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.

THE JOURNEY WITHIN THE JOURNEY

 

The Journey Within The Journey......

The clock on my phone looked at me: 08.01 AM. The peak of rush hour. I was standing on the foot over bridge waiting for the indicator to display the status of my 08.14 AM train. The view from above was overwhelming. The massive structure of the station, the colored tin sheets neatly arranged and well spread. The station platform, a sea of people, all with the same singular purpose, to get into the train. It was like a giant ant colony. The atmosphere was charged, a hum of anticipation that felt almost electric. The Mumbai local. Just the name can send a shiver down a person's spine. It's not a train; it's a living, breathing beast of steel and humanity, and I was about to face it.

"The train arriving on platform number 5 is a fast local for Churchgate..." I dashed towards the platform without even hearing the complete announcement. Quickly alighting the concrete and granite steps, clutching my bag pressing it close to my chest, a treasure chest which contained a laptop, my lunch, my bottle and some important papers. My ammunition for the day. It was 08.10 and the train roared into the station. Everything and everyone froze. All eyes aiming their respective targets. It appeared as if a war attack was about to commence. No sooner the train slowed down the soldiers charged in unison. It was a coordinated assault. The people barging in and aiming with precision to grab their thrones. It was a brutal dance, a struggle for space. I took a deep breath, braced myself, and joined the fray.

The first step was a plunge into the unknown. I was pushed from behind, pulled from the side, and squeezed from every direction. It was like being swallowed whole. For a moment I was feeling like an astronaut, weightless and free falling. My feet barely touched the ground. I was just a part of the collective mass, moving forward by sheer, unyielding pressure. I could feel the bodies around me, the warmth of countless strangers, the faint scent of sweat and cologne. It was overwhelming, suffocating. I felt a moment of panic, a whisper of a thought: I can't do this. But now there was no turning back. The crowd had a momentum of its own. I was carried along, a leaf in a furious current. I finally managed to get one foot inside the train, then the other, and with a final shove, I was in. Wow what an achievement. I was enclosed inside a metal box of humanity. The feeling of relief was so intense it was almost dizzying. I had survived the ingress.

Now came the next challenge: finding a place to exist. The carriage was jam-packed. It was less of a space and more of a single, solid block of flesh and bone. I had to create my own space, a tiny island of personal territory in a sea of strangers. I wedged myself between a man holding a briefcase and one with a fairly large bag. My elbows were tucked in, my shoulders were tight, and my feet were almost floating. It was an awkward, uncomfortable position, but it was my position. I had made it. I was in. Sharp 08.14, and the train started it's journey. The pressure felt a bit eased for a moment. This was my moment of liberation till the next station. The buzz in the compartment began to rise.

From my bunker I glanced around, to survey the landscape of the crowded train. It was fascinating. Everyone was in a similar state of discomfort, yet they were all holding on, finding their own unique way to survive. Some people were standing, their arms stretched high above their heads, gripping the overhead handles with a kind of grace. Their bodies swayed with the train's motion, a constant dance. Others leaned against the train's walls, their faces calm and composed, as if this was the most natural thing in the world. I saw a group of men huddled together, sharing a laugh about something, their faces all lighted up and engrossed in conversation, made it seem like they weren't in a cramped metal box but a spacious drawing room.

The Mumbai local if observed carefully, shows you so many colors and contrasts. A man stood near me, an elderly gentleman, his face etched with countless wrinkles. He was holding onto a handle, his hands bony and worn out. He wasn't sitting, he wasn't particularly comfortable, yet there was a soft, contented smile on his face. His eyes were closed, and he seemed to be lost in some peaceful memory. He was standing in a place of zero comfort, surrounded by noise and restlessness, yet happy. Content.

Just a few feet away, a young woman sat by the window. She had a seat, the most coveted prize on the local. The breeze from the open window ruffled her dark brown hair. She had space, she had comfort, she had the luxury which everyone standing would be envious of. But her face wore a mask of dissatisfaction. Her forehead was creased like a fieldhad which had just been ploughed, her lips were pulled into a tight line, and she kept sighing, a soft, weary sound lost in the general din. She had it all, at least, all that the train could offer, yet she was unhappy.

