About Narchol

Narchol is a Tamil word. It means a good word. A word that carries meaning, weight, and intent.

Pronounced: Nar-chol. Nar as in nurture, chol with a short o, ending softly on l.

Tamil is not just a language to me—it is my culture, memory, identity, rhythm, and resistance. It is the soil beneath everything I build. It has shaped how I think, how I argue, how I dream, and how I return to myself when the world gets loud. This space begins there.

I work in healthcare technology. It's how I make my living, and it's work I find meaningful—building systems that quietly affect whether people get care, get answers, get seen. Today, I lead a team working on AI-driven development, figuring out how to make these tools useful without losing the craft beneath them.

But I'm deeply curious about the world beyond my work: politics, social justice, poverty reduction, practical socialism, education, money, and the small choices that shape ordinary life.

Narchol is where all of that lives.

I write about technology as craft, not hype. About money and personal finance, because freedom is hard without financial clarity—and too many people are locked out by jargon and fear. About healthcare, because I've seen from the inside how systems decide who gets a fair shot.

I also write about what I love. Literally.

Love is the most beautiful thing ever known, felt, or lived. It has started wars and ended them, built temples and burned letters, made poets out of ordinary people and ordinary people out of kings. Every language has tried to capture it. None have fully succeeded. That's what makes it worth writing about.

From Kurunthogai verses that merged hearts like rain on red earth two thousand years ago, to Vaali's wordplay and Vairamuthu's imagery, to George Michael's guilty saxophone and Édith Piaf seeing the world in pink. The Sangam poets built an entire geography for love before the rest of the world had a word for it. I want to trace that thread—across languages, across centuries, across the distance between a Tamil palm leaf and a French café.

Ilaiyaraaja, who is not just a composer but a language of emotion. AR Rahman, whose music redefined what Indian sound could become. Cinema—from the south, from everywhere—where stories carry soil and politics and poetry. Movies of all kinds: slow burns, masala, noir, documentary, animation. I watch widely and unapologetically.

Books are a bloodline. I have a library that grows faster than I can read it, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Travel, food, fashion, driving—culture understood slowly, with patience and presence.

And Kerala.

They call it God's Own Country, and for once the marketing is not wrong. It is where I am most myself—the backwaters, the monsoon, the Western Ghats rising through the mist, the food that knows no restraint, the green that never ends. Tamil is my identity, but Kerala is my comfort. I return there the way others return to prayer.

This is not a publication chasing trends. It is not a content machine.

It is a personal space where I work out what I think—carefully, honestly, in the open. I'll write what I know, flag what I'm still learning, and try to say only what's worth saying.

A good word, offered sincerely. That's the intent.