Notes From Shivani

Author: Shivani

To Infinity, Beyond…. and Birds (Part 2)

Life is a movie!

Photo by Darpan on Unsplash

This post is in continuation to a previous post (To Infinity, Beyond…. and Birds (Part 1)).

Scene Three: The Bird Conference at Venice Beach

The next morning we marched to Venice Beach with umbrellas, chairs, snacks and lots of sunscreen. We were ready for round two of family magic.

As we got out of our car and headed towards the beach we saw folks coming back smiling nervously towards us. I smiled back, unaware about what’s to come.

We were expecting long stretch of golden sand, instead, we found 200-300 birds gathered on the sand. Not flying around chaotically, oh no. They were sitting and organized, like in a TED Talk.

Photo by BehindTheTmuna on Unsplash for reference, we were too scared to click our view.

They probably flew in from around the world for their seasonal Vegas style conference.

Topic: How to Scare Humans Who Just want A Beach Day

As we walked down with our gear, my body went straight into panic mode.

My vegetarian brain whispered: We are not apex predators. Abort mission.

We turned around so fast, it looked like a cartoon dust cloud.

Scene Four: Dogs At Poplar Beach

Plan B : Poplar Beach. Maybe fewer birds?

Yes..but…

Poplar beach was not kind to us as well. The cold wind slapped our faces the moment we stepped out. It was probably not the best day to wear beach shorts. Well, you live and learn.

My legs stung and my cheeks burned, and before I could settle in, I heard it,

“ALFIE! STOP, BOY!”

Photo by Bobby on Unsplash for reference as I was busy running away in my mind

I turned around and saw a 9 year old clutching an empty leash.

In front of him was a tall orange, gruff dog charging towards me, mouth open and saliva flying like a slo-mo sports replay I never wanted to star in, and definitely not without safety gear.

This may sound cute in theory, but a nightmare in practice.

A part of me screamed, “RUN!” Another part of me whispered, “Don’t run, he will think it’s a game!”

So I stood frozen, calculating my odds, thinking is this worth it? How many Dosas will it take to heal this trauma?

Scene Five: The Buffet Redemption

By 11:30 AM we surrendered and gave up on the beach. Hunger had taken over.

We drove to Mantra in Mountain View, and oh my god!

We turned our table into a monument, plates stacked like Eiffel Tower… and leaning like Pisa by the end. There were curries in all colors of the universe, baskets of Garlic Naans, Gol-Gappas that popped with spicy water, hitting the back of my throat like fireworks in Diwali.

The first bite of the crispy golden yellow dosa nearly made me cry.

The asparagus croquettes melted in my mouth like a peace treaty after war.

Plates stacked with Gulab Jamuns, rasmalais were wiped clean like a rumba just glided over them.

After escaping birds, dogs and even radios, we ate like, ironically, crazy dogs. And it was glorious.

Final Credits: Lessons From My Daughter

By the end of the day, I was drained, full and grateful.

My sister laughed through every twist, helped me at every turn and I kept hoping she is enjoying her visit despite our family comedy tour. My daughter, as always was the calmest of all. She did not care about lights, radios or dog stampedes.

She just loved the movie, loved sitting in her aunt’s lap and loved the popcorn.

When we reached home, she looked at me with total seriousness and said, “Mumma! You forgot to give me juice!”

And that was that. The final punchline of our adventure.

Moral of the story?

Don’t expect “perfect.” Perfect is boring. Go for messy, tape-covered, radio-static, bird-conference, dog-chasing, buffet-saving chaos. I understand now that the world does not owe me comfort. It offers me moments and it’s up to me to hold them with gratitude. Every smile, every frustration, every little twist stitched us closer together. Frame by frame, our own messy masterpiece.

And maybe that’s the real movie we were meant to live.

I would love to hear your messy adventures and do share if you were able to relate with mine.

December 1, 2025
To Infinity, Beyond…. and Birds (Part 1)
Life is a movie!

Photo by Darwin Vegher on Unsplash

I wrote this journal about a weekend which was spent partly at the drive-in movie theatre, partly at the beach and finally at a massive buffet.

