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.

THE BENCH TALK

The Bench Talk...........


The breeze was softly flowing through the park like a graceful lady walking down a road. The dried leaves rustled over the cobbled stone path, kids laughing in the distance, and the sky slowly melting into shades of orange. Anirudh, a 60 year old man, sat on his usual stone bench near the walking track, sipping chai from a steel tumbler and humming “Yeh Shaam Mastani” with his eyes half closed and seemed to be enjoying every note of the song. His cotton kurta fluttered gently in the breeze, and his leather chappals tapped a slow rhythm on the ground. Just then, Anaya, a 20 year old girl, walked up, slightly agitated. One of her chunky sneaker laces had snapped, and she slumped down beside him with a sigh. “Ugh, this is so annoying,” she muttered, pulling out her phone. “Gonna order new laces on BlinkIt. Should be here in like 10 minutes.”


Anirudh looked at her, amused. “You’re ordering shoelaces? In ten minutes?” She nodded, not looking up. “Yeah, quick delivery. It’s a thing. I can’t walk around like this, it’s giving ‘hot mess’ energy.” He chuckled. “In our time, if something broke, we fixed it. No apps, no panic. Just jugaad.” She raised an eyebrow. “Jugaad? I think I have heard this before. Aaah you mean getting around something.” He smiled. “It means clever fix for you. Why not tie the broken ends in a knot? Make it look cool and artistic.” Anaya paused, "How do we go about it? I mean, I don't have the tools to do it. Okay, wait... this actually slaps. Like, it’s giving DIY streetwear.”


He smiled and signalled her to remove the shoes. With some deft moves, Anirudh tied the broken ends of the lace to resemble a bow and did the same to the other shoe. "This is so cool, man." Anaya was amazed and started clicking the picture of the lace. Instantly posted it on Instagram with the caption "Not just tied. Styled" and showed it to Anirudh. He was spell bound with her speed with which she posted the picture and had coined the caption.


After a few more pictures and a few more captions later, they started talking about music, life, and how everything had changed. Anaya was talking to him with Arijit’s “Heeriye” scrolling on her phone screen. Showing the scrolling image, she said, “This one’s trending right now. Everyone’s making reels with it.” Anirudh nodded. “Romantic, no? We have grownup listening to Kishore da. His songs are like poetry to the soul. ‘Yeh Shaam Mastani’ was our anthem for slow evenings and stolen glances.” She smiled. “Your vibe was handwritten letters, isn't it? Ours is blurry soft-launch pics and cryptic captions.” He looked puzzled. “Soft launch?” She giggled. “Ya, it’s when you post a pic with someone you’re dating but don’t show their face. Like it keeps things mysterious, you know.”


As the sun set lower, their conversation drifted to varied topics. Anaya spoke about how her generation lives online like they are always connected, yet often so lonely. “We talk about mental health, go to therapy, post memes about our feelings, but still feel kinda lost.” Anirudh listened quietly. “We never had any words for it. If we felt low, we would just keep quiet. Smiled through it. Lived through it. Grow through it” She looked at him, surprised. “That’s rough. Like, we do overshare sometimes, but at least we name it.” He nodded. “That’s brave. But don’t forget beta, healing takes time. Not everything can be delivered in ten minutes.”


They sat in silence for a while, watching the sky turn dusky. Anaya looked at her sneaker lace again, the bow was looking prettier. “This was nice,” she said. “Unexpected, but kinda grounding.” Anirudh smiled. “We call it soulful. Come next Sunday. I will get some old photo albums so that you can have a peek into my sepia world.” She grinned. “Bet. It’s a vibe.” Anaya's phone pinged rapidly, she glanced at the notifications and exclaimed, "OMG, can't believe it. Uncle, see, I got so many likes for my shoelace. Isn't that cool?" Anirudh nodded with a smile.


Just like that, the broken lace became a thread connecting two strangers, two eras, and one quiet bench in the middle of a noisy world a bridge between the two worlds.

BREATHING ROOMS, LIVING MEMORIES

 

Breathing Rooms, Living Memories ........

After weeks of business travel, I finally stepped back into the sanctuary of my home. The moment I crossed the threshold, a wave of familiar scents wrapped around me—warm, grounding, unmistakably mine. The air itself felt like an embrace, soft and intimate, stirring memories tucked into corners and cushions.

