THE DOT THAT CARRIED OUR YEARS

 

The Dot That Carried Our Years.....

Advait always says that some memories don’t grow old, they just settle into you, small and steady, like a mark life leaves on your heart. And for him, that mark has always been the tiny mole on Aditi’s left cheek, a quiet reminder of everything he’s loved and lived. 

He still remembers the day they got engaged. He was 25, trying to look confident while his palms betrayed him. Aditi walked in wearing a soft peach-colored saree, the kind that made the room feel gentler. Her cheeks glowed, and that little mole on her cheek was like a punctuation mark on a sentence. He had seen her before, but that day was something else. She looked like a star just out of the movies and her mole, ufff it was adding to the glamour. The mole left an indelible mark on Advait. 

Their early marriage was stitched together with small joys and big dreams. A cramped rented flat, a leaky tap, neighbors who argued loudly, and two people who loved loudly. Advait would wake up early just to watch her sleep, her hair scattered like swirls across the pillow. The mole rested on her cheek like a tiny star, and he would trace it with his eyes as if it were a compass guiding him through the chaos of adulthood. She would pretend to scold him for staring, but her smile always gave her away.

Life, as it does, tested them. Jobs slipped away, savings thinned, and responsibilities piled up like unwashed dishes. There were nights when they argued over bills, over exhaustion, over things that didn’t matter. But every time Advait felt himself drifting, he would look at her face. That mole, unchanged, unwavering. It always reminded him of the girl he had promised to stand beside. It became his anchor, a reminder that storms pass, but love stays if you choose it again and again. Aditi would tease him, “You love this mole more than me.” He would reply, “This mole is my pole star that leads me to you.”  And somehow, even on the hardest days, they found their way back to laughter.

When their twins were born, their home transformed into a festival of noise -crying, giggling, toys, mess everywhere. Advait would watch Aditi cradle their babies, her cheek brushing against their tiny fingers. The mole seemed to glow brighter in those moments, as if carrying the weight of new stories. Even on sleepless nights, when both of them were running on fumes, he would kiss that mole softly. It was his silent way of saying, We are in this together.

Years rolled forward. The children grew, careers steadied, and life slowed into a gentler rhythm. They began taking evening walks, not to reach anywhere, but simply to be. Advait would walk a little slower, not because of age, but because he wanted more time beside her. Sometimes he would tilt her face toward the sunset and say, “Uff, I would lay down my life for this moment, see how the light still chases your mole.” She would blush like she was still the girl in the soft peach saree.

Now, nearing 60, their love has matured into something quieter but deeper. They don't argue over small things anymore. They don't rush through their days. Their life is a collection of rituals, the morning tea, shared newspapers, soft music humming in the background. The mole now has a tiny wrinkle beside it, a gentle reminder of time’s passage. But to Advait, it has never looked more beautiful. It carries their years, their mistakes, their forgiveness, their laughter. Sometimes, when Aditi sits by the window reading, Advait walks up behind her and kisses her cheek right on the mole. She acts surprised every time.
“You’ll never stop doing that, will you?”  “Not in this life,” he says.
And for a moment, time folds, and they are young again.

On their 35th anniversary, he wrote her a letter. Not flowery, not dramatic, but just honest. He wrote about the first time he noticed the mole, how it became the symbol of everything he cherished, how it taught him that love is found in the smallest details. Aditi cried while reading it. She held his hand and whispered, “You still see me the way you did then.” Advait replied, “I see you more clearly now. The mole just reminds me where to look.”

Their journey has been long, imperfect, and beautifully human. They still tease each other, still hold hands when no one is watching, still find reasons to laugh. Advait believes love isn’t built on grand gestures, but it is built on tiny rituals, quiet forgiveness, shared burdens, and a little bit of appreciation and acknowledgement every time. The small mole has carried decades of devotion.

Tonight on their anniversary, as they sit on their balcony watching the sky darken, the warm light from the balcony lamp falls gently on Aditi’s face. The mole glows softly, like it remembers every chapter they have lived. Advait reaches out, touches it with the tenderness, and whispers, “This little mark has been my home.”

Aditi leans her head on his shoulder, her breath steady, her eyes soft. In that moment, their entire journey feels complete, held together by one small but beautiful truth:

The dot didn’t just carry their years. It carried their love.

