THE COOK

 

The Cook.....

Aditi sat propped up against the pillows, her back aching not just from the surgery, but from the unaccustomed stillness. For more than three decades, the kitchen had been her kingdom. She knew exactly how much salt her husband liked and just how crispy her son wanted his parathas. Now, she felt like an exiled queen watching someone else walk into her palace.

Anjali entered with a cheerful clink of glass bangles. "Didi, aaj kya banaana hai?" she asked, her voice bright and ready. She was a thin woman with quick movements, a contrast to Aditi’s current forced slowness. Aditi felt a pang of jealousy. That should be her standing there, tying her apron and lighting the stove.

Aditi pulled out a small notebook where she had scribbled every detail. "Anjali, listen carefully," she began, her voice firm. "The dal must be soaked for exactly twenty minutes. Don't use the pressure cooker for more than three whistles. And remember, the mustard seeds must crackle completely before you add the curry leaves." Anjali nodded, though her eyes showed a hint of confusion. She had been cooking for families for a decade, usually left to her own instincts. To her, cooking was a rhythm, not a set of rigid rules. However, she saw the desperation in Aditi’s eyes and chose to stay silent, accepting the long list of "do's and don'ts."

As the sounds of chopping and sautéing drifted from the kitchen, Aditi sat in the bedroom, her ears strained. She could smell the oil heating up. "Is she using too much?" she wondered. She winced at the sound of a heavy spoon clattering against the kadhai. In her mind, she was standing right there, correcting Anjali’s grip.

Anjali, meanwhile, felt like a student taking a difficult exam. She wanted to add a pinch of garam masala, her secret touch, but remembered Aditi’s strict instruction: "Only cumin and turmeric." She felt stifled. Her hands, which usually moved with a life of their own, now felt clumsy and hesitant. The kitchen, usually a place of warmth and aroma, felt tense. Anjali followed the "whistle count" religiously, staring at the cooker. She measured the water with a cup instead of her usual practiced eye. She was so focused on following the map that she forgot to enjoy the journey of the meal.

When lunch was finally served, the family gathered around the table. Aditi watched from the distance, leaning on her walker. There was a heavy silence as her husband took the first bite of the dal. He chewed slowly, his expression neutral. Her son picked at the vegetables, looking for the familiar charred edges his mother always mastered. The food was... fine. But it wasn't "Aditi’s food." The dal was perfectly cooked by the clock, yet it lacked the soul of a slow-simmered meal. The vegetables were exactly as instructed, but they tasted like a checklist rather than a dish. Anjali stood in the corner, wiping her hands on her dupatta, sensing the disappointment.

Aditi felt a tear prick her eye. She realized that by forcing Anjali to be a puppet, she had squeezed the life out of the food. She had tried to transfer her own "magic" through a set of cold instructions, failing to realize that cooking is an art of the heart, not just a manual of motions.

This small incident in the kitchen reflects a deeper truth about our lives. We often try to control every variable in our environment, believing that if people just followed our "script," everything would be perfect. We treat our relationships and our work like recipes, forgetting that the most beautiful results often come from the ingredients we didn't plan for.

Control is frequently an illusion we cling to when we feel vulnerable. Just as Aditi used instructions to mask her helplessness after surgery, we use micromanagement to mask our fears of being replaced or forgotten. But true mastery lies in letting go. When we stifle others with our rigid expectations, we prevent them from bringing their own unique light into our lives.

Life is not a series of "whistles" and "measurements." It is a fluid, breathing process. If we insist on everyone playing their part exactly as we’ve written it, we end up with a performance that is technically correct but emotionally empty. The "perfect" life is often the one where we allow for a little bit of mess, a little bit of "too much salt," and a lot of someone else's perspective.

In the end, the most nourishing meals and the most fulfilling lives are those seasoned with trust. To be "fed" is a physical act, but to be "nourished" is a spiritual one. We must learn to give others the space to fail, to experiment, and to contribute. Only when we stop holding the spoon so tightly can we truly taste the richness of the world around us.

Two months later, the doctor finally gave Aditi the green light to move freely. The surgical scars had faded to thin silver lines, and the strength had returned to her legs. But as she walked into the kitchen on a sunny Tuesday morning, she didn’t reclaim it with the territorial fire she once had. Instead, she found Anjali already there, sorting through a pile of fresh vegetables, preparing the base for the next meal. 

