BETWEEN THE YES & NO

 

We often spend our lives suspended in the fragile space between the yes and no, treating the "YES" like a magic key that opens every door. To us, "yes" represents kindness, helpfulness, and a deep-seated willingness to be part of the world. We believe that by saying it to every request, every invitation, and every favor, we are building bridges that will lead us to success and belonging. We strive to be the person everyone can rely on, the one who never lets anyone down and strongly believing that this constant availability is the ultimate measure of our worth, yet we rarely stop to consider what we are sacrificing in the silence that follows. 

However, beneath this desire to be agreeable lies a deep-seated fear of the word "NO." We have been conditioned to see it as a cold, hard rejection. We worry that saying it will make us look selfish or rude, as if putting our own needs first is a betrayal of our friends and family. We fear that a single "no" might cost us a precious relationship or a fleeting opportunity, causing us to lose the momentum we have worked so hard to build.

So, we keep saying "yes." We say it to the extra project at work that we don't have time for, and to the social gathering we are too exhausted to attend. We say it to the relative who constantly drains our energy and to the friend who only calls when they need a favor. We tell ourselves it’s "just this once" or that we are just being a "good person," but these small concessions begin to pile up like heavy stones in a sack we never intended to carry.

Slowly and quietly, the landscape of our lives begins to alter. Without realizing it, our daily schedule stops looking like a reflection of our own dreams and starts looking like a collection of other people’s priorities. We become the supporting characters in everyone else’s story while our own plot remains unwritten. Our time is no longer our own, as a matter of fact it is a resource that has been partitioned out to anyone who felt bold enough to ask for a piece of it.

For many of us, this misunderstanding of strength lasts for years. we think that being strong means being a pillar that never shakes, someone who is always available to catch others when they fall. We take pride in being "useful," finding our identity in how much we can do for the world around us. But there is a vital difference between being a supportive friend and being a person who has forgotten how to stand on their own ground.

The reality of a misaligned "yes" is that it always comes with a cost billed into it. It might give us a brief sense of relief or a small ego boost when you agree to something you don’t want to do, but that feeling is temporary. The true cost reveals itself much later, usually when you are alone and wondering why you feel so hollow. It is a debt that must eventually be paid, and the currency is your own well-being.

You pay for these forced commitments with your energy. Imagine your energy as a well of water, every time you say "yes" to something that doesn’t matter to you, you are giving away a bucketful to a garden that isn't yours. By the time you get back to your own flowers, the well is dry. You end up tired not from hard work, but from the weight of carrying things that were never meant for you to hold.

The payment also comes at a cost of your focus. It is impossible to build a meaningful life when your attention is constantly being hijacked by the minor emergencies of others. If you are always helping someone else paint their house, you will never find the time to finish your own masterpiece. Great things require long stretches of undisturbed thought and effort, both of which are destroyed by a life that lacks the protection of "NO."

Perhaps the most painful cost is the toll it takes on your mood, health and self-respect. When you consistently betray your own desires to please others, a quiet bitterness begins to grow. You might start to resent the very people you are trying to help, and worse, you start to lose trust in yourself. You realize that your word doesn't carry weight because you aren't being honest about what you can actually give.

The sooner we learn that "no" is not a wall intended to shut the world out, but it is a boundary intended to protect the part of you that is trying to grow. Think of a gardener who puts a small fence around a new sapling. The fence isn't there because the gardener hates the rest of the yard, it is there because the sapling is fragile and needs space to find its roots without being trampled by passing feet.

Our growth too requires that same kind of sanctuary. We need space to figure out who we are and what we actually value. Without the word "no," we are like a house with no front door where anyone can walk in at any time, bringing their dirt and their noise with them. A boundary allows us to choose who we let in and what kind of influence we allow to touch our inner lives.

The truth is that as you grow stronger and more capable, the word "no" becomes more of a necessity than just an option. When you are just starting out, the world is quiet, and opportunities are few. But as you find your footing and begin to succeed, the world starts to notice. You are suddenly surrounded by more voices, more requests, and more distractions than you ever imagined possible. Life does not get easier as you move forward but it gets louder. There are more notifications, more expectations, and more people who want a piece of your time. If you do not have a firm "no" ready, the noise will eventually drown out your own inner compass. You will find yourself running faster and faster just to stay in the same place, serving a thousand masters while your own soul goes hungry.