THE ILLUSION INDUSTRY

 

The Illusion Industry.....

Social media today is not just a platform, it is a battlefield of narratives, a marketplace of illusions, a theatre where truth is optional and performance is everything. It doesn’t just reflect society; it distorts it, stretches it, and sometimes breaks it. In this world, a ring light becomes a halo, a microphone becomes a magic wand, and a curated backdrop becomes a throne. Authority is no longer earned, it is staged.

Influencers have become the new high priests of this digital temple. They speak with the confidence of scholars and the certainty of prophets, even when their knowledge is stitched together from half‑read articles, AI‑generated summaries, and trending hashtags. Their charisma becomes their qualification. Their tone becomes their evidence. Their confidence becomes their credential.

And the audience is hungry, restless, overwhelmed and believes them, believes them blindly. Not because the information is true, but because it is delivered beautifully. Because it is packaged like wisdom. Because it feels easier to trust a familiar face on a screen than to dig for facts in a world drowning in noise. This is how misinformation wins. Not through malice, but through convenience. Not through conspiracy, but through carelessness. A single unverified claim, spoken with conviction, can travel farther than a well‑researched truth. Lies sprint. Facts crawl.

We experience see this almost every day and across every topic. Be it politics, motivation, relationships, vaastu, feng shui, health, finance and what not. The more dramatic the claim, the faster it spreads. The more emotional the message, the deeper it sinks. People don’t share what is accurate; they share what is exciting. And excitement is the currency of the algorithm.

Take any incident which happens. How quickly the digital mob forms, FIR is filed, and within minutes, influencers begin dissecting the story, assigning motives, creating narratives, and passing judgments. No investigation, no clarity, just instant outrage, instant theories, instant verdicts. The incident becomes content. The man becomes a headline. The truth becomes irrelevant. This is the brutality of social media: it does not wait for facts. It does not care for context. It does not pause for fairness. It rewards the loudest voice, not the most informed one. And once a narrative takes hold, it becomes almost impossible to reverse. A rumor repeated enough times becomes a belief. A belief repeated enough times becomes a truth. A truth repeated enough times becomes a weapon.

Motivational influencers oversimplify life into slogans. Relationship gurus reduce human complexity into clichés. Vaastu and feng shui “experts” turn ancient traditions into viral superstition. Everyone is selling certainty in a world built on uncertainty. Everyone is performing wisdom instead of practicing it.

The real tragedy is not that influencers mislead, but that audiences surrender their judgment so easily. We mistake confidence for competence. We confuse aesthetics with authenticity. We let algorithms decide what we should think, feel, fear, and believe. In this economy of attention, misinformation is not an accident, but a business model.

To survive this digital chaos, we need more than digital literacy and digital courage. The courage to question what feels convenient. The courage to pause before reacting. The courage to verify before believing. The courage to accept that truth is often slow, quiet, and uncomfortable. Influencers too must recognize the weight of their words. Audiences must recognize the limits of their screens. 

And all of us must remember that truth does not shout, it whispers. The truth does not trend, it endures. It does not go viral, it survives the noise. Just as a slow‑cooked meal takes time, patience, and real ingredients not like an instant packet meal which is quick, flashy, and convenient, but rarely nourishing.

AE ZINDAGI GALE LAGA LE

 

Ae ZIndagi Gale Laga Le..... Advait was humming the popular song from the film "Sadma", his all time favorite. 

The winter sun filled the room with a soft glow. Cool breeze touched Advait’s face as he sat in his old armchair, ready to lose himself in the comfort of his favorite book. In the carpeted reading room a glass paneled cupboard with neatly arranged rows of books stood tall, a large teakwood table upon which a reading lamp was casting it's light. A intricately carved wooden tray held a glass full of water and a jug beside it. A brass elephant stood guard at the center of the table. These had been his companions since many years now and this room was his all time favorite retreat. A neatly framed faded family photo hung on the wall like a memory frozen in time and the wallpaper on the walls made it more elegant and inviting. Stepping into this room was like going back in time. The room was quiet, still, and calm. The only sounds which filled it were Advait's singing and the breeze from the window.