"Anjali, wait," Aditi said softly. Anjali froze, her hand halfway to the spice box, expecting a correction or a critique. But Aditi simply pulled up a stool and sat beside her. "Don't follow my notebook today. Show me how you are used to making this dal in your style. I want to taste your home today."

Anjali’s face transformed. A wide, genuine smile broke across her features, and her movements suddenly lost their stiffness. She began to work with a rhythmic grace that Aditi hadn't seen before. She didn't use a measuring cup; she felt the weight of the lentils in her palm. She didn't count the whistles; she smelled the steam to know when the pulse was tender.

Aditi watched, helping only when asked, peeling a clove of garlic here, stirring a pot there. She realized that by stepping back, she wasn't losing her place in the house; she was gaining a partner. The kitchen was no longer a kingdom to be guarded, but a shared space of creation. The air didn't feel heavy with "instructions" anymore; it felt light with conversation and the sizzle of shared effort.

When the family sat down for lunch, the aroma was different, it was bolder, earthier, and vibrant. As her husband took a bite, his eyes widened in surprise. "This is incredible," he remarked. "It’s different from yours, Aditi, but it’s wonderful in its own way." Aditi smiled, meeting Anjali’s eyes across the counter.

The meal was a success because it contained the one ingredient no manual can provide: the freedom to be oneself. Aditi learned that her value didn't come from being the only one who could cook, but from her ability to appreciate the flavors others brought to the table. In letting go of the "right way," she discovered a "better way". A way one paved with grace, humility, and the joy of a shared life.

SEAT NUMBER 38

 

Seat Number 38.....

The train rattled along the tracks, carrying Advait, Aditi, and little Aryan on a long twenty-hour journey. The air was filled with the rhythmic sound of the wheels and the steady chatter of travelers settling into their seats. While most adults were preparing for the long haul by unfolding blankets and opening snacks, three-and-a-half-year-old Aryan was just getting started with his own adventure.

Aryan was a bundle of pure energy and curiosity. With his bright eyes and wide smile, he turned the narrow train aisle into his own personal playground. He didn't see strangers; he only saw potential friends. Within the first few hours, he had already greeted almost everyone in the compartment, earning cuddles, gentle pats and a few treats from fellow passengers who couldn't help but fall for his bubbly charm.

In the middle of this lively scene sat a man on seat number 38. He looked to be about fifty-five years old, traveling all by himself. He spent most of the time staring out the window, his face etched with a quiet sadness, as if he were lost in a world of heavy thoughts. He seemed to be a thousand miles away from the noise and laughter of the train compartment.

As Aryan made his rounds, he eventually stopped near seat 38. The man looked down and noticed the little boy standing there, looking up with pure expectation. Slowly, as if waking from a deep dream, the man reached out and gave Aryan a gentle, tentative pat on the back. It was a small, polite gesture, but for a child like Aryan, it was a golden invitation.

Without a second thought, Aryan did something that surprised everyone: he climbed right onto the man’s lap. The man froze for a second, his hands hovering in the air. He wasn't prepared for such a direct burst of affection from a stranger’s child. He looked around nervously, perhaps wondering if the parents would mind or if he should put the boy back down on the floor.

But then, Aryan leaned back against the man's chest as if he had known him for a lifetime. The man’s stiff shoulders finally dropped, and the tension in his face softened into a smile. The icy wall of loneliness around him seemed to melt away instantly. He wrapped his arms around the child, and in that moment, a deep, silent bond was formed between two people from completely different generations.

For the next several hours, the two were inseparable. They looked through Aryan’s picture books together, with the man pointing out animals and reading stories in a soft, kind voice. Later, Aryan sat focused and quiet as he played a simple game on the man’s mobile phone. The man watched him with a gaze full of warmth and pride, looking very much like a grandfather watching his own kin.

Advait and Aditi watched from their seats nearby, exchanging surprised and touched looks. They had seen their son be friendly before, but this was different. The man, who had looked so isolated and grey just an hour ago, was now glowing with life. It was as if Aryan had instinctively found a missing piece of the man’s heart and placed it back where it belonged.

