic crisis. The people on television are still arguing. And now, we are arguing with them and with each other.

From world crisis to domestic diplomacy

And yet, there is something wonderfully ridiculous about it.

Because after all that outrage. After all the analysis. After deciding that every politician, commentator, sports expert, and television panellist needs to reconsider their life choices, eventually, the news moves on.

The next story starts. We slowly run out of things to argue about. Someone picks up the remote. The television goes quiet. And just like that, the world is no longer our problem. We sit there in silence for a moment. Then I look at my husband and ask:

“Do you want some tea?” 😀

And somehow, that is the beauty of life. We may disagree about politics, cricket, and how the country, or the whole world for that matter, should be run. But after twenty minutes of bitterly defending our opposite positions, there is still this tiny, ordinary question waiting at the end of it all: Tea?

Maybe that’s what being couch potatoes really means

In conclusion, perhaps being a couch potato isn’t always about being lazy. Sometimes it is about having a little corner of the world where you can be outrageously opinionated without consequences. Where you can solve problems you have absolutely no power to solve. Where you can yell at a television screen. Where you can passionately disagree with the person sitting next to you. Where you can fight about the future of humanity.

Most importantly, five minutes later, it allows you to come back to your domestic life without sparing a single thought for the world crisis.

Maybe that’s marriage. Maybe that’s companionship. Or maybe we’re just two couch potatoes who have watched far too much news. Either way, tomorrow evening we’ll probably sit down again with the thought, “What’s happening in the world?” And we will start hypothetical problem-solving again. Because surely, someday, somebody somewhere will finally realize that we are the duo to be consulted.

Do read about friendships and reconnections in another post here

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Unrequited Love – A Texting Saga

Five Stages Of Grief When Your Text Goes Unanswered. Texting is no longer about communication. It is a measure of your worth in the virtual world. We’ve all been there, that soul-sucking void after you’ve sent a message and… nothing. No reply. No “seen.” Just digital silence echoing through your notifications bar. You start to question everything, your texting skills, your self-worth, maybe even your Wi-Fi connection.
But don’t worry, it’s not just you. You’re simply moving through the five stages of text-message grief.

Denial – They must be busy

At first, it starts innocently. You send your text, perfectly witty, maybe even punctuated correctly for once and then you wait. Five minutes go by. You check your phone. Twice. You convince yourself they’re just “away from their phone.” Because surely no one could ignore that message. You even rationalize that they’re probably crafting the perfect reply. After all, genius takes time, right?

Spoiler: they’re not crafting anything. But denial is a warm, cozy place to be.

Anger – How dare they!!

Before long, the silence stretches. Now you’re furious. You think of every time you’ve promptly replied to their texts. Every time you’ve been kind, understanding, even punctuated with emojis for emotional clarity.
“How can they just ignore me like that?” you mutter, while furiously typing out a follow-up text, only to delete it because you’re better than that.
Are you, though? Because you just checked if they’ve posted a story on Instagram.

Spoiler: they have.

Bargaining – Maybe if I send a meme

That’s when, you start strategizing. If they didn’t reply to your first text, maybe humor will break the silence. So you send a meme. Something casual, nonchalant, yet subtly desperate, the digital equivalent of “Hey, remember me?” When that doesn’t work, you spiral deeper. You type things like “haha just realized I never got your reply 😂” and “no rush thou lol”, knowing full well that “lol” is doing a lot of emotional heavy lifting.

Depression – I’m the problem

By now, the silence is louder than your ringtone. You start replaying the conversation, wondering what you said wrong. Maybe your text was too long. Maybe it wasn’t funny enough. Maybe you used too many emojis. Maybe they hate emojis. Maybe they hate you.
You lie in bed, phone face down, pretending you don’t care — but every vibration still makes your heart race. Only to realize it’s your grocery app sending a discount. Life is pain.

Acceptance – I’m ok. I’m alright.

Eventually, you reach enlightenment. You stop checking your phone every 90 seconds. You stop overanalyzing. You accept that maybe they got busy. Or maybe they’re just not that into texting. Or maybe they fell into a portal to another dimension where Wi-Fi doesn’t exist.
Whatever the case, you’ve found peace. You move on.