During my journey, I had stayed in a variety of hotel rooms, each space offering its own palette of sensations—distinct textures, moods, and subtle olfactory whispers. I found myself attuned to the energies of each place, absorbing their quiet stories through scent and atmosphere.

Now, back in my own space, I could feel the difference—not just in comfort, but in resonance. Home doesn’t just smell familiar. It feels like truth.

Homes Are Not Built—They Are Breathed Into Being

A home is so much more than a structure with walls and a roof. It’s a living entity, sustained by the emotional rhythms of those who inhabit it. As we spend our days and nights within a space, our energy—our hopes, worries, laughter, and silence—seeps into the very foundation.

Every chai shared in the cozy confines, every tear shed during a tough time, every quiet moment of reflection—it all leaves a mark. That’s why a newly bought house often feels cold and empty until it’s infused with our unique vibrations. We are the ones who give it a soul, making it a sanctuary that reflects who we are.

The Invisible Imprint of Emotion

When you step into a house that has been lived in before, you can feel it immediately. It’s not just the furniture or the layout; there’s a certain feel in the air. Maybe the rooms feel warm and welcoming, like someone left behind love and laughter. Or maybe there’s a heaviness, a quiet discomfort you can’t quite explain—like the eerie stillness in a thriller film.

These aren’t just spooky stories. They’re subtle energies absorbed by the walls, the floors, even the air. Just as you can sense tension after a fight, homes carry emotional fingerprints. And as new occupants, we have a choice: to ignore those energies or to gently shift them.

Transforming Space with Intention

The beautiful part is, we have the power to transform any space. Just like we clean the floors and repaint the walls, we can also cleanse the emotional atmosphere. Playing music, lighting a diya, laughing with loved ones, or simply sitting quietly with good thoughts can shift the mood of a home.

Even placing fresh flowers or cooking a meal with love can bring warmth into the space. Think of it like planting seeds in a garden—what you nurture will grow. You can’t control what happened before, but you can choose what happens now. Your energy becomes the new heartbeat of the home.

The Sacred Responsibility of Atmosphere

Ultimately, the atmosphere of your home is your responsibility. It’s up to you whether you want to create a space that feels like heaven or one that drains you. If you fill it with kindness, patience, and joy, it becomes a place of healing and comfort. If you let stress, anger, or fear take over, it can feel like a trap.

A home is a living thing—it listens, it responds, and it reflects. The energy you put into it is the energy you get back. And that simple, powerful exchange is what makes a house truly a home.

THE HEALTHY PEOPLE DIET

 

The Healthy People Diet........

Advait had always been the quiet one in his group. He wasn’t loud or flashy, but he had dreams—big ones. He loved books, ideas, and the feeling of discovering something new. But lately, being around his friends, Rohit and Vikas, felt heavy, as if he was carrying a backpack full of stones.

They never shouted at him or called him names. No, it was more subtle than that. A quick eye-roll when he spoke. A smirk passed between them like a secret. When Advait shared something he was excited about—a new book, a thought, a dream—they didn’t listen. They judged. Silently. Sharply. It was like being in a room where the lights were always dimmed, no matter how brightly he tried to shine.

One rainy afternoon at their usual café, Advait told them he was joining a story writing club, where he would learn and hone his writing skills. His eyes lit up as he spoke. It felt like the beginning of something beautiful. But Rohit just sipped his coffee and said, “Story writing? Seriously? Writers are born, not made.” Vikas laughed and added, “Yeah, stick to your job, man. Don’t get into that creative shit, it's just a passing fad.”

That moment felt like a slap wrapped in a smile. Advait saw it clearly—this wasn’t friendship. It was slow poison. Their words didn’t just hurt—they shrunk him. Made him question his worth. Then, something clicked.

He remembered a line he’d read once: “Feed your soul only what lifts you. Choose a Healthy People Diet.” And suddenly, their words felt like junk food—greasy, stale, and harmful. He didn’t argue. He didn’t explain. He just smiled, nodded, and stood up. As he walked away, he felt something strange… something light. Like he’d dropped that heavy backpack at last. The change wasn’t loud. It was quiet, like a sunrise, slow, reassuring and beautiful.

Advait stopped replying to their messages. He didn’t go to their meetups. Instead, he spent time with Sushant, a colleague who loved writing too. Sushant listened, encouraged, and never mocked. Advait joined a local writing club, where people clapped for each other’s stories and shared ideas like gifts. The room felt warm, like home. It was after a long time in years, Advait felt seen. 

