About

By Sadhika

Greetings of the day! 

Welcome aboard my ship, Dregs of Yore, a name that, at times, I've both embraced and loathed, but ultimately deemed fitting for the voyage it's primed to embark upon.

What to Expect?

A bit more on the significance of the name: 'dregs' refer to the remnants of a liquid at the bottom of a glass, along with some of its sediment. My ship pledges to navigate the treacherous waters of history, philosophy, literature, economics and religion, emerging with what some might hail as treasures and others dismiss as mere dregs. If you're in the mood for lighter fare, set sail with my music, anime, tv series recommendations and my book reviews. Also feel free to check out my writings on home and hearth on another of my blogs White Picket Fence.

Most of these are my own findings, however, I do enjoy inviting other explorers for co-authored expeditions from time to time. More about my crew can be learnt here.


Who Steers this Ship?

I am Sadhika, the captain who meticulously constructed and sailed this vessel for numerous years. Writing is both my passion and my profession. When anchored, I juggle a 9 to 5 role in the education sector (yes, I'm just as "normal" as the next person). My job is fully remote, so I frequently change my surroundings—often residing in cities but occasionally retreating to hills or beaches for months or even a year.

A writer needs to take in more than he can express, so when I'm not writing, I like to read. Some other things I love are: board games, screwball comedies, tea gardens, cafe hopping, being in charge of music at a party, Nancy Drew video games, painting, Greek mythology, cooking, gardening, waistcoats and analog watches.

To know more about me professionally, follow me on LinkedIn.

And if, for some inexplicable reason, you want to delve deeper into my personality, click here.

Land Ho!

I challenge you to venture with me on my exploits, but if you choose otherwise, set sail on your own odyssey. Sail into the waters of chaos, who knows what treasures await you? After all, a ship is not meant to linger in the harbour for too long! 

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The Last Keeper

By Sadhika
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Of late, there has been a feeling settling in my chest like dust in an empty room—soft, silent, and certain. It is the quiet realization that my memories are not permanent things. Not chiseled into stone or sealed up in iron-bound books, but written in pencil, the graphite growing faint with each passing season. I am aware, now more than ever, that what I remember will not be remembered for long. I think of my parents often. I remember my mother in her early sarees —floral, soft, like the curtains of a spring house. As the years passed, her colours dulled. Maybe they matched her age better, or maybe they just matched her mood. I see her now in my mind, young, barefoot and newly married, in a kitchen not yet hers, lifting a spoon to her mother’s lips and asking if the peas were soft enough. What was her scent like?  Turmeric?   Talcum powder? Or those white rajnigandha flowers she loved so much? I don’t remember. I think of my father and the way he used to hum when he shaved, a...
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A Village Denied

By Sadhika
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Co-authored by  Shrankhla and Sadhika on August 28, 2025 Of all the deprivations visited upon modern childhood, none is so grave and yet so little acknowledged as the absence of other people. Those of us who grew up in fuller households know what today’s children are missing. We remember weddings where ten different families would squeeze into one house, sleeping on the floor, with cousins lined up like sardines. We remember giving up one’s own bed to an elderly uncle, and waking up to the sound of aunties and uncles gossiping arguing over tea. In those homes, very little belonged entirely to us. The bed we slept on, the food on our plate, not even our stories. Someone was always listening in, correcting us, mocking us, softening our triumphs with their own, or placing a hand on our shoulders when we faltered. It was infuriating. It was also how we learned that life is not designed for any one person’s comfort—least of all a child’s. Siblings taught us this brutally and tende...
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So begins our undoing

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In rich aplomb we sit Atop the piles of gold and good That we write to our credit, When the good Lady Fortune’s scales tip And the waves of Chaos come gushing in From directions unventured, To lay waste to our kingdoms. So begins our undoing. Then a shadow confronts us To which, earlier, we became privy Only in brief flashes of thought or dream, And brushed away with impatience. The darkest among us have a still darker self Long lost and buried Beneath the best of us. The old altars lay slighted, Our ideals bear no resemblance  To the names we gave them. We are ruled by Furies aplenty. How do we rebuild our fallen kingdoms Without Divine Guidance? Somewhere along our final descent, We meet the gods we banished. A faint glow (perhaps even imagined)  Beckons across the waste yonder. Do we follow? Or do we give in to the darkness? 
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