While these moments may sound mundane on their own, at the end of my ‘adventure’, it did not feel ordinary. I was left with a swirl of unordinary feelings and thoughts and I wanted to condense them. Over time I kept writing and felt this piece became too long for a single post. Hence, you will notice that this experience of mine is split into two separate posts. Although you can read each one on it’s own, here I am, tugging at your sleeve like a little child, with a plea to read both one after the other.

I imagined our weekend, like a movie itself.

Cozy opening credits at the drive-in (watching Toy Story). Followed by a perfect sequel in the form of golden beaches and maybe a buffet for third installment finale.

But no one thought that by the end of the first half, the radio would be blasting Maroon 5 instead of Woody(a character from Toy Story), the car trunk light would be auditioning for Broadway, and my family would be one step away from being chased off the beach by 300 birds.

I pictured a golden sunset.

Popcorn tubs the size of our heads.

Fairy lights glowing in the trunk.

Cushions so comfy you would think we packed the entire living room.

And of course, Toy Story under the stars.

The goal was simple: give my sister a memory she could take back with her, something we would talk about for years. And we did get that… although let’s just say, Pixar wasn’t the only one serving plot twists that night.

Scene One: Sunset and Static

We were among the first few to arrive at the drive-in, the sky was still orange and pink. We all had that restless excitement that we get before something fun.

Then came the radio.

The instructions were pretty simple, “Tune in to frequency X.” Easy right?

I tap the screen and set the radio frequency to ‘X’.

I hear static, fuzz, and suddenly, Maroon 5 crooning, “She wiiiiiiill be looooooooved.”

A still from Toy Story at the Drive-In

My husband tries again, and this time, it’s Lady Gaga, “Pa-pa-pa-poker face pa-pa-poker face, ma-ma-ma-ma”

Meanwhile, the family next door is nodding along to Toy Story. We fiddled with every button, leaned out of our car windows with polite desperation, “Hey, are you getting the movie?” They nodded. Meanwhile we were stuck in an accidental pop concert.

I cracked a joke about Mr Potato Head being voiced by Adam Levine, but to be honest, I was tense. Me and my sister looked at each other with wide-eyes and signaled, “Is this really happening!?”. My husband finally gave up and marched off to get an actual radio.

He came back with the radio. But the tension was sky high.

Scene Two: The Battle Of The Trunk Light

With the sound sorted, you would think we could relax. Nope.

The trunk light.

It glowed like a stubborn lighthouse, ruining our dark and cozy vibes. I tried everything, menu settings, dome light off, camp setting, climate tweaks.

Nothing.

It just glared at me like, Nice try lady!

I found some tape in the car thinking we can cover it up. But it kept falling, peeling. Soon it looked like a preschool craft project, a last minute diorama.. tape hanging, paper falling, light still blazing like it’s auditioning for Broadway… and winning the role.

We kept laughing and groaning at the same time like contestants of a reality tv show who know what they have signed up for.

At one point, I had the brilliant idea to “trick the trunk”. Out came a paper clip. I poked the latch. It clicked! The light went off! Victory!

… for two glorious seconds.

Then the paperclip broke and got stuck.

Me: I broke the car.

My sister : Wide-eyed silence

My husband: Calm, heroic, pushing the paper clip out like a Tesla-surgeon.

Meanwhile, chaos was building up around me like I’m the centre of a failing ship.
1. My daughter chanted on repeat, “I need popcorn, I need popcorn”
2. My sister, half laughing, half exasperated, “I need wifi.. I need paper plate.. Where is the trash bag”
3. My husband calling from his chair outside, “The radio is not working”
And me in the middle, taped up, light blazing in my face, paperclip residue all over me.

A picture of grace.

My sister and my daughter having Poha and Popcorn with the trunk light ON

Finally we went feral on the light. Layers of tape, more tape, all the tape.

The light gave up.

The crowd ( Us and our neighbors, who were following us more than watching the movie) cheered.

It was pure comedy. Stressful in the moment but comedy gold in hindsight.

The real winner though? My daughter. She ignored all of us including the light, happily curled up in my sister’s lap, laughing jumping, clapping and enjoying Toy Story like it was the greatest night of her life.

Honestly, she was right. Kids always know how to focus on the joy.

I was too tired to eat much of the giant buttery tub of popcorn but my daughter made up for me. Her giggles were the true soundtrack of the night.

