(Tamil text follows the traditional Srirangam recitational version used in devotional contexts; minor textual variants may exist across manuscripts.) உன்னை நினைந்தேன் உயிர் தெளிந்தது என்னை நினைத்தாய் என்றே உணர்ந்தேன் மன்னு அருள் உன்
If Tamil poetry were a crown, Venpa would be the diamond set right at its center—not because it sparkles loudly, but because it holds centuries of discipline, beauty, and quiet brilliance. Venpa is not a form you casually drift into. It invites you to slow down, listen carefully, and
Christmas morning in ZANABIA does not arrive quietly. It tiptoes in on fresh snow, jingles its pockets, trips over a friendly squirrel, and then laughs at itself before anyone else can. By the time the sun peeks over the pine-lined hills, the town is already awake—not because of alarms,
(Tamil text follows the traditional Srirangam recitational version used in devotional contexts; minor textual variants may exist across manuscripts.) அவனே எனக்கு எல்லாம் ஆனான் அவனே வழியும் விளக்கும் ஆனான் அவனே நின்று காத்தான் என்றேன் அவனே என்
If Woolybay Café ever decided to close its doors for a day, there would be exactly one customer who would still show up on time, scarf straightened, tail politely tucked, holding faith instead of a receipt. That customer is Blenchian—or as the entire valley affectionately calls him, Blenchy. Blenchy
Tucked just off the main wandering path of Zanabia—slightly left of “Where Was I Going?” and directly opposite “I’ll Just Have One More”—stands the Woolybay Café. It is open in all seasons, all moods, and most weather conditions except dramatic wind arguments, during which the café politely
If you ever find yourself wandering through Zanabia and notice a house that looks like it grew naturally out of a haystack, married a pine tree, and then adopted a very confident fireplace—you have arrived at the Woolybays home. Congratulations. Remove your shoes. They are probably already being judged
In ZANABIA, Christmas doesn’t arrive quietly. It tiptoes in on snow-dusted boots, knocks over a basket of yarn, borrows a scarf, and then stays for hot cacao. The bonfire crackles at the heart of town, where wings, hooves, paws, and hands circle the flames with steaming mugs held carefully—
If winter in ZANABIA had a calendar highlight, it would circle Wool Day in three colors, underline it twice, and add a tiny doodle of a mitten doing jazz hands. Celebrated on 24 December, Wool Day is not just about staying warm—it’s about staying wonderfully ridiculous while doing
Every night from November to February, ZANABIA gathers around its most reliable miracle: the bonfire. Snow falls politely. Mountains watch quietly. And for four whole months, winter is politely ignored. Standing firmly to the left—because he likes clear sightlines—is Mayor Hawthorn. Half-eagle, half-human, fully committed to public safety.
Just when ZANABIA thought it had seen everything—talking trees arguing with philosophers, winged rabbits demanding extra scarves, and ice hockey refereed by owls with spectacles—the sky cleared, the snow politely stepped aside, and they arrived. Not quietly. Never quietly. First came the banners. Big ones. Loud ones. Ones
If you ever doubt that a heart can be larger than a mountain, simply attend the Zanabia Food Fest in winter. Not for the pizza (though the pizza is legendary), not for the pretzels (twisted with philosophical intent), and certainly not for the soup (which has been known to cure