This was the first thought that truly hit me. The simple, harsh truth. Happiness isn't a product of circumstance. It isn't about whether you were standing or sitting. It is an internal state. The old man, standing, was at peace. The young woman, sitting, was not. The train was teaching me a lesson, a lesson I had somehow forgotten in my life outside this metal cage.

The most profound thing about the Mumbai local is the absolute lack of ego. Out here, on the platform, we are all different. We have our jobs, our social statuses, our different clothes, and our different accents. We have our pride. But on the train, all of that disappears. There's no space for it. You are a body among bodies. You lean on a stranger, your shoulder brushes against someone else’s, and no one flinches. There’s a quiet understanding, a shared struggle. People will adjust to adjust you, accommodate you. There's no judgment, just a collective, wordless agreement: We are all in this together. And this triggered a the question in my mind, a little whisper that grew into a shout. Why can't we be like this in our life? Why does every day outside this train feel so filled with ego, with judgment, with a need to be better than everyone else? We are so careful about our personal space, so protective of our little bubbles, but here, our bubbles are popped the moment we step inside. And somehow, it's liberating.

The train rattled on, a constant, rhythmic shake and sway. We passed station after station, and at each one, the human puzzle reconfigured itself. Some got off, some got on, and the space shifted. That's when it happened. The man who had been sitting on the seat opposite the unhappy young woman suddenly stood up. Probably he had reached his destination. The seat was free. I watched in amazement. There was a small, almost unnoticeable gap of maybe a second. A moment of opportunity. The train was still crowded, and there were at least five people standing around the now-vacant seat. But there was a gentleman standing right in front of it, probably in his early fifties, with a slightly tired expression on his face. His eyes lit up. He didn't look left or right. He didn't hesitate. He didn't ask anyone, "Do you want this seat?" He swiftly moved and plonked himself down in that seat. There was no negotiation, no polite hesitation. No, "After you, please." There was just a pure, unadulterated focus on a single, clear goal: get a sitting space. It was the most beautiful, honest thing I had seen. He achieved his goal. He leaned back against the seat, a small smile on his face, and took a deep, satisfied breath. The beauty about the whole thing was none of the people around him reacted. They just accepted whatever just happened. No ego, no judgement, no claims.

This was another lesson, and it was even more profound than the earlier. In our lives, we are so incredibly choosy. We spend hours, days, years deliberating over decisions. We need to find the perfect job, the perfect partner, the perfect apartment, the perfect coffee. We are constantly searching for the "better" option, paralyzed by the fear of making the wrong choice. We are always looking for more. We want a menu of options, and we want to try them all, to sample and compare and find the one that is absolutely, unequivocally the best. But what if, like that man, we just saw an opportunity and took it? What if we just accepted what came our way and made the best of it? In reality the process of choosing has become a perpetual cycle of hope and disappointment, so much that we become stuck, unable to commit to anything because we wait for something else, something more perfect, just around the corner. But in real life that almost never happens. Its like someone standing on the platform, letting five packed trains go by, because he is waiting for one with an empty seat. Exactly like this we wait for the circumstances to be perfect, which never happens and does that not apply to our relationships? We are so choosy, so intent on finding "the one," that we almost always miss the people who are right in front of us. While waiting for the perfect person to appear, a perfectly good human has got off the train at the earlier station.

The man who took the seat on the train didn't have a choice. He had one option: the seat. It was there. It was available. And he took it. He made the best of what was offered. The seat wasn't new, it was probably hard and a little dusty, but it was a seat, and it was a thousand times better than standing. He didn’t think, "What if a better seat is available at the next station?" He didn't worry if the person who just got up was the perfect person to share a seat with. He just accepted the moment.

This made me feel a deep, aching sadness. Have too many choices spoiled us? We are so used to an endless buffet of options, from what to watch on our smart TVs to what kind of person to date, that we've lost the ability to just be present. We've lost the ability to find joy in what's right in front of us. We are constantly in a state of 'what if,' a state of FOMO - the fear of missing out. The Mumbai local, with its single-minded purpose and its lack of choice, was a powerful antidote to that. It was a place where you either got on the train, or you didn't. You either took the space that was available, or you didn't. There was no room for indecision.