Advait picked up his reading glasses, cleaned them carefully, and held them against the light. A gentle smile crossed his face. He murmured, “Ae Zindagi, my friend, my companion. You may have dimmed my eyes, but you have given me the gift of seeing life clearly and that too in full HD. Come here, sit with me for a while. Just look at us, we have carried the weight of decades together. It feels like yesterday when we began this noisy, clumsy journey. Now that you and me have aged quite a bit, I just want to sit in silence with you for a while. No accounts left to settle, only memories to share. What a journey you’ve been.”

Advait’s voice grew tender, “A big Thank you for the small joys. The smell of the first rain on the hot earth. The taste of home cooked meals, the warmth of a loving family. and a roof over my head. Thank you for guiding me through the challenges of school and college with wisdom.  You gave me light when I needed it most, and I will never forget that. You taught me how to fold disappointment into lessons - Thank you. You remember the mornings I thought I would go out and change the world? I raced out, angry at the slow world, and you with your patience held me in check. You showed me and made me realize that the world was here before me and I owed it to the world. You gave me the realization that most victories in life are tiny: a phone call returned, a warm hug from a loved one, a dish washed without complaint, a promise kept to myself."

Advait paused, then chuckled softly, “But let’s be honest, Zindagi. You were a terrible planner. Why did loneliness strike when I was surrounded by people? Why did you throw me onto rough roads when smooth ones were right there? Do you remember that big order for which I had worked for countless nights? You gave it to someone else. It did feel cruel, unfair at that point.”

His tone grew firm, yet grateful, “But I must say - Thank you, those stings shaped me. They burned away illusions and built resilience. I wouldn’t be who I am today without those fires. You made me stronger. You gave me treasures too. A adorable family without which I would be a boat drifting in rough waters. There were people who loved me and people who left like seasons. I sit with those memories now and I don't want to change anything. Some goodbyes still give me a lump in my throat, and some embraces feel like warm rooms I can step into again in a dream. You let me carry their names like coins in my pocket; they jingle when I walk and remind me I once mattered fiercely to someone else. You taught me that love isn’t about holding on, but about cherishing the time we share under the same sun.” 

Advait sighed, “I wish you had pushed me harder that one time in college. I wish I hadn’t wasted so much energy worrying about things that never happened. The sleepless nights, the unknown fears - they were heavy. But they taught me to value peace. Those quiet mornings with hot chai, the newspaper, and the birds singing. That’s when you whispered the deepest truths. That’s when I really found myself. There were places I never went and things I never said, and sometimes I think of them like unwritten letters. You have always answered me with a patient smile and told me that absence makes space for other things - a small habit, a new friendship, a quiet Sunday ritual. I found strength in the simplest routines. You laugh when I call those moments 'LITTLE,' and you made me realize that little is where most of living actually happens. You reminded me that a life is not a checklist but a living room where people keep moving in and out.” 

As the evening grew quieter. Advait’s voice trembled, “Now, as the story of my life seems to end, I’m scared. Scared to lose you. You’ve been my only friend from the first breath to the last. You have seen every mistake, every triumph. I am sorry for the times I hurried you, for the impatience that made us both tired. I don't know how long I have left to speak aloud these memories, but I know the shape they have made inside me. They are not perfect, but they  are special. I am more tender than I expected to be, more honest than I planned, and oddly proud of a life that kept showing up even when I didn't. It feels strange to know that the sun setting today might not rise for me tomorrow. But there’s relief too. The race is over. The duty is done. No more deadlines, no more bills. Just calm. It's like sinking into the softest bed after a lifetime of hard work. The aches are fading. The questions in my head are silent. The journey is complete.” 

Advait closed his eyes for a moment, his voice soft but steady, “Thank you, Ae Zindagi. For every breath, every tear, every laugh. You were messy, you were glorious, but you were mine. And I wouldn’t trade a second of it. I love you, my friend.”

"Ae ZIndagi Gale Laga Le..... Advait continued to hum.

ENDLESS STEPS

 

Endless Steps.....