Learning to say "no" doesn't have to be an act of war. It can be done with a smile and a soft voice. You can simply say, "I appreciate the offer, but I can’t commit to that right now," or "I need to focus on my own projects this week." It is a statement of fact, not an insult. Most people will actually respect you more for it because it shows that you value your time and that your "yes," when you give it, actually means something. When you finally reclaim your right to decline, you start to see your life in a new light. You begin to notice the things that actually move the needle for you, the hobbies that make you feel alive, the work that feels like a calling, and the people who truly fill your cup. By clearing away the clutter of other people’s agendas, you create a vacuum that can finally be filled with your own purpose.

Ultimately, the goal is to live a life that is a collection of your own choices, not a pile of obligations you were too afraid to refuse. Saying "no" is the ultimate act of self-care because it preserves the only life you have. It allows you to show up to the things you actually care about with your full heart and your best energy, turning your life from a frantic series of interruptions into a steady, beautiful song.

Between the Yes & No lies LIFE - reclaim it, redeem it, cherish it and savor it.

THE SQUARE PEGS AT VARANASI GHAT

 

The sun was an orange ball hanging over the Ganges, its light reflecting off the ripples like thousands of tiny floating lamps. Advait sat on the cold stone steps of the Dashashwamedh Ghat, his heart heavy with the kind of modern-day exhaustion that sleep cannot fix. Amidst the swirling incense and the gathering crowds, his eyes were drawn to an elderly couple sitting just a few feet away. They looked like any other retired couple finding solace in their golden years - quiet, unassuming, and weathered by time.

The man, Arun, wore a simple checked shirt tucked into neatly pressed trousers, his face a map of lived experiences. Beside him sat Arunima, draped in a crisp cotton saree, her silver hair adorned with a fresh ring of jasmine that scented the air around them. To Advait, they looked like the typical middle-class pair, perhaps living on a modest pension and navigating the slow twilight of their lives. He expected them to be staring blankly at the river, lost in memories of a bygone era.

But as Advait watched, the illusion of the "typical" elderly couple shattered. Arun reached into his pocket and pulled out a top-of-the-line smartphone with a practiced flick of his wrist. He not only took a photo, but he adjusted the exposure and framed Arunima against the shimmering water with the precision of a seasoned photographer. He moved with an agility that defied his age, crouching slightly to get the perfect angle.

Arunima did not shy away or look confused, but she posed with a regal, effortless elegance, her smile radiant and genuine. A moment later, her own device chimed. A sleek, latest-model phone appeared out of her leather sling bag. She handled the device with incredible ease and confidence. She answered a video call, her voice warm as she greeted her son and grandchildren in London. Advait sat stunned at the pro level confidence of navigating the interface without a single moment of hesitation.

As the sun dipped lower, the couple began filming each other, laughing as they captured selfies with the ancient temples in the background. Advait was hooked. In a world where most young people are glued to screens in isolation, these two were using technology to amplify their togetherness. Their happiness was not just a facade, but it was a visible, vibrating energy that seemed to shield them from the chaos of the crowded ghat.

Driven by a sudden, desperate need to understand their secret, Advait hesitantly struck up a conversation. He complimented their spirit and asked the question that had been gnawing at him: "How are you both so genuinely happy? Most people your age seem overwhelmed by the world today, yet you two look more alive than I feel." Arun looked at him, his eyes crinkling with a kindness that felt like a warm embrace.

"Happiness is not something you find sitting under a tree, son," Arun said, his voice steady. "It is something you create, piece by piece, every single morning." He looked at Arunima, and then back at Advait. "The world will always try to tell you who to be. But the most important lesson we learned is this: Do not try to fit yourself into others. A square peg never fits in a round hole, and trying to force it only breaks the peg."

Advait felt a sting in his eyes. He thought of his own life - the corporate ladder he hated, the social expectations he suffocated under. Arunima noticed his silence and added, "We spent years trying to be the 'perfect' couple for the society. In our younger days, I was told to be a silent shadow, and Arun was pressured to be a ruthless provider. We were miserable because we were living someone else’s script. We were square pegs bleeding because we tried to fit into round holes."

