Why I Write About Small Places – The Hidden Wisdom of Ponmanipudi

Why I Write About Small Places

In the early hours of dawn, as the first temple bell of Ponmanipudi chimes, something inside me always awakens.

The mist floats lazily over Brindlemalai, the cows at Ananda Neelam start being awake. Somewhere I see Dr. Chari’s voice drifting through the morning air — soft, measured, reciting the day’s first shloka...

This is why I write about small places.

Because truth, wisdom, and humanity do not always wear fine suits or speak in conference tones.

They live quietly in the folds of villages like Ponmanipudi — in cracked teacups, in half-swept courtyards, in the laughter that echoes across the Krishi Honda pond.

When I began to write, many asked,

“Why not write nice stories about a city?

Wouldn’t they be more modern, more marketable?”

But my heart never found rhythm in the neon hum of metros.

It found its music in the rustle of coconut fronds, in the trembling of the temple lamp during monsoon winds, and in the eyes of people who still greet the sunrise as if it were a living god.

In Ponmanipudi, every life — however small — has depth.

Appuswamy, the poet at the tea stall, writes verses on old newspaper scraps, each word soaked in longing and truth.

Mythili Amma, the misunderstood scientist, still looks up at the night sky with childlike wonder.

Radhamani, balancing faith and jealousy, learns that love’s truest form is restraint and stillness.

Even the animals here — Mylo, Sita, and Ganga the cow and many others — seem to hold a wisdom that escapes the rush of human minds...

I write about small places because they remind me of what is eternal.

Where people still pause to hear a cuckoo’s call.

Where Nature Amma is worshiped..

Where the news of a calf being born spreads faster than political gossip.

Where elders speak not to impress, but to bless. To inspire....to guide...

In a world that glorifies speed and spectacle, small places preserve the art of slowness — the grace of being.

They allow stories to breathe, people to unfold, and silence to speak.

Ponmanipudi may not appear on any map of fame. But in its lanes, I find the pulse of all humanity — love, loss, laughter, faith, folly, jealousy, anger, and forgiveness.

Perhaps that is why Dr. Chari walks unhurriedly down its roads, stopping to speak with a child, tending to a patient, or gazing at the sky as if reading invisible scriptures. He reminds me that wisdom need not roar. It can simply hum through a life well lived.

So, I write about Ponmanipudi — not because it is small, but because it is complete.

Because its stillness contains what the cities have forgotten.

Because in every humble courtyard, under every rain-washed roof, there lies a truth waiting to be told — softly, sincerely and with love.

And perhaps, someday, when the world grows tired of its own noise, it will find its way back here — to a quiet little village that has always known the sound of the soul.