The rest of the compartment grew quiet as the sun began to set, but the two of them remained in their own little world. The man seemed completely oblivious to the noise of the train or the other passengers, focused entirely on the small boy who had chosen him. It was a beautiful reminder that connections don’t care about age or history; sometimes, a child’s innocence is the only bridge needed.

As the train finally pulled into their station, it was time to say goodbye. The man handed Aryan back to his parents with a look of deep gratitude in his eyes. He didn't say much, but the way he held Aryan’s hand one last time said everything. They had started the journey as total strangers, but they left as long-lost friends, proving that a child’s simple love can heal a heart in ways words never can.

As the train slowed down and the platform lights flickered across their faces, a heavy silence settled between them. The man looked down at Aryan, who was now rubbing his sleepy eyes, unaware that their time together was coming to an end. For the man, those few hours had been a sanctuary, a brief escape from a life that had clearly become too quiet and too lonely. He realized then that while he had been entertaining the child, it was actually the child who had been saving him from his own thoughts.

When the train finally screeched to a halt, Advait and Aditi stepped forward to gather their bags and take Aryan’s hand. The man stood up slowly, his legs a bit stiff, but his expression was transformed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, wooden keychain he had been carrying. With a trembling hand, he pressed it into Aryan’s tiny palm, whispering a soft "thank you" that was meant for more than just the company. It was a thank you for the reminder that he was still capable of feeling joy.

As the family walked down the narrow aisle toward the exit, Aryan turned back one last time to wave a frantic, chubby-handed goodbye. The man stood by seat 38, waving back until the little boy disappeared into the crowd on the platform. He sat back down in the now-empty space, but the coldness of the journey was gone. He leaned his head against the window, watching the family walk away, carrying with him a warmth that would last long after the train reached its final destination.

A few days later, the man sat in his quiet living room, the silence of his house feeling far less heavy than it once had. He looked at the empty space on his sofa and, for the first time in years, he didn’t see a void; instead, he remembered the weight of a small child sitting there, the sound of innocent laughter, and the way the light had caught Aryan’s curious eyes. He reached into his pocket and touched the smooth edge of his phone, half-expecting to see a sticky fingerprint or a bright game left open on the screen, a lingering ghost of their brief, beautiful friendship.

He realized that the encounter had changed the rhythm of his days. He found himself walking through the local park, watching children play and smiling back at strangers, no longer retreating into the shell of his own memories. The "long-lost friend" he had found on the train had taught him that the world was still full of light, if only he was willing to look up and see it. Aryan was miles away, likely onto his next big adventure, but the man felt as though he carried a piece of that bubbly spirit with him, a quiet promise that he was never truly alone as long as he kept his heart open.

As the man sat in the fading evening light, his mind drifted back to the tragedy that had cast a shadow over his life for nearly a decade. Years ago, he had been a different person - a father and a grandfather with a house full of noise and messy toys. But a tragic car accident on a rainy autumn evening had stolen his world away in an instant, taking his son, daughter-in-law and his young grandson. Since that day, the silence in his home had become a physical weight, a constant reminder of the voices he would never hear again and the futures that would never unfold.

He had spent years avoiding the gaze of children in parks or the aisles of grocery stores, because the sight of a small child was like a sharp needle to his heart. It reminded him too much of the grandson who would have been about ten years old by now. He had built a fortress of solitude to protect himself from the pain of remembering, believing that if he didn't let anyone in, he couldn't be hurt by the echoes of what he had lost. 

Seat number 38 had been his self-imposed exile, a place where he could be invisible. However, Aryan had done what no adult had been able to do; he had simply ignored the man's grief and climbed right over his defenses. When the boy had settled into his lap, the man had felt a familiar warmth he thought was gone forever. For a moment, the ghost of his own grandson seemed to merge with the lively child in his arms. The tragedy hadn't disappeared, but for the first time, it wasn't the only thing he felt. The heavy armor of his sorrow had finally cracked, letting in a sliver of much-needed light.

He remembered how he had hesitated when Aryan first approached, afraid that touching a child’s hand would break him into pieces. Instead, it had started to put him back together. He thought about the books they had read together on the train and realized that he hadn't spoken those kinds of gentle, playful words in years. The tragedy had silenced his voice, but Aryan had forced him to speak again, to laugh again, and to remember that his heart was still beating for a reason.