I felt a pang of nostalgia for a time, a time when life was simpler. My grandparents, for example, didn't have a million career choices. They often took the job that was available in their village or town, and they built their lives around it. They didn't have endless options for a life partner. They often married someone from their community, someone they knew, and they worked on making that relationship a success. There was a certain peace in that. A certain solidity.

Another incident took me closer to life. A young boy, maybe seven or eight, was standing with his father. He was fidgeting, looking for a place to sit. An older woman saw him and patted the tiny space next to her. It was a space so small, no adult would have even considered it. But the boy didn't hesitate. He wiggled his way in, a perfect fit for the small gap. No questions asked, no choices considered. He just took it. He was a miniature version of the man who took the seat. And in that moment, in his small act of acceptance, he found comfort. He leaned against his father, his eyes closed, and seemed to fall asleep.

The steel beast was a lesson in humility, too. The train doesn't care who you are. The CEO of a company is just as squashed and sweaty as the chaiwala. They share the same air, the same struggle, the same destination. There are no judgments about how you hold on, or how you stand, or what you're wearing. All that matters is that you're there. You've made it. It's a great equalizer. It forces you to shed the layers of ego and the false appearances that we so carefully build in our lives. It strips you down to your most basic form: a person trying to get from one place to another.

The train began to slow down as we approached my station. A sense of dread mixed with relief. The journey was almost over. The lesson was almost complete. The moment I alight from the metal box, the spell will be broken. I would step back out into the world of choices and expectations, a world where everyone is on their own, a world of "me first."

I braced myself for the final push, the struggle to get off the train. It was just as brutal as getting on. The wave of people coming in was just as strong. I had to push, and be pushed. I had to say, "Excuse me," and "One minute, please," and "Bhaiya, thoda aage badho." The train wasn't finished teaching me. It was reminding me that life is a constant push and pull, a constant negotiation.

I finally stepped onto the platform, and the cool air hit me. It was a stark contrast to the humid, dense air of the train. I stood there for a moment, just breathing, feeling the space around me. The crowd on the platform was still dense, but it was manageable. It was a different kind of chaos, an organized chaos. I walked toward the exit, my mind still reeling from the past hour.

The journey on the local was more than just a commute. It was a pilgrimage. It was a journey into the heart of humanity, a brutal but beautiful lesson in acceptance, humility, and the simple joy of finding your place in the world. The man who took the seat, the old man who was happy standing, the little boy who found comfort in a small space—they were my teachers. They didn't choose the perfect situation. They just chose to be in the situation they were in.

I walked out of the station and onto the street. The world outside was full of light and noise. Taxis honked, people shouted, and the smell of street food filled the air. I had a hundred choices. I could walk, I could take a rickshaw, I could get a cab. I could eat at the expensive restaurant or the street stall. I could go home and complain about my day, or I could appreciate the simple fact that I was home.

I stopped for a moment, in the middle of all the choices. I looked up at the sky, at the blue canvas and I felt a quiet sense of peace. I smiled to myself, a small, grateful smile. I had arrived. And I had learned something. The Mumbai local, the beast of steel and humanity, had not just taken me home; it had shown me the way. It had given me a new kind of freedom—the freedom to be content, even when life is a little bit of a squeeze.

BAPPA...HE LISTENS

 

Bappa..... He Listens

Raju Kaka, the celebrated Ganesha idol master artist as they called him, sat alone in his workshop, the creator and the creator in dialogue. This was the place where he had been working since almost 30 years now, a legacy handed down to him by his father. Every monsoon season was spent in the workshop crafting one of the finest idols. The Ganapati Festival had begun, and the streets outside were bursting with color and sound, the drums echoing through narrow lanes, children and adults dancing with energy, and families carrying idols with pride and devotion. The atmosphere inside the workshop was a stark contrast to the outside, a pin drop silence and everything was still as if time had forgotten its duty. The shelves that once held rows of clay Ganeshas were nearly bare. Only a few remained which were unsold and some chipped. Raju Kaka glanced around slowly. One idol had a broken tusk, another had a crack across its belly. A smaller one had lost its crown in the rush of packing. 