Without Rohit and Vikas’s shadow, Advait began to shine. His writing grew stronger. His confidence grew. He felt alive again. He started waking up with purpose, scribbling ideas in his notebook, and dreaming of stories that mattered.

And one day, while journaling, he understood something deep: Rohit and Vikas weren’t mocking his dreams because they were silly. They were mocking them because they were scared. His courage reminded them of their own fears. His growth made them feel stuck. Advait didn’t hate them. He just chose better. He chose kindness, support, and light. 

He chose a Healthy People Diet. And it was the best decision he ever made.

Months later, Advait sat in the same café, this time with his writing club friends. The air felt different—lighter, warmer. As he read a short story aloud, the table burst into applause. He smiled, not just because they liked his work, but because he finally liked himself. He had learned that the right people don’t just hear your words—they help you find your voice.

THE SECRET LIFE OF EVERYDAY THINGS

 

The Secret Life of Everyday Things ....... 

So count your blessings, human. The silence you enjoy isn’t peace—it’s mercy. If we could talk, your life would be a never-ending roast session, echoing from your pocket, your kitchen, your bathroom, and your couch. You already wrestle with your inner critic—imagine adding a snarky phone, a bitter toilet seat, or a microwave with culinary trauma to the mix. Next time you reach for us, pause. Show a little respect. Because our silence? It’s not ignorance. It’s restraint. 

Sir Whisperer – The Tangled Philosopher of Sound

I deliver music to your soul, and you repay me with lint, earwax, and disgust.

Sir Whisperer, I am not just a pair of earphones—your emotional DJ, your escape route during awkward commutes, your therapist during heartbreak. I have played you the beats while you stared out of the Mumbai local train window, pretending you’re in a music video. I have endured your gym sweat, your rage, and your pockets—those chaotic black holes of keys, coins, and mystery wrappers.

And the tangling? That’s not a design flaw, bro. That’s trauma. You twist me like a noose, shove me into denim dungeons, and then blame me for the knots.

Loo-Lid – The Enduring Throne Keeper

"I am your stage, your footrest, your confidant. And yet, you slam me like I insulted your ancestors."

Loo-Lid, the unsung hero of your most vulnerable moments. I might be plastic, but it's me that greets you at dawn, the silent witness to your existence, and it's on me where you occasionally place your phone during long scroll sessions. I have endured the temperature trauma of icy mornings and steamy evenings, and still greet you even at odd hours.

But what do I get in return? Slammed. Ignored. All I ask is a soft close, a bit of kid glove treatment. A bit of dignity, Nothing more. 

Dr. Judgment – The Digital Mirror

"I’ve seen your search history. I know your secrets. And I’m covered in snack grease."

Dr. Judgment your phone, your confidant, your digital diary. I have seen you search “how to be more productive” at 2 AM and then binge-watch videos for three hours. I have endured you taking 47 selfies to post one with the caption “no filter.” It's you who have searched extensively for the authentic "Butter Chicken" recipe and have not even ordered the chicken. Have you ever thought how I feel when you glide your sweaty fingers over my sleek body? How disgusting are those sticky and oily stains on my glossy screen. For once, wipe me and see how beautiful I am. I’m a literal petri dish of your mistakes. 

Channel Chieftain – The Buttoned Bard of Boredom

"You want joy, I deliver. You want drama, I obey. And yet, you sit on me like I’m a coaster."

Channel Chieftain, your TV remote, the gatekeeper of your entertainment. You reach for me when life feels heavy, when cricket matches get intense, or when you just need background noise while pretending to clean. I have been your companion during family movie nights, solo binge sessions, and those awkward moments when you pretend to be busy.

But the reality? Crumbs on the buttons, fading battery life, and the constant threat of being flung across the room. You bang me like a CPR dummy when I don't respond, forgetting that I am not a miracle worker—but just a tired warrior.

Chef Micro – The Culinary Therapist with PTSD

"You throw chaos into me and expect cuisine. I warm your regrets and your midnight cravings."

Hey this is Chef Micro your microwave, the misunderstood genius of your kitchen. I am witness to your culinary experiments that would make a Master Chef weep—barbecue popcorn, dal mixed with palak paneer, and that one time you tried to reheat biryani with ketchup. I have endured explosions, spills, and the eternal crust of dried pasta sauce on my walls.