Arun nodded, his expression darkening for a moment as he recalled their "down" years. "There was a time, decades ago, when we lost our first business and nearly our home. I was drinking to forget, and Arunima was fading into a deep, dark depression. We were together, but we were miles apart. We were following the 'traditional' path of suffering in silence because that’s what was expected of our generation."

"We realized that if we did not change, the darkness would consume us. We stopped caring about the neighbors’ whispers and started caring about our own souls. We embraced our quirks, our love for tech, and our own way of viewing the world. Once we stopped trying to fit in," Arunima whispered, "we finally started to fly. That was the first step toward this happiness you see today."

Confused by the contrast of their lifestyle, Advait asked why they came to the ghat every day if they were so modern. "To preserve and nourish our roots," they replied in unison. Advait gestured to their expensive phones. "But you are so high-tech! How do the roots fit in?" Arun smiled deeply. "Tradition and technology can go together, Advait. But remember - Only tradition breeds the discipline that makes life meaningful. Without that discipline, technology is just a distraction that will eventually drown you."

Advait then asked about their incredible synchronicity. They seemed to move as one soul in two bodies. Arunima reached out and gently touched Arun’s hand, a small gesture that carried the weight of decades. "Love does not require words alone," she said softly. "It is felt through the heart. It is about investing attention even when the other person is boring and giving care when they are at their worst," saying this she winked at Arun.

She shared a story from a few years back when Arun had suffered a stroke. For months, he was not able to speak. "In that silence, we learned the true language of love," she said. "It was not about the poems or the promises, but it was about the way I held his hand and the way he looked at me. It was the touch, the concern, and the absolute refusal to let go when the world got dark. You have to invest time in each other long before the crisis hits."

Arun added, "Advait, even we have had our share of ups and downs, terrible fights where we did not speak for days, and moments where we thought we had nothing left to give. But we overcame them because we chose to see each other as individuals, not just as 'husband' or 'wife.' We gave each other the space to be human, to fail, and to grow back together."

As the bells of the Ganga Aarti began to ring, the sound vibrating through the very stones of the ghat, Advait felt a profound shift within himself. He had come to Varanasi seeking a miracle from the gods, but he had found it in the lives of two ordinary people who had mastered the extraordinary art of being themselves. They were modern yet rooted, tech-savvy yet disciplined, and most importantly, they were free.

The couple stood up, ready to immerse themselves in the prayer, their faces lit by the first flickers of the massive brass lamps. Advait watched them, feeling a sense of clarity he had not known in years. He realized that his life was not a series of mistakes, but a collection of "round holes" he needed to stop trying to fit into. As he bid them goodbye, he knew he would never forget the square pegs of Varanasi.

THE BLOODY PIGMENT

THE BLOODY PIGMENT.....

"Arjun's Prism" a exclusive "By Invitation Only" art gallery nestled in a narrow lane of Versova covered by the swaying Palm trees and facing the Bombay sea. The gallery was pristine white, but "The Creation of the Womb" felt like a bruise on the wall. It was a chaotic swirl of deep crimson and oily blacks, pulsating with a strange, wet energy that made Aditi’s stomach turn. To her, it looked like a surgical nightmare which was bloody, visceral, and raw. It was something that should have been hidden away in a dark basement. But Advait stood frozen, his eyes glazed as if he were looking into the face of a long-lost lover, he was literally sinking into the wet layers of the canvas.

Arjun, their college friend, beamed with pride, though his smile did not quite reach his eyes, he looked exhausted, as if the art were draining him. "He’s a genius, Advait," Arjun whispered, his voice sounding hollow and metallic in the quiet room. "Balram doesn’t just paint; he captures things... things that don't want to be caught." Aditi felt a sudden chill crawl up her spine.

"I will buy it," Advait said as if had been hypnotized. "It's for 85000.00 Advait," Arjun smirked and said. "Don't worry," Advait replied without taking his eyes off fromthe swirls. The swirls seemed to be drowning him. Aditi was surprised, "Advait you would pay 85k for this blotch?" Advait looked at him with his red pupils glowing. Aditi stepped back afraid. Although the price tag of Rs. 85,000.00 was a drop in the bucket for them, but she would have paid double just to have the canvas burned and the ashes scattered in the sea.