Now, looking at the sunset from his porch, the man didn't just see the end of another day; he saw the possibility of a new beginning. The grief was still there and it would always be there, but it no longer felt like a life sentence. He thought of the little wooden keychain he had given the boy, a small relic from his "old" life, and felt a sense of peace knowing it was out in the world with a child full of hope. He took a deep breath, the air feeling lighter than it had in a decade, and finally allowed himself to whisper the names of those he had lost, no longer with a wail of agony, but with a smile of quiet remembrance.

Back at the hotel, as Aditi was unpacking Aryan’s small backpack to find his pajamas, her hand brushed against something unfamiliar tucked into the side pocket. She pulled out a small, cream-colored envelope, slightly worn at the edges. Inside was a handwritten note, the script shaky but elegant. It wasn't just a thank-you note; it was a confession. The man from seat 38 had written, "Today, your son gave me back a world I thought was lost forever. I haven't smiled like this since I lost my own grandson ten years ago. Thank you for letting him sit with a stranger who desperately needed a friend."

Aditi felt a lump form in her throat as she called Advait over to read the words. Along with the note, there was a small, silver coin, an old collector’s piece carefully tucked into a tiny plastic sleeve. On the back of the sleeve, the man had scrawled: "For Aryan’s first piggy bank. May he never lose his light." The couple looked over at their son, who was already fast asleep, clutching the wooden keychain the man had given him earlier. They realized then that their long, tiring journey hadn't just been about reaching a destination; it had been a mission of healing they hadn't even known they were on.

Advait sat on the edge of the bed, looking at the silver coin glinting under the lamp. "We didn't even ask for his name," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. They felt a sudden, profound connection to this man whose tragedy they had unknowingly softened. The train ride, which they had initially viewed as a twenty-hour chore, now felt like a sacred interval in time. They understood that Aryan’s bubbly nature wasn't just a personality trait; it was a gift that had reached across a decade of sorrow to pull a drowning man back to the surface.

As they tucked the note into their travel journal to keep forever, they promised themselves to foster that kindness in Aryan as he grew. They looked at the silver coin and the wooden keychain as more than just objects; they were symbols of a bridge built between two souls in the middle of a crowded train. The man had arrived at his stop, and they at theirs, but the invisible thread between seat 38 and their family remained unbroken.

The next morning, the sun rose over a new city, but the echoes of the train journey stayed with them. Aryan woke up and immediately asked, "Where is my grandpa friend?" Aditi hugged him tight, tears pricking her eyes, and told him that his friend was home, happy and safe. She knew that somewhere, miles away, a man was waking up to a house that no longer felt quite so empty, carrying the memory of a little boy who had taught him how to live again.

Inspired by the warmth that Aryan had reignited in his soul, the man decided he could no longer sit in the silence of his own home. A week after the journey, he walked into a local community center and signed up to be a volunteer "reading grandfather" for underprivileged children. He realized that while he couldn't change the tragedy of his past, he could honor the memory of the grandson he lost by sharing his love with children who needed a fatherly figure. The walls he had built around himself were finally gone, replaced by the sound of storybooks and the tapping of small feet.

On his first day, as he sat in a circle with a group of wide-eyed toddlers, he felt a familiar tug on his sleeve. It reminded him so much of Aryan that he couldn't help but chuckle. For the first time in ten years, he didn't feel like a man defined by loss; he felt like a man defined by his capacity to give. He realized that grief is a heavy burden, but it becomes lighter when you use your hands to help someone else carry theirs.

In his pocket, he kept a small photo he had taken of Aryan playing on his phone, a blurred, candid shot that captured the child's pure focus. Every time he felt the old shadows of sadness creeping back, he would look at that photo and remember the twenty-hour train ride. He would remember that a three-year-old stranger had seen past his gray hair and his sad eyes to find the friend hidden underneath. It was a reminder that life is never truly over as long as there is love to be shared.