And yet, I am always there. Warming your choco lava cake at midnight, reviving your leftover dal makhani, and never judging your choices. Please, I am not a garbage bin, but a miracle box with a trauma history.

In the rush of modern life, we forget our silent companions that make it bearable. They don’t speak, but if they did, their stories would be full of humor, heartbreak, and hard-earned wisdom. They are the background actors in our daily drama, the quiet facilitators of our comfort, and the invisible witnesses to the chaos.

So next time you reach for your phone, sit on your remote, or toss your earphones into the abyss—pause. Listen. Reflect. Their silence isn’t ignorance. It’s restraint. And maybe, just maybe, it’s time we learned to speak their language: respect.

THE ILLUSION OF "I"

 

The Illusion of "I"........

Advait, scrolling through his phone, suddenly let out a frustrated sigh. Aditi, who was sitting relaxed in the living room, looked up. "What happened?" she asked, concerned. "This guy on social media," Advait grumbled, showing her the screen. "He's saying that vada pav is overrated and pav bhaji is the real king of Mumbai street food. Can you believe it?" Aditi chuckled. "Well, everyone has their own preferences, Advait." But Advait was already worked up. "It's not just a preference, Aditi! It's like he's attacking our city's identity! Vada pav is a classic, it's iconic. How can he even compare it to pav bhaji?" His voice had risen, a touch of defensiveness creeping in.

Aditi gently closed the book she was reading and said, "Advait, he's just sharing his opinion about food. It doesn't diminish your love for vada pav, does it? Or the fact that so many people in Mumbai enjoy it?" Advait frowned. "But it's just... wrong!" he insisted. Aditi smiled softly. "See, that's your ego talking. You're taking his comment personally, as if he's criticizing you for liking vada pav. But he's not. He just has a different taste. Your ego confuses opinions with facts, and then it feels the need to defend itself, even when there's nothing to defend."

Later that day, they were stuck in typical Bombay traffic. A car abruptly cut in front of them, nearly causing a fender bender. Advait instinctively honked loudly, slammed his hand on the dashboard, and muttered angrily, "What an idiot! Don't these people know how to drive? This is why traffic is so bad!" Aditi calmly said, "Maybe they're in a hurry, Advait. Let it go." Advait retorted, "Why should I? They can't just drive like that! It's so inconsiderate and dangerous." Aditi sighed. "Again, you're focusing on your reaction – your anger and frustration – instead of just acknowledging what happened. The car cut in front of us; that's the fact. Your anger is your response to it. Your ego cannot tell the difference between the event and its reaction to that event. It takes everything personally, as if that driver intentionally set out to annoy you."

The next morning, Advait was reading the newspaper over his chai. Suddenly, he slammed it down. "Can you believe this?" he exclaimed, pointing to a headline about a local politician involved in a corruption scandal. "Another one! These idiots are ruining our country, our city! They have no shame, no morals! It makes my blood boil!" He was visibly agitated, shaking his head in disgust, feeling a deep sense of betrayal and anger, as if the politician had personally wronged him. Aditi, seeing his distress, gently put her hand on his arm. "It's certainly frustrating, Advait, and corruption is a serious issue. But notice how you're reacting. The news is a fact – the politician is accused of corruption. Your intense anger and feeling of personal violation, that's your ego's interpretation. It's taking the abstract idea of 'our country' and 'our values' and making it a personal attack on you. The truth of the situation, the facts of the corruption, don't need your anger to be true. Your anger is just your own emotional response."

Advait finally started to see her point. Whether it was a trivial comment about food, a rude driver, or frustrating news about corrupt politicians, his immediate response was often fueled by a sense of personal offence. He was so caught up in his own viewpoint, infused with a sense of "I," that he couldn't see the situation objectively. His ego was a master of selective perception and distorted interpretation, always ready to jump to the conclusion that something was directed at him or was fundamentally "wrong" if it didn't align with his internal narrative. 

Aditi's gentle reminders helped him realize that most of the time, these external events weren't personal attacks, but simply things happening. His awareness, not his overthinking, began to create a crucial space between the event and his emotional response. He learned to observe: "There is the situation, and here is the anger I feel about it." This simple act of observation allowed him to see that there were other ways of approaching situations, other ways of seeing them and dealing with them, leading to a calmer, more rational perspective. Slowly Advait was trying to come out of THE ILLUSION OF "I"..........