This was the part 1 of our adventure. I would love for you to read part 2 and be a part of our little adventure.

Read the second part here.

If this diary entry spoke to something quiet inside you, you might like what I’ve written here, too.

Part 2
December 1, 2025
Letters to Papa: The Man at the Corner Seat

Where I return to you one memory at a time.

Photo by Patrick Pahlke on Unsplash

My father was a simple man who lived his life brimming with NOW, everyday. Breakfast was his favorite meal of the day. He loved yogurt sprinkled with salt, cumin and Kashmiri red chili powder with almost every meal. Lunch and dinner would be incomplete for him without it.

At night when my sister and I would sneak into the kitchen to make Maggi, his head would suddenly appear from the first door. With an ear to ear smile and a sparkle in his eyes he would ask, “Arre, what are you making, one for me too!”. In those moments, food was not just food, it was comfort, togetherness, laughter and just knowing he wanted to be part of our little world and not just mold us into his.

He loved reading as much as he loved eating. Our shelves were filled with treasures: the complete Tintin collection, Rajan Iqbal, Mandrake the magician, Hardy Boys, Indian fiction, also the whole set of books related to management . He devoured comics and stories, the way he devoured his food, with absolute delight. Whenever he traveled, he brought back a mountain of books for me as gifts, as though he wanted me to inherit his appetite for books, as much as his appetite for food. My love for books and food, stems from him. He sowed the seeds for those dreams in me, just by living his joy.

Photo by omid roshan on Unsplash

At the center of our house, is a six-seat dining table. Papa always sat in the corner seat, a place that was like his throne and lookout all at once. From there, he presided over meals, conversations, laughter and also arguments.

When a meal truly delighted him, Papa had a ritual. He would lean closer towards the table, lower his head and peer over his round glasses towards mom and say with a satisfied smile,”Tripti!” or “Maza aa gaya.” Those three words carried the weight of his joy.

And he had a way of doing the same for me. When the world felt heavy, when my worries ran ahead of me, he would pull me back with the reassurance, “Tu chinta mat kar, abhi tera Baap zinda hai”. Don’t worry, your father is still here.

Somehow that one line made the ground beneath my feet, steady again.

Dad and mum

He believed in me. He always encouraged me to study. He showed me the importance of work and the importance to carve my place in this world. Never did he ever tell me that I belonged in the kitchen. Never asked me to make a single cup of Chai. Maybe that’s why, now, when I find myself cooking for my daughter, I wonder what he would think. Would he see the love and care in it?

Would he see the way I’m trying to nurture her, and still be proud of me, even though he always imagined a bigger world for me?

A part of me hopes he would smile and say, “Maza aa gaya.”

I remember his cologne, his love for scents. I remember the gentle scent that meant papa was near. I remember his warmth, his teddy bear like persona. I remember his voice in the kitchen, his presence at the tables, his books on the shelf.

Photo by Pierre Bamin on Unsplash

The kitchen is mine now, but in it’s corners and aromas, in my books and in the laughter of my little daughter, my father still lives.

And so, Papa,

In memory and in love,

I write to you.

If you have lost someone dear, what memories and rituals keep them alive in your heart?

September 6, 2025
Our Favorite Pumpkin Bread Recipe (Kid-Friendly & Full of Memories)
```
Photo by Olga Simonova on Unsplash
```
Every two minutes she pulls my hands and takes me to the oven window, “Come mama! Come! It’s Rising!”
Her and I have balcony seats to the most amazing theatre ever and the bread loaf in the tin is the star.

She presses her nose to the window pretending it’s a portal.

I pretend it is.

The cake inside is performing, just for her.

While we wait, I tell her stories from my own kitchen beginnings.

We discuss how I once spilled flour all over the floor while sieving it, how I cracked my first egg and let the shell slip in, how my first chocolate cake sank in the middle but my mom was proud anyway.

She giggles at the idea of me being small, of me not knowing.

I see myself in her.

Baking always felt extraordinary to me. The aroma that fills the house when you bake something is heavenly.

I remember coming back from school at 4:00 PM late afternoon. Throwing my bag on one corner I would head straight to the kitchen because mum promised we would bake a cake together. And I would find her there, juggling many tasks while having all ingredients measured out and ready for me to mix together.