Sitting in one corner was a fairly large idol, placed on a wooden base near the window. It was his favorite. Crafted with extra care, painted with soft strokes, subtle colors and eyes full of kindness. “They did not choose you, Bappa,” Raju Kaka said softly, brushing a bit of dust off the idol’s shoulder. “I thought you were the one who would go first.” The idol didn’t reply, all it did was smile. Raju Kaka had spent so many hours talking to it while shaping its form, that silence felt familiar. He sat down beside it, legs folded, and his back slightly arched. “You know, Bappa,” he began, “these days people want the biggest idol. Not the one with the softest eyes or the most peaceful smile. Just the biggest. They want to show off. Loud music, flashy lights, big crowds. Is that what devotion looks like now?” He paused, listening to the distant beat of drums outside. “But not everyone is like that,” Bappa seemed to tell Raju Kaka. “Some come here with quiet voices and folded hands. They tell stories as how their grandparents started the tradition ofgetting my idol and celebrate by singing aartis and bhajans every morning, how they were taught the art of making modaks. Have you not noticed, they ask for small idols, the ones they can place in their living rooms. They don’t want noise. They want memories.” Raju Kaka nodded in agreement. 

He stood up and walked to the broken idol with the chipped trunk. He touched it gently, as if it were a wounded child. “I wish people cared more about what happens after the visarjan,” he said. “They throw you in the water and forget. Some don’t even wait for the proper rituals. Just dump and go. You deserve better, Bappa. You are not just decoration.” He returned to his seat and wiped his face with a cloth. The air smelled of clay, paint and incense. “I still remember when I was a boy,” he said. “My father used to make idols too. He always said you listen better, than most humans. I think he was right.” He chuckled softly. “You never interrupt. You just stay, you are always there even when everyone has left.”

Outside, someone burst a firecracker. Raju Kaka didn’t flinch. “Do you think people will change?” he asked. “Will they remember why they bring you home? Not just for selfies and sweets, but for peace, for wisdom, for that feeling of being protected?” He looked at the idol’s eyes again. “You always look calm. Maybe that’s your answer.” His voice grew firmer as he looked at the idol’s calm face. “You know what hurts, Bappa?” he said, his fingers tightening on the shoulder of Bappa. “People spend lakhs on decorations, on DJs, on fireworks that choke the sky. But ask them to sit quietly for ten minutes and chant your name with deep devotion, they get restless. They want spectacle, not silence. They want noise, not meaning. But life isn’t a parade. It’s a slow walk. It’s discipline. It’s waking up every day and doing the right thing even when no one’s watching.”

He stood up and paced the room, the evening light casting long shadows behind him. “They forget that you are the God of beginnings, of wisdom, of patience. You’re not a party mascot. You’re a reminder, to pause, to reflect, to clean the mess inside before looking at the dirt outside. But no one wants that. They want instant blessings, instant fame. They want you to fix their lives while they keep breaking rules. And I am tired, Bappa. Tired of making idols for the people who don’t understand what they are bringing home.”

"But Raju if you stop making my idols then how will people learn what is right. Your art gets them closer to me. Isn't it? Let them delve deeper and experience what the connection is. Don't stop." Bappa seemed to say.  

 

The sun began to set, casting a warm orange light through the dusty glass panes of the workshop's large window. Raju Kaka lit a small diya in front of the idol and placed a single marigold beside it. “Even if no one buys you,” he said, “you’re still my Bappa. You’re still here. You’ve heard my stories, my worries, my dreams. That’s enough.” He hugged the idol just the way a friend hugs another.

"Let your devotion be gentle, like the shaping of clay, and your prayers steady, like the rhythm of breath. Celebrate me not in noise, but in meaning. Remember, I am the remover of obstacles—but only when you are willing to walk the path with patience, humility, and truth. Honor the beginning by honoring the journey. And when the festival ends, let the spirit remain. I am always listening." 

The day was bidding goodbye, Raju Kaka sat beside the idol, humming "Sukh Karta Dukhharta Varta Vighnachi " a classic composition by Sant Samarth Ramdas. The broken idols, the unsold ones, they weren’t forgotten. Not in this workshop. Not by him. And in that quiet space, filled with clay and memory, it felt like Bappa was listening.

 

UNSPOKEN UNTIL NOW

 

Unspoken Until Now..........