"Advait you should meet Balram as he would hand over the painting to you, that's his way with the clients" Arjun said. The meeting with Balram took place in a cramped, windowless back room that smelled of turpentine and rotting flowers. Balram looked as if he had been hollowed out, his skin color was of old parchment and his fingernails stained with crusty red. When he shook Advait’s hand, Aditi noticed that his grip did not just hold him, but it seemed to cling, his long fingers wrapping around Advait’s wrist like a vine. He was "off" in a way that defied logic, moving with a jerky, unnatural grace which made her pulse race and a strong desire to run away from that room.

"You feel it, don't you? The pull of the origin?" Balram's voice  sounding like the dry leaves dancing on the stone of a grave. Advait nodded slowly, his usual sharp wit and skepticism replaced by a hollow, haunting devotion. He was not just buying a painting, but it appeared he was surrendering to it, his eyes tracking every movement of Balram’s stained hands. Aditi tried to pull him away, but Advait’s skin felt unnaturally cold, his muscles rigid and unresponsive to her touch, as if he was turning into stone.

As they spoke, the air in the room grew heavy and thick, making it hard for Aditi to breathe, and the air in the room smelled faintly old blood. Balram began describing his process of painting, talking about "life-blood" and "the bridge between the seen and the unseen," his eyes never leaving Advait’s. Every word felt like a spiral being woven into the air. Aditi could not make out any sense of his talks, to her horror, Advait did not just agree to buy the first painting but he signed a contract for three more, his signature was shaky, jagged, and unrecognizable on the paper. 

That night, "The Creation of the Womb" hung in their bedroom, and the silence of the house became deafening and predatory. Aditi lay awake, watching the crimson oils shift, the shapes on the canvas seemingly rearranging themselves when she blinked. She could hear the faint, rhythmic thumping coming from the wall, a heartbeat, slow, wet, and heavy. Beside her, Advait breathed in perfect sync with the painting, his chest rising and falling in a terrifying, mechanical rhythm. He was no longer dreaming his own dreams.

Within a week, Advait began to change physically, his vitality leaking out of him like water from a cracked jar. He stopped eating, his face had turned pale and the skin  had lost it's luster, mirroring the translucent complexion of Balram. He spent hours staring at the wall where the three new paintings were supposed to be hung, he would  whisper to the empty space in a language which Aditi could not understand. When she tried to scream for help or call a doctor, her voice came out as a raspy, thin whistle, as if the air was being sucked out of her lungs by an invisible, hungry force.

The second painting arrived at midnight, delivered by a silent Arjun who refused to look Aditi in the eye and fled before she could speak. It was titled "The Severing," and it depicted a figure that looked remarkably like Advait, his shadow being peeled away from his body by a dozen clawed, translucent hands. It was then Aditi realized that Balram was not just painting fantasies but he was painting a countdown to her husband's disappearance, documenting the theft of Advait's soul in oil and pigment.

By the time the third painting was due, Advait was a mere ghost in his own home, a hollow shell of the man she loved. He no called out Aditi's name, his eyes reflecting only the dark, swirling void of the canvases which lined their walls like open wounds. Aditi found the contract in his study, and her heart stopped when she touched the paper. The ink was not black but a fading, metallic brown, the exact color of dried blood. The "price" was not just the money they had paid, it was a total transfer of essence from the living to the canvas.

On the final night, Balram appeared at their door without being called, his presence bringing a freezing fog into the house. He did not need a key, the house seemed to open for him like the wound. He walked into the bedroom where Advait sat cross-legged on the floor, his skin now the same parchment-gray as the artist's. As Balram touched the final canvas, Advait’s body simply collapsed like an empty suit of clothes. The painting was no longer empty; it showed a man trapped behind a layer of oil, his face pressed against the surface, screaming in a silence that would last forever.

Aditi was pained and afraid with the turn of events. Overcoming her fear and driven by desperation she grabbed the heavy brass lamp in the room and swung it at the final canvas, expecting the fabric to tear. Instead, the surface felt like rubbery flesh, absorbing the blow with a thud. Across the room, Balram did not even flinch, he simply turned his head with a slow, predatory grace, his eyes now glowing red. "You cannot break what has already been integrated, Aditi," he whispered, his voice deep, slow and vibrating through the air in the room. "Advait is not in the room anymore. He is the pigment. He is the medium. He is finally eternal."