Now I wait for my little one in the kitchen. I wait for her so we can make our little project together.

After mixing the batter, she licks the spoon just like I did, like this is a sacred tradition, passed down from generations.

In between the stories, she checks the oven window. Again.

I wipe my hands off a kitchen towel and follow her. Again.

We crouch together and peep through the oven glass. Again.

The pumpkin bread sits quietly inside, taking its time to rise.

It is golden at the edges and we see cracks beginning to form on top.

“It’s rising!”, she squeals with glee.

And I realize… I’m watching something rise too.

Not just the bread.

But, her.

Her curiosity. Her joy.

Her I-Can-Do-This attitude.

Her tiny hands, doing big things.

Her belief that anything is possible.

This is more than baking.

This isn’t just about the pumpkin bread.

It’s about a small ritual we are shaping together.

Maybe one day, she will share these memories with her little ones.

🍁

When the timer finally beeps, I put on my trusted floral yellow gloves and carefully pull the cake out of the oven.

It’s the final act of our star.

My daughter claps like it’s a birthday, declaring, ‘Sharing is caring!’.

And we sing happy birthday to each other for no reason, other than it feels right.

Later we find ourselves in the gallery on a blue rug, surrounded by fluffy cushions and in our pajamas.

We eat the warm slices of bread. Because patience has left the building.

Pumpkin spice is in the air.

If you want to find us, just follow the trail of crumbs.

The whole house smells like cinnamon and vanilla.

And love.

We baked this together, one fine long weekend.

If you would like to bring this little ritual in your kitchen, here’s my our (mine and my daughter’s) recipe.

Years from now, she might forget this recipe. But I hope she remembers us together, shoulder to shoulder, waiting for something to rise in the kitchen and in herself.
August 12, 2025
How CUPED Makes Your A/B Tests Smarter (Without Needing More Users)
Photo by Scott Graham on Unsplash

Have you ever run an A/B test and found… nothing?

No clear difference. Just noisy results that leave you wondering, “Did this even do anything?”

That’s where CUPED comes in — short for Controlled Using Pre-Experiment Data. It sounds complicated, but the idea is surprisingly simple: Use what you already know about users to get better results — faster.

So what is CUPED, in plain English?

CUPED is a way to reduce the random noise in your experiment results by using data you already have from before the experiment started.

Let’s say you’re testing a new homepage design to see if more users sign up.
You know how often each user visited your site last week, before they saw the new page.

That number (past visits) often affects how likely they are to sign up this week. CUPED uses that pattern to adjust your results so you can see the real impact of your new design, not just luck.

A simple example

You split users into two groups:
- Control: sees the old homepage
- Treatment: sees the new homepage
But what if your treatment group just happened to include more people who visited last week? They might naturally sign up more — even if the new page did nothing.

CUPED solves that by adjusting for past visits. You run a simple regression:
```
signups_this_week ~ visits_last_week
```
This gives you a coefficient (let’s call it θ, theta) showing how much past visits predict sign-ups.

Then, for each user, you subtract the part of their behavior explained by past visits.
Now you compare adjusted sign-up numbers across groups, a fairer, clearer test.
```
adjusted_signups = signups_during_test - θ * (visits_last_week - average_visits)
```
This removes the part of the outcome that’s explained just by past behavior. Now run your A/B test using these adjusted sign-up numbers.
They have less random noise, so differences between control and treatment are easier to detect.

Why use CUPED?
1. More statistical power without needing more users
2. Shorter experiments
3. Cleaner insights even with messy data
It’s especially useful when your metric is noisy or your sample size is small.

When NOT to use CUPED?

CUPED works best when your pre-experiment metric is strongly correlated with your outcome.
If it isn’t, it might not help, it could add noise.

So always test that correlation first!

Want to go deeper?

This post was inspired in part by Lyft’s blog on experimentation and Microsoft Research’s paper on CUPED: Variance Reduction in Online Controlled Experiments via Pre-Experiment Data.