Three generations. One impulsive decision. No group, no fixed plan, no reliable network, just a secluded forest retreat and the definite promise of silence. Anirudh wanted to create some memories, Advait could not allow Anirudh to go alone, and Anay was dragged along for “bonding.” What none of them knew that this trip would unravel more than just old stories.

Ganga Whisper, a beautiful resort nestled deep in the forests of Rishikesh, was unlike anything the trio had experienced before. The wooden cottages situated just kissing the waters of the river Ganga, its waters whispering ancient secrets. The water pristine and the river snaking its way through the forest. The month of January with its cold atmosphere was like the icing on the cake. Anirudh, the grandfather, had chosen this place for a reason. “No distractions. Just us,” he had said. Advait, his son, had hesitated as he was a workaholic considered a 7-day break as insane, as he thought it would be wasting 7 precious days doing nothing. And Anay, the teenager, had protested at first. “No Wi-Fi? Sketchy network? What am I supposed to do, talk to trees?” He being the youngest had really no choice and neither control over the situation. 

But now, on their second day, something seemed to be shifting. They were sitting on the porch as the sun dipped behind the hills. It was a sight to behold, stunning and beauty which was unreal and raw. The three of them were held captive by the beauty which was in its grand splendor before their eyes. Anirudh sipped his chai slowly, watching the river. “You know,” he began, “when I was your age, Advait, I used to dream of writing poetry, Shayari. But I chose the bank. Safe, stable. I don’t regret it, but sometimes I wonder what those poems might have become today.” Advait looked up, surprised. “Dad, you never told me that.” Anay leaned forward. “Dadu, you write poetry?” Anirudh smiled. “Kabhi kabhi, but mostly in my head.”

Later that evening, around a crackling bonfire, Advait opened up. “I have spent so much of my life chasing deadlines. I don’t even know what I enjoy anymore. I used to love cooking. Remember, Dad? That biryani I made in college?” Anirudh laughed. “It was terrible. But you were so proud.” Anay chuckled. “Papa, you cook?” Advait nodded. “Haven’t in years. Maybe I should start again.” The fire flickered, casting warm shadows on their faces. Silence settled, not awkward, but reflective.

On the third day, they trekked to a hidden waterfall. The forest was dense and alive. Anay hesitated. “I don’t know what I want to do with my life. Everyone says engineering. But I love sketching. I feel alive when I draw.” Advait paused. “I get it. I chose law because it felt the safest thing to do. But I still dream of opening a book café. Somewhere quiet. Like this.” Anirudh placed a hand on Anay’s shoulder. “Beta, listen to your heart. Zindagi ek baar milti hai. Don’t live someone else’s version of it.”

Unexpectedly, rain poured on the fourth day, keeping them indoors. They played cards, carrom, ludo and Anirudh told them some stories from the ancient Hindu texts. Stories were a trigger, they started pouring their heart out as comfort had set in between them. Anirudh shared one about his crush - Meera, his college love. “She had eyes like the monsoon clouds. We used to sit by the ghat and talk about everything. But her family moved to Canada. I never saw her again.” Advait was stunned. “Wow Dad, this is a bombshell. I never knew this.” Anirudh shrugged. “Some memories just pop up when there is a trigger.” Anay listened, wide-eyed. “Dadu, you are cooler than I thought.”

By the fifth day, the conversations grew deeper. Anay confessed, “I am scared of failing. What if I disappoint you both?” Advait hugged him. “You won’t. And even if you do, it’s okay. We are all allowed to fall.” Anirudh added, “Har kisi ko girna padta hai kabhi na kabhi. That’s how you learn to stand taller.” The words lingered, wrapping around Anay like the mist outside.

On the sixth day, they meditated by the river. The Ganga flowed quietly, as if listening. Advait whispered, “I’ve never felt this peaceful.” Anirudh nodded. “This place strips away the noise. You hear your own thoughts clearly.” Anay smiled. “I think I want to study art. Not just sketch for fun.” Advait looked at him, eyes moist. “Then do it. We will figure it out together.” The river seemed to carry their words gently downstream.