Little did I realize that the early morning rush for office and the usual ride to the bustling railway station would leave me with a LIFE LESSON. As I alighted from the auto hastily walking towards the station and joining the the stream of people to take the flight of automated stairs - THE ESCALATOR. The air thick with the smell of iron tracks and hurried footsteps. The crowd surged like a restless tide, each person chasing their own destination. As I stepped onto the escalator, the metallic steps carried me upward with a steady hum. For a moment, I felt detached from the chaos around me, as though the machine had lifted me into a quiet stream of thoughts. Watching the endless rhythm of the steps, I realized: this escalator was more than a convenience, it was a metaphor for life itself.

The escalator runs in a loop, its steps appearing and disappearing, my journey on it is limited to the portion I can see and experience. Isn't Life too like that? The larger cycle of existence continues endlessly, but each of us only travels a small visible stretch. We step on, we move along, and eventually, we step off. The machine goes on, indifferent to our presence, just as time does.

Some people rush on the escalator, climbing faster than the moving steps, eager to reach the top. Others stand still, letting the machine carry them at its pace. In life, too, some are restless, some striving to reach somewhere, while others are content to be carried by the flow. Neither of them is wrong, it is simply a matter of temperament, of how one chooses to experience the ride. I noticed a child laughing as the escalator lifted him upward, while an elderly man clutched the rail nervously, afraid of losing his balance. The same journey, the same machine, but two entirely different reactions. Does Life not offer us identical situations - birth, growth, decline? But our feelings, our fears, and our joys make each passage unique.

The escalator does not stop for anyone. If you hesitate too long at the entrance, you risk stumbling. Life too demands courage to step forward. We cannot wait forever at the threshold of decisions; the moving steps remind us that time will not pause until we are ready. At the top, people disperse in different directions - toward trains, exits, or platforms. The escalator does not decide where they go; it only delivers them to a point. Isn't Life similar? It carries us through stages, but the choices of direction are ours. The machine is neutral, but our paths are personal.

I thought about the endless loop beneath me. Even after I step off, the escalator continues, carrying others. Isn't Life like that too. Generations come and go, but the larger rhythm of existence remains. My journey is only a fragment of a vast cycle, yet it feels complete because it is mine. There is a strange humility in realizing that the escalator does not remember me. It does not care whether I was joyful or anxious while riding. Life, in its grand scale, is much the same. The universe does not record our emotions, but we ourselves carry the meaning of our ride. 

As I reached the top and stepped off, I had understood and learnt a lesson. The escalator had shown me that life is both endless and limited, impersonal yet deeply personal. It is a machine that runs forever, but our experience of it is brief and precious.

As I walked toward my train, the crowd swallowing me once again, but my mind lingered on the escalator. It had whispered a truth: life is not about stopping the endless loop, but about embracing the ride we are given. The steps will keep moving long after we are gone, yet our journey matters because it is ours. To ride with courage, to step off with dignity and that's the art of living.

The escalator of life never stops, but it's our task to step with courage and depart with grace. We are echoes in motion, fleeting yet distinct and our notes enduring within the timeless harmony of life’s song.

PHOTO - SHOP

 Photo - Shop

It was a quiet Tuesday afternoon when Advait walked into "Dorabji's Photo World" a small photo studio tucked inside the lanes of Girgaum between a bakery and a tailor shop. The place had an old-world charm. Faded portraits of couples, mustached sethjis and family pictures adorned the walls, a dusty camera stand in the corner, and a faint smell of old photographic paper and photo chemicals lingering in the air. He had come to get a passport-size photo clicked, nothing fancy, just something which he needed for some documents.

As he waited for the photographer to set up the camera, his eyes wandered to a laminated rate card pinned to the wall. It read:

50 for 12
80 for 12
110 for 12

The numbers were the same in quantity, but the prices puzzled him. Curious, he turned to the photographer and asked, “What’s the difference between these three?”

The photographer, Dorabji  - a man in his late fifties with a kind face and a calm voice, smiled and explained, “The first one is a normal photo - just as you are. The second one includes basic touch-ups - blemishes removed, skin tone lightened. And the third one, well, that’s the deluxe version. We use filters, AI sharpening, and effects to make you look... perfect.”

Advait pondered and chuckled softly and said, “I’ll go with the first one. Just the normal one.” Dorabji raised an eyebrow, a little surprised. “Most people go for the second or third. Are you sure?” he asked. “You’ll look much better in those.”