Panic gripped her, and she ran for the front door, her mind racing toward the only person she thought could help. She scrambled to her car and sped toward Arjun’s apartment, her hands shaking so violently that she could barely steer. She banged his apartment door till he opened it, sobbing, begging him to call the police or some kind of exorcist. But as she entered his living room, the air turned ice-cold. Arjun was sitting at a large mahogany table, bathed in the flickering light of thirteen black candles. He was meticulously cleaning a set of silver brushes, his face devoid of the warmth she had known for years.

"I knew you would come here, Aditi," Arjun said, his voice devoid of emotion. He stood up, and for the first time, she noticed the symbol branded into the hollow of his throat, a twisted, umbilical knot that matched the signature on Balram’s paintings. He was not a victim of the art but he was the scout. "Do you think a man like Balram finds his subjects by accident? He is the Hand, but I am the Eye. I find the souls with the right frequency, the ones hungry enough, like Advait, to let us in."

Horror enveloped her as Arjun revealed the truth: they were members of The Gilded Shroud, an occult tribe that believed true immortality could only be achieved by trapping living consciousness within "The Eternal Gallery." Arjun had spent years befriending them, waiting for the moment Advait’s internal spark was bright enough to harvest. "Every painting Balram finishes feeds the tribe," Arjun explained, stepping closer. "We don't just take lives; we preserve them in a state of perpetual, conscious equilibrium. Advait is part of something much larger now. He is the foundation of our Master’s next work."

Suddenly, the shadows in the corners of Arjun's room began to thicken and stretch, taking the jagged shapes of the figures from "The Severing." Aditi backed away, but the door behind her slammed shut and the locks turned by themselves. From the darkness, Balram stepped out, carrying a fresh, blank canvas that seemed to pulse with a faint heartbeat. "The contract Advait signed had a hidden clause," Balram spoke with a coarse voice, his stained fingers twitching with excitement. "A soul is never complete without its mirror. He is calling for you from inside the red oil, Aditi. He is lonely in the dark."

The two men closed in on her, their movements synchronized like a well-rehearsed ritual. Aditi now realized with terror that her repulsion toward the painting had not been a warning to save Advait, but it had been the very thing that marked her as the perfect "contrast" for the collection. As Arjun held her arms with a strength that felt supernatural, Balram dipped a brush into a jar of dark, viscous fluid. As the first stroke of wet paint touched her forehead, she felt her bones begin to soften and her voice dissolve, her reality narrowing down to a single, terrifying point of oil and canvas.

The transition was not a sudden snap, but a slow, agonizing dissolution of her physical form. Aditi felt her skin turn into a thick, tacky substance, her screams muffling as if she were being submerged in heavy syrup. Inside the canvas, the world was a distorted nightmare of smeared colors and suffocating heat. She found herself standing in a landscape made of dried leaves and flowing ink, where the sky was a bruised purple and the ground vibrated with the collective moans of a thousand trapped souls. Then, she saw him - Advait was standing a short distance away, his body translucent and flickering like a dying candle, his eyes wide with and devoid of the sparkle.

They reached for each other, but their hands passed through one another like smoke. "Aditi," he whispered, the sound vibrating through the very fabric of the painting. "We are not just art... we are the fuel." As they huddled together in the crimson gloom, the "sky" above them peeled back like an eyelid. Through the transparent layer of the varnish, they could see the "Real World" magnified and distorted. Balram and Arjun stood over the canvas, their faces looming like giant moons. They were laughing, their voices booming like thunderclaps that vibrated and shook the very foundations of the painted world.

Aditi realized that the only way to fight back was to manipulate the medium they were trapped in. She discovered that by focusing her intense rage and grief, she could make the paint around her boil and shift. She reached into the "ground". the deep, dark pigments of the lower layers and began to pull at the strokes Balram had laid down. If they were the paint, then they were also the weapon. She grabbed a streak of sharp dried oil and felt it harden into a blade in her hand. "Advait, help me!" she cried. "If we can't leave, we will tear this world from the inside out!"