Official Source:

Title: Variance Reduction in Online Controlled Experiments via Pre-Experiment Data
Authors: Ron Kohavi, Alex Deng, Brian Frasca, Toby Walker, Ya Xu, Nils Pohlmann
Link: https://www.researchgate.net/publication/237838291_Improving_the_Sensitivity_of_Online_Controlled_Experiments_by_Utilizing_Pre-Experiment_Data

CUPED is like giving your experiment a smarter starting point.
By using what you already know about your users, you can get faster answers and make better decisions with no extra data required. You’re subtracting the influence of past behavior to better isolate the true effect of your test.

If you found this helpful or want to dig deeper into data science insights, check out the Technology Blog section on NotesfromShivani, a space where I break down complex ideas in a clear, simple way. And if you’d like to connect, chat, or share your thoughts, I’m always up for a good data conversation over on LinkedIn. Come say hi!
August 2, 2025
Things That Know Me

In the hour before the light, and long after the storm.

Lately I’ve been thinking about things that truly know me.

Not the people who claim to.

Not the ones who say my name like they are announcing a verdict.

This led me to ask myself, Who knows you?

These are the things that have witnessed my light and my shadows.

The cup that remembers how I like my coffee.

The unwritten journal that waits for the version of me I aspire to become.

The window that watches me think.

This is an apothecary of those things.
An inventory of objects that have memorized me,

my scent, the songs I hum, the way I breathe when noone is looking.

My pillow knows how I cry when I turn away,
and how I tuck my feet in when the world has been too much.
It smells of lavender oil and forgotten love stories.

The ikea mug by the sink, knows the calm before the storm.

It knows the part of me that follows new year resolutions

and forgotten confessions.

It knows I dance a little brighter when noone is looking.

The Apple Music playlist titled Drive in Style knows every version of me:
The girl who stopped believing in signs.
The woman who is unbreakable.
The mother who now sings along, trying to hit every note,
because a toddler in the backseat thinks I light up the sun.

My kitchen window knows how I wait,
especially when it rains.
It has seen me be patient as the water boils or the cake rises,
and at a loss for words when I don’t pause between writing angry texts and deleting them.
It has watched me laugh, lips stained with saffron and joy.
It knows how the 6:00 AM light touches me like devotion.

My daughter’s blanket knows how I sometimes hold it even when she’s not there.
It knows the shape of my wait,
folded into its corners and stitched into sleep.

The mirror in the corner of my house knows I look into it when no one is around.
It has seen me try on outfits that no longer fit, earrings I’m never going to wear.
It knows that sometimes I stop just to check if my eyes still read like poems.

My mother’s rolling pin knows I never get the circle right.
But I try anyway.
And it understands,
sometimes love is lopsided, but love comes in different shapes.

My cracked phone case knows I scroll through memories like it’s real-time.

My reading glasses know the myths I collect like facts.
About women who turn into flames, into sky, into time.
They know how I long to turn into something, too.

My worn-out socks know the map of the house I’ve built with love.
Every tear knows a version of me that bloomed.

The drawer full of perfume samples knows the women I try to become.

Some Days I choose cinnamon and somedays Jasmine. I spray them on like spells, soft yet powerful.

My Dad’s scarf knows exactly how I hold it when I need to feel safe in the world.

The bathroom window at 6:17 AM knows how I love to shower in the dark, before the day arrives, when the sky is still indigo and house is asleep. The tree outside moves slowly like it’s reaching for me, like it remembers me from another life and finally found me.

My drafts folder knows nights I fed words instead of myself. It’s full of half-named feelings and half-baked thoughts and it accepts them as they are without a need for me to complete them.

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July 20, 2025
Beyond Rituals: Reclaiming Shakti

Reclaiming Shakti

On the quite power within us, beyond rituals

There’s a moment in every woman’s life where she begins to question, what tradition asks of her and what she wants to keep. This post is a personal reclaiming. It is not rooted in rage. It is not against the rituals, but beyond them.

Navratri celebrates Shakti, the powerful force behind creation, preservation, and destruction. For nine days, we perform rituals to honor the feminine energy and worship the Goddess in her many forms. But there’s a contradiction in this festival that we often ignore. We pray to the goddess, yet how do we treat the women and girls around us, the real living goddesses, during the rest of the year? Beyond these nine days of worship, do we truly respect and value them in our daily lives?

