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.