Advait nodded, still smiling. “Hmmm yeah, I’m sure. You know, just looking at that rate card made me think... this is exactly how we live our lives now. We are constantly upgrading ourselves  -  not for us, but for others.”

Dorabji paused, intrigued. Advait continued, “We post pictures on social media with filters, with perfect lighting, perfect smiles, perfect backgrounds, perfect settings, everything just perfect. But inside, we are not always happy. Sometimes we are broken, sometimes we are tired. But we hide it all behind a filter, just like that third option.”

Advait leaned back in the chair and sighed. “We buy the latest phones, the flashiest cars, we go to fancy restaurants - not because we really want to, but because we want others to see it. We want to be seen, to be liked, to be admired. Even when we travel, it’s more about the pictures than the experience. It's about the likes and comments.”

Dorabji nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “That’s true,” he said. “People come here for wedding shoots, birthday shoots, even baby shoots, and half the time, they’re more concerned about how it will look on Instagram rather than how they actually feel in the moment.”

Advait smiled again, but this time it was tinged with sadness. “Exactly. We are not making memories anymore. We are manufacturing moments. We are not living for ourselves, we are living to impress a world that doesn’t even know who we really are.”

There was a long silence between them. The only sound was the soft hum of the studio lights. Dorabji said, “Dikra, You know, people hardly ever say that to me. Most people just want to look better. But you... you want to be real.”

Advait nodded. “Yeah. I think it’s time we stop hiding behind filters. It's time we start accepting ourselves as we are, our flaws and all. Life is too short to be lived for someone else’s approval.”

The camera clicked. A simple photo. No edits. No enhancements. Just a man, as he was - real, raw, and quietly brave in a world obsessed with appearances.

Photoshop.....

"Where we edit pictures - and sometimes, our lives."

REINVENTING ADVAIT

 

Reinventing Advait............

On the fourth day of his solo trip through the quiet lake trek near Uttarkashi which offered solitude and scenic views, Advait found himself atop a quiet mountain, the sky appeared to be only a few feet away from where he stood. The trek had been long, winding through mossy trails and whispering forests, but the reward was sublime, a panoramic view of layered hills fading into mist, the air crisp and laced with the aroma of eucalyptus. He dropped his backpack, sat on a flat rock warmed by the sun, and let silence settle around him like a warm shawl.

Advait had always been a man of structure - meticulous notes, spreadsheets, schedules, and neatly folded shirts. But something had shifted in him lately. The mountain, with its unhurried rhythm and unapologetic wildness, mirrored the disarray he had been feeling inside. He closed his eyes and asked aloud, “What am I really chasing?” The question hung in the air, unanswered, until a voice which was his own, but different, responded, “Maybe not what, but who.”

He chuckled, surprised by the clarity of that thought. “Who then? I’ve been Advait the manager, the husband, the father. Is there someone else?” The voice within replied, “There’s Advait the wanderer. The one who scribbles his thoughts in pieces of paper, in the vast notebooks of the mind, who once dreamed of building a farmhouse with a winding dusty road tucked away deep in the cover of trees, who feels more alive watching the clouds and the flowing stream than closing deals.” Advait felt a strange warmth in his chest, like meeting an old friend he had forgotten.

The conversation deepened. He remembered his childhood in the suburbs of Bombay, climbing the big stacks of hay in the cattle farm behind his school, running and playing in the narrow lanes and drawing maps of imaginary farmhouses. He remembered the thrill of his first solo cycle ride, the wind in his hair, the sense of boundless possibility. “I buried that boy under responsibilities,” he murmured. “But he’s still breathing. I can feel him now.” The mountain seemed to nod in agreement, the breeze kissing his cheek like a beloved lover.

Advait stood up and walked to the edge of the ridge. Below was the river snaking through the valley like a silver thread. “I’ve lived like a dam,” he said, “holding back dreams, emotions, even tears. But maybe it’s time to be the river.” The voice inside him laughed gently. “You already are, its just that you forgot how to flow.”

He sat again, this time cross-legged, and pulled out a small notebook he had carried but never used. The pages were blank, but his mind wasn’t. He began to write, not plans or to-do lists, but reflections, sketches, fragments of a story. Each word on the paper felt like a stone lifted from his chest. “This is me,” he whispered. “Not the polished version. The raw, real one.”