Today, in many places, women are still trapped by old traditions, rudhivadi prathaein that limit their freedom and choices. While they are praised in words, they face oppression in reality. During Navratri, we call little girls “devis,” but how many of them are silenced, held back, and denied their potential? Worship during the festival feels empty if it’s not followed by respect, protection, and equality in daily life.

If we think about time and space in a more cosmic sense, Navratri is like a pause—a fleeting moment where we pretend to realign with the divine feminine. But what does it mean if, once that moment is over, we return to the same broken patterns? Time is not linear; it folds back on itself. The energy we create during Navratri spreads into the universe, but so does the energy of our actions throughout the rest of the year. Worshipping the goddess for nine days doesn’t undo the harm women endure for the rest of the year.

The real celebration of Navratri would be to break free from the chains of outdated, oppressive traditions.

True praise for Shakti isn’t found in ritual alone, it’s found in how we transform our world to honor her in all forms, in every space, and across all time.

We cannot keep offering respect in these small windows while ignoring the larger flow. Until we evolve, until we truly honor her by breaking down the systems that oppress women, our prayers remain as hollow as the clay idols we immerse at the festival’s end.

Navratri is filled with rituals—teeka, dhaaga, offerings, and chants. We go through these motions, believing that by doing them, we’re connecting with the divine. But have we stopped to question what prayer truly means?

To me these are simply a series of rituals we have inherited without understanding the depth behind them.

To me, these are just rituals, comfortable gestures that make us feel like we’re doing something, even when nothing changes.

To me, the ritual has become the end itself, and the essence of prayer is lost in the noise of mantras repeated without thought.

To me, these symbolisms are supposed to complement the deeper work of meditation, self-awareness, and inner transformation.

Prayer, in its purest form is meant to expand us and help us transcend dimensions and travel across the multiverse to its origin, Shakti. And, the rituals, the teeka, the dhaaga, amongst many others, they’re reminders, small tokens to keep us grounded. But they’re meaningless if they don’t come with the real work of reflection and inner growth.

The problem is, we’ve flipped the order.

We’ve come to believe that performing the ritual is enough, that by placing a thread on our wrists or offering a flower, we’ve done our part. But true prayer starts within. It’s not about what we do on the outside, but how we evolve on the inside. Rituals are meant to be an addition to meditation, a way to support our spiritual journey, not a shortcut to bypass it.

We cannot expect to honor Shakti through empty rituals on nine days if we’re not willing to do the deeper work of changing how we live and how we treat the women around us. These nine days of prayer are supposed to be a time of transformation, a reflection of the feminine power that flows through the universe. But until we shift our focus from superficial gestures to meaningful change, we will remain stuck in this cycle of hypocrisy—worshipping goddesses in our temples while neglecting the Shakti that lives in every woman.

यत्र नार्यस्तु पूज्यन्ते रमन्ते तत्र देवताः

(Yatra naryastu pujyante ramante tatra devataah)

taken from the Manusmriti (Manusmriti 3.56)

Where women are honored, divinity blossoms there.

Have you ever quietly rewritten rituals in your life? I’d love to hear what reclaiming looks like for you.

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July 16, 2025
A Love Letter To February

” In a world that celebrates speed, February let me be still “

Dear February,

You have always been a curious month, haven’t you? Not quite winter, not quite spring, dangling like a delicate dandelion between my daydreams and dusk.

You go by swiftly, yet you hold some of my most precious moments in your embrace.

You whisper to me in ways January never could, less about resolutions and more about feelings.

You bring to me, anniversaries kissed by rain, evenings softened by candlelights and sweet excuses to lean closer and hold hands in the winter a little longer. You wrap around me like a knitted scarf that carries the smoke of last night’s campfire.

You give me moments of completeness over home-cooked meals, the kind that taste better because they were made with love.

You reminded me that even in the gray, joy can sparkle. Whether its holding my daughters tiny hands or a promise for an adventure waiting to happen past the rain, you understand me.

February, you are fleeting but not forgettable. You are love notes scribbled between the pages of my days. You are the crackle of firewood whispering into the night. You are the air that makes my cake rise. You are the rush of page turning. You remind me that a well-steeped cup of chai, a perfectly timed song, a look across the room, are the ones that stay, that matter.

So here’s to you, dear February. I’ll hold you as long as I can, before you slip away into the arms of spring.

With all my heart,

Me

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July 13, 2025