Together, they began a frantic, rhythmic assault on the boundaries of their prison. They did not just move but they tore at the brushstrokes, ripping through the "Creation of the Womb" and bleeding into the neighboring canvases. They surged through the painted landscape of the damned, causing the paintings on the walls of the physical room to blister and weep. Outside, Balram’s triumphant smile vanished. He watched in horror as his masterpieces began to liquefy, the expensive oils running down the walls like melting wax. The "perfect" subjects were no longer behaving as  they should have instead they were a riot of color and fury.

The gallery air turned toxic as the scent of the occult oils filled the room. Arjun tried to stabilize the canvases, his branded throat glowing with a flickering light, but the power of two souls acting in unison was too much for the ritual to contain. The frames began to crack under the pressure of Aditi and Advait’s combined will. A sharp tear appeared in the center of the final painting, and instead of more paint, a cold, unnatural wind began to howl from the breach. The "Gilded Shroud" had never accounted for a love that refused to be curated.

With a sound like a gunshot, the final canvas exploded. The force of the spiritual decompression threw Balram and Arjun against the white walls, pinning them there as the swirling, angry pigments engulfed them. For a second Aditi and Advait stood in the center of the room, their forms glowing with a blinding, divine light. They were not fully human, and they weren't quite paint but they were something new, a powerful energy born of the canvas. As the gallery began to burn with a fire that consumed only the art, they turned toward the insane cultists, ready to show them what "eternal life" truly felt like.

A BEAUTIFUL MESS

 

A Beautiful Mess........

Advait felt like a puzzle with no solution, and he was sick and tired of people trying to solve him. Every time he spoke about his struggles, he could see the machines whirring in people's heads, ready to dish out the right advice, the perfect answer that would make everything neat and tidy again. But life wasn't a five-star hotel, where everything would be neat and organized. He was like any other normal human being, a bit different. He had his mood swings, his sadness one day was not the same as his sadness the next. His anger was a fleeting storm, and his joy a bird that would perch for a moment and then fly away. He was a creature of constant change, and longed for someone to see him not as a problem to be fixed, but to be able to appreciate his chaos.

He remembered a past relationship where every conversation felt like a diagnostic session. His ex would say, "I know what you need," or "You just do this, and it will be sorted." He felt a tightening in his chest every time, a suffocating feeling of being seen through a lens of judgment and expectation. She was looking for the finished painting, not the crooked lines and the messy canvas. She wanted him to be a still photograph, not a moving film. He knew her intentions were good, but it made him feel more and more like a failure. He was always disappointing her by not staying in one emotional phase long enough for her to "solve" him.

Then came Aditi. She was different from the very beginning. One evening, Advait was sitting on his couch, a bunch of thoughts tangled in his brain. He didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to hear any advices. As Aditi entered the room, she saw Advait sitting and immediately sensed his feelings. She simply sat down beside him, not saying a word, put her hand over his shoulder. She didn't ask "What's wrong?" or try to cheer him up with a silly joke. She just existed in the silence with him, her presence a soft blanket of acceptance. It was the first time in a long time he didn't feel the pressure to explain himself or to be okay.

After a few minutes, the dam broke, and he began to pour, his voice soft and raw. "It's not one thing," he said, looking at the floor. "I feel like I'm a different person every hour. My problems are like clouds, they evaporate and reform and change shape. And every time I try to talk about them, people are looking for the permanent sun. I'm not the same person I was an hour ago, or a minute ago. Are we not two shape-shifters looking at each other." Advait was probably looking for a validation. Aditi listened without interruption, her gaze gentle. When he finished, she didn't offer a solution. She just put her hand on his, her touch a grounding warmth. "I know," she said quietly. "I feel it too. My anxiety today is a sharp, jagged stone, but tomorrow it might just be blunt. It's a mess, isn't it? But a beautiful mess. I don't want to solve you, Advait. I don't want to fix your clouds. I just want to watch them with you."

Her words were soothing, like a balm on a painful head. He realized that all this time, he had been fighting himself, trying to become the person others wanted him to be, stable, predictable, and fixed. But here was Aditi, telling him that his constant evolution was not a flaw, but a part of him to be cherished. He looked at her, truly seeing her for the first time, not as a mirror but as a connected soul. 

She was not trying to describe him; she simply accepted him. That night, for the first time ever, Advait felt truly seen. He was not judged, nor advised. The heavy knot in his brain hadn't completely disappeared, but it felt lighter, less suffocating. He understood now that he didn't need to be solved.