And you are back!

Until they finally text back with a casual “hey sorry just saw this!”
And suddenly, you’re back at Stage 1.
Moral of the story: Texting in the 21st century isn’t communication, it’s emotional endurance training.
So the next time your text goes unanswered, just remember: you’re not being ignored. You’re on a journey.
A painful, petty, meme-filled journey toward acceptance.

Do read about adventures of corporate jargon in previous post here

And if you enjoy what you read, buy me a coffee

Lunchbox Wars: A Funny Mom Story About Love, Leftovers & Lost Lids

A relatable mom story about the everyday drama of packing, losing, and cleaning lunchboxes. The silent warrior of every household: the lunch-packing mom (or wife). A witty take on how love, chaos, and cold rotis define modern motherhood. This story isn’t about capes or battles, it’s about lunchboxes, expectations, and the quiet comedy of everyday life.

Every morning at 5:45 a.m., a mom begins her daily adventure, not an exciting one, but the kind only real-life superheroes know. Lined up on the kitchen counter like soldiers awaiting inspection, the lunchboxes stare back at her, judgmental, shiny, and utterly ungrateful.

The Expectation Buffet

“Something different today, okay?” comes the daily request from the school-going imp, still half asleep but fully opinionated. “You give this in my lunchbox every day”, complains the 4th grader. Kids are experts in Hyperbole, long before it’s taught in school grammar. “No bhindi,” the husband adds helpfully, sipping his tea, oblivious to the fact that she was about to start the bhindi dice-a-thon. She scrolls through her mental menu: Too oily, too bland, too unfavorite, too yesterday. Apparently, repetition is now a culinary crime. Somewhere between the pressure to come up with a magical menu that pleases everyone and the school bus honk, creativity dies a quiet death.

The Packing Olympics

The morning turns into a sport: chopping, sautéing, stirring, all while locating missing shoes and wiping a mysterious chocolate smear off a uniform.
She sprinkles coriander like confetti and seals the lids with faith. A constant mental game of who likes what is going on in her head. “Butter with aloo paratha, but not with methi paratha”. One wants cut fruit on the side, the other wants chips. “Allie’s mom always decorates the muffin with sprinkles, you never do that”. If plating was an Olympic event, she’d have medals by now. But sadly, her judges are ten-year-olds and a man who calls her idlis “nice, but not Udipi anna style.” Each lunchbox is packed not just with food, but with negotiation and a prayer.

The Return of the Lunchbox (or Not)

Evening arrives. The lunchboxes return home like guilty suspects, some half-eaten, some untouched, one missing entirely. Bringing the lunchbox back, it seems, is a favor bestowed upon mom. If she dares to ask where the missing one is, she’s met with the classic defense: “I think Sam took it by mistake.”
Sam, the mythical creature who apparently collects everyone’s tiffin. And god forbid if she forgets the evening ritual of lunchbox attendance. The next day, instead of a whiff of fresh morning air, the lunchbox sitting in the school/work bag rewards her (read punishes) with a stink that will put a skunk to shame.

The Cleaning Tragedy

At nightfall, the kitchen hosts its second shift, the resurrection of the lunchboxes. Peeling open each container is an act of bravery. There it is: the remnant of rajma, now evolved into a life form of its own. The smell? A haunting reminder of forgotten gratitude. Yet she scrubs, rinses, and dries, not because she enjoys it, but because tomorrow, the show must go on. By midyear, she could open a small museum of mismatched lids and orphaned boxes.

The Moral of the Lunchbox

By the time the world sleeps, she’s already planning tomorrow’s tiffin lineup.
The family will open their lunchboxes the next day to find parathas, cut fruit, and a silent prayer tucked between the folds. And not one of them will think, even for a second, about who cleaned the box, or remembered their favorite chutney, or noticed that the roti edges were heart-shaped by accident. Because that’s her superpower: to love, feed, and repeat, with no credits in the end.

And if they forget to bring it home again? Well, somewhere, another lunchbox is waiting to be bought.

Dedicated to every mom who packs three lunchboxes, remembers everyone’s favorite snack, and still has her tea cold.

“If you liked this, you’ll love Unsubscribing from a Service: A Modern Odyssey

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