As the sun dipped lower, painting the sky in hues of amber and rose, Advait felt a shift, not in the world, but in himself. He wasn’t escaping life; he was rediscovering it. The mountain hadn’t given him answers. It had given him permission, the permission to question, to feel, to change. “I’m not just Advait the achiever,” he said. “I’m Advait the seeker.”

He stayed until the stars began to peep from the grey sky, each one a quiet witness to his transformation. When he finally descended the mountain, he carried no souvenirs but only a new sense of self. The man who had climbed up was not the same as the one who came down. He was lighter, fuller, more whole.

Back at his homestay, he didn’t rush to check emails or plan the next leg of his journey. Instead, he brewed tea, sat by the window, and watched the moon rise. The solo trip wasn’t about solitude anymore, it was about reunion. Advait had met someone on that mountain. Himself. And he liked who he found.

As the steam curled from his cup and the moonlight spilled across the tiled floor, Advait’s thoughts turned inward again, this time toward the people he loved but felt most distant from. His wife, once his confidante and co-dreamer, now seemed like a stranger across a chasm of silence. He remembered their early days - the shared laughter, the soft pecks, the longing for each other, the unspoken words. But somewhere along the way, the warmth had cooled, replaced by clipped conversations and unspoken resentments. “We stopped seeing each other,” he whispered, “even when we were in the same room.”

The hurt wasn’t one-sided. He knew he had retreated into work, into his friends, into the safety of routine. But he also knew that others had meddled - friends who sowed doubt, relatives who judged without knowing, voices that whispered poison into already fragile spaces. “They saw our cracks and widened them,” he thought bitterly. “And I let them.” The realization stung, but it was honest. He hadn’t fought hard enough to protect what mattered.

His children now felt distant, like faint reminders of a once joyful connection. Now, they barely spoke unless necessary. Their words were laced with sarcasm, anger, resent and their eyes guarded. “They think I don’t care,” Advait murmured, “but I care too much. I just didn’t know how to show it when everything was falling apart.” The guilt sat heavy on his chest, a weight he had been carrying silently for years.

He had tried in many ways to mend things - apologies, gestures, attempts at conversation, but the walls had grown thick, layered with misunderstandings, misinterpretations and one sided information. Every effort felt like shouting into a void. And the taunts, subtle digs, dismissive tones, repeated reminders of his failures had begun to chip away at his spirit. “I’m not made of stone,” he thought. “I feel every word, every glance. I just don’t show it.”

Physically, the toll was visible. Sleepless nights, a persistent ache in his back, a fatigue that no amount of rest seemed to cure. Emotionally, he felt like a man adrift, yearning for connection but afraid of rejection. “I’ve become a ghost in my own home,” he admitted. “Present, but unseen. Heard, but not listened to.” The mountain had given him clarity, but it was not able to erase the pain.

In this reflection, there was a flicker of hope. The notebook beside him held more than words, it held intention. “Maybe I can write my way back,” he thought. “Not to who I was, but to who I want to be.” He imagined sharing his thoughts with his wife, his children - not as a plea, but as a window into his heart. Vulnerability had always scared him, but now it felt like the only path forward. The lion had to show his underbelly, let his guard down. That was the only way he could win recover that was lost. Of course he was not expecting instant healing. The gorge was deep, and the bridges fragile. But he could start with honesty with showing up, not as the perfect father or husband, but as Advait the seeker. The one who had climbed a mountain not to escape, but to remember. “I’ll try again,” he said aloud, voice steady. “Not because I’m strong, but because I still believe in us.”

Outside, the moon hung low, casting silver shadows across the quiet courtyard. Advait sipped the last of his tea and gently closed the notebook, its pages now etched with reflections. Tomorrow, he would call home - not armed with answers, but open with vulnerability. The journey wasn’t ending; it was just beginning. A new beginning.

His thoughts, like beads, continued to string themselves into a necklace of clarity and intention. And as the first light of dawn kissed the horizon, Advait understood: he couldn’t rewrite the past, but he could shape the story of what came next. 

With every breath, he chose courage over comfort, truth over silence, and love over pride. This wasn’t a retreat from life but it was a return. A return to feeling. To healing. To becoming. This was the quiet, powerful start of something deeper.

This was the moment of Reinventing Advait.