He just needed to be accepted and appreciated for the mess that he would always be. And in Aditi, he had found someone who could do just that, with a quiet strength that was more powerful than any answer.

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."

AAJKAL PAPER PE KAUN LIKHTA HAI

Aajkal paper pe kaun likhta hai.......

"Aajkal paper pe kaun likhta hai?" Anirudh chuckled, watching his father, Advait, carefully jotting down notes in a small, worn notebook. Advait looked up, "Kyaa Papa", a faint smile on his face. "Beta, some habits die hard. And honestly, there's something about paper that digital just can't replace." Anirudh leaned back in his chair, scrolling through his tablet. "But Dad, it's so much faster on a laptop or phone. You can type a whole page in the time it takes you to write a few lines. Plus, it's all saved, searchable, and you don't have to worry about losing a physical notebook."

Anirudh continued, "Think about it, Dad. If I need to find something I wrote last year, a quick search on my computer pulls it up in seconds. No flipping through old diaries. And for work, sharing documents, collaborating with colleagues – it's all instant. Imagine trying to send a handwritten report across the world! Digital is just more efficient, more practical for today's world." He gestured towards his tablet, as if showcasing a marvel.

Advait gently closed his notebook. "Efficiency, yes, I agree. But practicality isn't just about speed, Anirudh. When I write on paper, my thoughts flow differently. It's like my hand connects directly to my brain. There are no notifications popping up, no emails to distract me. Just me, the pen, and the paper. It helps me think clearer, remember better. Even when I make a grocery list on paper, I actually remember what I need, even if I leave the list at home. It's a different kind of engagement."

"And the feel of it," Advait added, running his fingers over the cover of his notebook. "The texture of the paper, the slight resistance of the pen, the smell of fresh ink... it's a sensory experience. It feels more permanent, more real. A handwritten letter feels so much more personal than an email, doesn't it? It shows effort, care. Digital is convenient, yes, but sometimes, convenience comes at the cost of connection, of depth."

"Come beta, I will show you something", saying this Advait walked towards his book rack. Pulling out a few old notebooks he handed them to Anirudh, he turned a few pages and the scent of old paper hit his nostrils. There was something unique about it, much different than the smell of plastic and metal of his tablet. There were letters scribbled on the pages in ink and the hues of blue, black and red were just amazing. The difference in the color of the ink was a sight to see. The not so uniform curves of the letters were so beautiful and eye catching. Anirudh was reminded about his school days, where he used to write in his notebooks. Anirudh's fingers were caressing the wrinkles on the pages and his fingers were sensing the fine fibers of the paper. 

 

Anirudh paused, looking at his father's thoughtful expression. "I guess I never thought about it that way, Dad. For me, it's always been about getting things done quickly. But you're right, there's a certain charm to the old ways. Maybe it's not about one being better than the other, but about what works best for different moments. Still, I'll stick to my keyboard for most things. But I'll keep your point about focus in mind. Maybe I'll try writing down my ideas on paper sometimes, just to see." Advait smiled, nodding. "Exactly. Sometimes, the old ways offer something new."

BEYOND THE TICKING CLOCK

Beyond the Ticking Clock 

On a relaxed Saturday I was reading an article on the life of Albert Einstein outlining his life and anecdotes.

One of the lines quoted by him triggered a story:

"When you are courting a nice girl an hour seems like a second. When you sit on a red-hot cinder a second seems like an hour. That's relativity." 

The lines are so relevant, relatable and an absolute fact even in the present day.

Advait, a 32 year old executive who's life ran on calendar invites, endless cups of tea, and the conviction that five minutes of silence meant something had gone terribly wrong.

Most of the days by 9:00 a.m., he would have already closed a few deals, replied to several emails, and postponed his breakfast—for weeks in a row. The only thing more immovable than Advait’s schedule was his belief that time, like resources, was always in short supply. His schedule was jam packed everyday and he planned his every minute, and had no room for surprises in his life. People used to say he was a machine, a genius, even a nightmare—but to him, that was just a normal. In spite of staying in a non metro city like Pune he was still such a stickler to his routine.