Thousands of miles away, Aryan grew older, and the silver coin stayed in a special box on his dresser. Though he was too young to remember the man's face or the details of the tragedy, he often told people about the "kind train man" who gave him his favorite keychain. The man’s legacy of kindness lived on in Aryan’s heart, shaping him into a compassionate young boy who always looked out for those sitting by themselves.

The connection that began on seat number 38 had created a ripple effect that neither of them could have predicted. One life was saved from the depths of despair, and another was taught the power of a simple gesture. In the end, the story of Advait, Aditi, Aryan, and the lonely traveler wasn't just about a trip on a train; it was a testament to the fact that no matter how long the journey or how dark the night, a little bit of light is always enough to find the way home.

THE LIGHT YOU NEVER SEE

 

The Light You Never See.....

The mirror is a quiet deceiver. Every morning, we stand before it, checking our reflections as if they hold the final truth of our existence. We see a nose, a pair of eyes, the curve of a chin, and we think, "This is me." But the mirror only shows the shell. It cannot show the way your spirit moves or the way your presence fills a room. It is a flat surface trying to hold a soul that is far too vast for glass to contain.

We often live our lives through the narrow lens of a camera, trying to capture the moments to prove we were there. We pose, and we smile, making sure the lighting is just right. But in doing so, we become a project rather than a person. The camera captures a version of you that is frozen and still, while the real you is a flowing river, ever-changing and alive. You are more than a static image; you are a living, breathing experience that no pixel can fully translate.

There is a specific kind of beauty that you will never witness in yourself, and it is perhaps your most honest form. It is the way your face lights up when you see a person you love walking towards you. At that moment, your eyes sparkle with a warmth that no digital filter can recreate. Your joy is written in the tiny lines around your eyes and the sudden softness of your smile. You are at your most radiant when you are looking at someone else, forgetting entirely about how you appear to the world.

Think of the things that set your soul on fire from within. When you talk about your favorite book, the one with the dog-eared pages that you keep safe like a secret. Your entire energy shifts. Your voice carries a weight and a melody that is unique only to you. You don't hear the passion in your own tone, but those listening do. They see the fire in your heart reflected in your words. You are not just a person talking; you are a vessel for the things you value most.

We are a collection of the places we have been and the songs that have carried us through the dark. You carry the rhythm of every street you have walked and the lyrics of every song that made you feel understood. These things become a part of your hidden DNA. You can't see these "melodies" when you look in the mirror, but they are the architecture of your character. They are what make you "YOU" when the lights go out and the world is quiet.

The great human fallacy is that we judge our worth based on moments where we are not actually being ourselves. We look at a blurry photo or a tired morning reflection and feel small. But these are the moments when we are most "virtual," most disconnected from our essence. We measure our value in the spaces where we are performing or resting, rather than the spaces where we are simply existing in the vibrant truth of our passions.

You are most beautiful when you forget that you are being watched. It is in the quiet focus of your work, the messy laughter over a shared meal, or the way you hum a tune while you're lost in thought. In these unscripted seconds, you are pure. You aren't trying to be pretty, or smart, or cool, you just are. This effortless existence is where your true self lives, tucked safely away from the judgment of the lens or the criticism of the mind.

We often forget that we are also made of our conversations. Every deep talk at midnight and every quick laugh with a stranger adds a layer to your soul. Your identity is a tapestry woven from the kindness you have given and the stories you have shared. You cannot see a conversation in a mirror, yet it is one of the most significant parts of your being. You are the echo of every "I love you" and every "tell me more" that you have ever uttered.

Life is not a product to be displayed; it is an adventure to be felt. The world tells us to curate our lives, to make them look a certain way for others to consume. But the most important parts of your life, the adventures that changed you and the feelings that awakened your spirit, are invisible to the eye. They are felt in the chest. They are the invisible marks of a life well-lived, and they carry more beauty than any physical trait ever could.
So, let go of the need to see yourself clearly through a lens. Trust that you are far more wonderful than any reflection could ever suggest. You are a masterpiece of light and shadow, of music and memory. While you may never see the way you glow when you are truly happy, remember that the world does. You are not meant to be looked at; you are meant to be known, to be loved, and to be truly, beautifully alive.

THE DOT THAT CARRIED OUR YEARS

 

The Dot That Carried Our Years.....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE ILLUSION INDUSTRY

 

The Illusion Industry.....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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