That evening, they lit three diyas and floated them into the river. “One for the past,” Anirudh said. “One for the present,” Advait added. “And one for the future,” Anay finished. They watched the diyas drift away, carrying their stories, regrets, and hopes. It was absolute peace at that moment, no distractions. Just three men, bound by blood and now, by truth.

It was day 7, the day to leave. As they were packing their things, something had shifted. Anirudh walked with a lighter step, his eyes brighter. Advait looked less burdened, more open. And Anay stood taller, more certain. They had come to Rishikesh seeking silence, but found voices, each other’s and their own. Life hadn’t changed. But their lens had. And sometimes, that’s all it takes. The loudest breakthroughs happen in silence. 

When we pause the noise of expectation, we hear the truth of who we are. Generations don’t just pass down wisdom—they pass down permission to dream differently. And in that space between the past and the future, we find the courage to rewrite our own story.

WHISPERS FROM THE SKY

 

"Whispers from the Sky"

"You run from me now, but once, you danced in my arms.”

I am Rain. Not just drops falling from the clouds, but a living, breathing witness to your world. I have traveled across centuries, kissed the cheeks of kings and peasants alike, and whispered into the ears of sleeping forests. Now you see me as a forecast, a disruption, a mood, but I am more than that. I am memory in motion - remember your first love? I am an emotion in liquid form. I fall not just to quench your thirst, but to remind you of the rhythm of life, the renewal, the pulse that connects all living things.

In the good old days, my arrival was met with joy and laughter. Like the charging bulls, children would burst from their homes barefoot, arms spread wide, their faces excitedly looking towards the sky. Their laughter echoing through the fields and the narrow alleyways, uniting with my own song. I was a playground, a celebration, a moment of freedom. But now, I watch from above as these little souls press their noses against glass, forbidden to step out. Overprotectiveness has wrapped them in plastic and caution, and soaking in me has become a rare indulgence.

I do not resent this change, but I mourn it. I mourn the loss of spontaneity, of muddy footprints and dripping hair. I mourn the sanitized silence that has replaced the splash and squeals of joy. You have built walls not just of concrete, but of fear. The fear of germs, of stains, of discomfort. O human, I am not your enemy - you are the enemy. It's you, who has polluted the pristine atmosphere, it's your carelessness which has polluted the rivers, it's your over enthusiasm and so-called scientific advancement which has caused the damage. In fact, I am the Earth’s way of touching you, of reminding you that you are part of something vast and alive.

Still, I come. I come to cleanse your air, to cool your burning cities, to nourish your roots. I carry the essence of the oceans and the secrets of mountains. I bring out the stories from the abyss of your heart, the emotions you have long buried. I do not ask for permission. I arrive with purpose. My only motive is connection, a divine connection with you. I fall so that life may rise. I vanish so that life may bloom and thrive. I am the pause in your rush. It's my gentle way of reminding you, that you gotta respect Nature.

But I hold secrets too. I have seen the grief of farmers whose fields cracked in my absence. I now unwillingly carry the toxins which you generate. I have wept over rivers choked with waste, and sighed as your machines pierced the clouds to bend me to your will. Cloud seeding as you term it, it's cloud bleeding for me. You think you control me with satellites and sensors, but sadly I am not programmable. I am a mirror which reflects your choices, your carelessness, your hopes.

In these modern times, when screens dominate your gaze and silence is rare, I urge you to listen to the soft tap on your window, stop scrolling, take a pause. Let me in. Let me remind you of the tenderness you have buried beneath the deadlines and data. Let your children run again. Let your elders sit beneath my rhythm and remember. Let your cities breathe. I am not a threat, I am the balm.

Here’s my advice, if you take it: slow down. Soak in me once in a while, without rushing. Let your skin feel the stories I carry. Plant trees, not just for their shade, but to create memories. Harvest rainwater, not just for sustainability, but for respect, respect for the Universe. Speak kindly to the Earth, and I will respond in kind. I am not your enemy, nor your tool. I am your companion. Treat me as such, and I shall nourish you beyond measure.

And when I leave, don’t forget me. I shall return, as I always do, in rhythm with your choices. Whether I come gently or in fury depends on how you live. I am Rain. I am an emotion in motion, the sky’s way of touching the Earth, always watching, always waiting for you to remember me not as a forecast, but as a feeling.