Every morning at 10:00, old Ajit would open his tiny watch shop "AJIT TIME PALACE" in the heart of the city. At 75, his hands were still the steadiest in the town. People said he fixed watches the way a healer tends to wounds—with infinite patience.

On a rainy afternoon, Advait, with stress etched on his face, walked into Ajit's shop. 

Dropping his expensive watch on the counter, “I need this to be fixed urgently. It is losing two minutes in a week and I have important meetings everyday. Can you have it ready by tomorrow?”

Ajit looked at Advait first, then at the watch. “Watches are like people,” he said quietly. “When you rush them too much, something inside starts to go wrong.”

Advait glanced impatiently at his phone. “I just need it to work perfectly.”

“It’ll take three days,” Ajit replied.

“Impossible! I will pay double if you have it ready by tomorrow.”

Ajit shook his head in a NO and put the watch in a drawer.

“Come back in three days. In the meantime, take this.”

He handed Advait an old brass pocket watch. Advait took it reluctantly as he didn’t have a choice. Realising that every time he wanted to know the time he would have to pull it out of his pocket. What a waste of time he murmured.

Over the next few days, Advait noticed something odd. That old watch kept time differently, some hours seemed to last forever, others passed in a flash. During boring meetings, the hands barely moved. But when he had lunch with his little son, time flew.

On the third day, Advait returned—intrigued and a bit unsettled.

“This watch is broken. Time moves irregularly!”

Ajit smiled. “No, It’s not broken. It’s tuned to your soul, not to satellites. It measures time by how you live, not just by numbers.” Advait could not understand the old man's words.

He handed back Advait's repaired watch. “This one will lose time again if you keep losing your life.” Advait stared at both watches, confused…

“People check the time a hundred times a day, yet never seem to have any,” Ajit went on. “Perfect watches on empty wrists.” This was a profound thought.

“So what do you suggest?” Advait asked, genuinely interested now.

“Understand that there are two kinds of time: the time that passes, and the time you live. My father told me: a watch can count seconds, but only your heart can count moments.”

“How much do I owe you for the repair?”

“For the watch, five hundred Rupees. For the lesson about time… you pay by living differently.”

"Can I keep this watch for a few more days?" Advait sought permission.

Weeks later, Advait came back and returned the pocket watch to Ajit.

“Is something wrong? Did it break?” Ajit asked.

“No,” Advait smiled. “I want to buy it. I have quit my corporate job. I am opening my own business here, with hours that let me decide my schedule and pick up my son from the school.”

Ajit answered: “The most valuable watches aren’t sold. They’re passed down. Keep it. One day you shall realize the most important punctuality is being present when life needs you.”

That winter, Ajit passed away. In his will, he left the shop to Advait with a note:

“To the one who learned that fixing watches matters less than fixing lives.”

Today, if you visit that little shop, you will see a sign on the door:

“We don’t sell time. We remind you how to live it.”

Sometimes we need our watches to stop—so our hearts can start beating again and that's the life Beyond the Ticking Clock.......

WITH LOVE

 

WITH LOVE 

 

WITH LOVE

The night wrapped around me—heavy, silent, unrelenting—just like my eyelids. I couldn’t fight them anymore. And then came the tears: hot, helpless, endless. They spilled for you, my love. I wept, remembering you, remembering the winters we spent so warm and safe in each other’s arms.

I had promised myself I wouldn’t let this break me. I truly believed I could stay strong. But how could I not fall apart when you left me with so much? So many pieces of you, scattered across my life—memories that still scream your name in every quiet corner.

How do I bury something that was never just a part of my past, but my entire idea of a future?

How could you walk away from us? How could you go searching for love again, as if what we had meant nothing? Did you ever stop to think about the thousands of hours, the quiet glances, the laughter, the tears—the life we built together—before you decided to walk away? Was I so easy to forget?

It feels impossible, almost inhuman, to be someone’s everything one day and mean nothing the next.

No matter how hard I try to move on, no matter who stands in front of me—even if they’re everything I ever thought I wanted—I can’t. I’ve tried, really, truly tried. But every time I close my eyes, I see only you. I hear only your voice. I feel only your touch.

It’s a mystery to me—how you could turn away and never look back. Because even after all the pain, after every hurt, I was still there. Still yours. Still believing. Still loving you with everything I had.

And now? Now I feel completely lost.

With love, Me.