THE SECRET LIFE OF EVERYDAY THINGS

 

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

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

Sir Whisperer – The Tangled Philosopher of Sound

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

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

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

Loo-Lid – The Enduring Throne Keeper

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

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

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

Dr. Judgment – The Digital Mirror

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

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

Channel Chieftain – The Buttoned Bard of Boredom

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

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

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

Chef Micro – The Culinary Therapist with PTSD

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

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

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

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

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

THE ACTOR'S EMPTY CANVAS

The actor's empty canvas........

VIJAY - the name everyone reveres in Bollywood. He wasn't just an actor par excellence but a star in his own right.  He was something else, a magic. A method actor, and a master at depicting varied emotions.  Switching and manipulating emotions was like a child's play for him. From making you laugh your head off in a comedy scene to making your heart ache in a sad one, the transition was seamless and effortless. The audience would just watch him in awe. He had an endless list of movies in which he had acted, each one a masterpiece, a testament to his intense acting.  Vijay's roots were very modest, and he came from a very ordinary family who had seen the lows of life. He had scaled the heights of the glitzy world purely because of his amazing talent and perseverance. No nepotism, no out of the turn favors. As it happens most of the time, with all that fame, a little bit of arrogance and overconfidence seeps in.  Probably it's a part of the package. 

Today, on the set, Vijay was giving a really intense scene, crying over his screen mom's death. His voice, heavy with emotions, resonated in the studio. His eyes showed a pain so real, so raw, it felt like he wasn't acting at all. The director, with tears streaming down his face, and the entire cast and crew, they were just lost in his performance. The whole studio was enveloped with sadness which was unreal, until the director, his voice choked, finally shouted, "CUT!"  Only then did everyone realize, "Oh, it's just a shoot." It took a while for everyone to recover. 

Vijay leaned back in his chair, a smirk on his face, already thinking about his next scene. He picked up his phone, and saw innumerable missed calls from his wife Jaya. He felt a bit annoyed, but then a strange sense of uneasiness came over him as he called her back. "Vijay," Jaya's  quivering voice, cut through the stillness and the quiet, "Maa guzar gayi hai, ghar aa jao jaldi se." The words just hung there, a cruel echo of the scene he'd just done moments ago.  Vijay was numb, empty, and strangely couldn't react, his mind suddenly a deafening blank. He asked for a pack up, the news felt like a heavy, invisible weight. He rushed home. 

 

The drive home was a blur of eerie silence, but so deafening - it matched the emptiness inside him. No tears, no frantic calls, just a cold numbness. As he walked into his house from the patio, the carvings on the pillars of his palatial house seemed to be frozen in silence. As he neared the majestic hall, he could faintly hear the sounds of people sobbing inside. The moment he reached his mother's bedroom, which was near the puja room, his family members, the house helps, all were in tears and the grim faces of his neighbors greeted him... On the bed, his mother lay still and peaceful. But Vijay, the master of emotions, was surprisingly bereft of any emotion.  It was like a part of him had been cut out, leaving behind an empty shell. The actor could not even emote or feel. 

What an irony - THE ACTOR COULD NOT ACT.

He looked around, everyone was in grief, but it was only him, who couldn't react. A cold fear crept into his heart. He couldn't understand why he wasn't feeling anything. Had his real emotions been taken over by his method acting? Had all those years of perfecting fake pain and joy, love and sorrow, stolen his ability to feel them for real? The question echoed in his mind, a scary thought that maybe, by impersonating every character over the years, he had stopped being himself. Like Shah Rukh Khan once said, "Hum ek baar jeete hain, ek baar marte hain, shaadi bhi ek baar hoti hai... aur pyar bhi ek hi baar hota hai." But for Vijay, it felt like his emotions had died many times over.

The pain of this realization was much deeper than any he had ever shown on screen. The iconic scene and dialogue from his mega blockbuster film DEEWAR  reverberated in his mind in a loop. "Aaj mere paas gaadi hain..Bangla hain property hain..bank balance hai, sab kuch hai, lekin aaj mere pass maa nahin hain ... that's the   bitter truth - the irony.

The applause, the awards, the fan following – it all felt empty in front of this crushing emotional void. The man who could make millions cry with just one emotion, one tear shed now stood before the biggest tragedy of his life completely, terrified, dry-eyed. He remembered another dialogue, "Rishte mein toh hum tumhare baap lagte hain, naam hai Shahenshah!" But here, in his own life's tragedy, he felt like a nobody.... an empty canvas.

Credits:

1. My friend Chetan Shah for sharing the concept of the story.

2. Internet: {Method acting is a technique or type of acting in which an actor aspires to encourage sincere and emotionally expressive performances by fully inhabiting the role of the character. It is an emotion-oriented technique instead of classical acting that is primarily action-based. - Source www.studibinder.com} 

THE ILLUSION OF "I"

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE BOMBAY LOCAL LOVE STORY

 

The Bombay Local Love Story........

 

Every morning on the busy Bombay local, something quietly magical was happening.

Advait, a shy South Bombay guy, always had his nose buried in a book or a newspaper, even with people squished around him. Aditi, full of life and chatty, was from the suburbs and studying engineering. Their paths crossed every day—usually at Dadar station. He always managed a window seat. She often stood in front of him, holding the bar overhead. It wasn’t love at first sight. Not in that sweaty, noisy train. But something soft started growing.

First, they’d steal glances. Then came a smile over a funny headline in his newspaper. On a rainy day, the train stopped suddenly between stations, and the lights went out. In the dark, Advait gestured and offered Aditi his seat and a piece of "thepla" (a type of Indian bread) which his mom had packed. She laughed and took a bite. That tiny moment broke the ice—and made the whole train compartment warm up to them, too.

Soon, their commute became the best part of their day. They talked about everything—college stress, silly Bollywood news, and who sold the best vada pav. Advait, usually quiet, started opening up thanks to Aditi’s cheerful nature. And Aditi, who once thought South Bombay boys were snobby, found Advait sweet and surprisingly funny.

Their chats didn’t stop with the train ride. They’d walk together till the exit, not wanting to say goodbye. Their friends teased them, calling them "train wale lovebirds." Eventually, their dates moved beyond the local train—Marine Drive sunsets, roadside chai, wandering through Colaba lanes. But the train always felt special, like their personal Cupid.

Of course, they had their share of little fights—missed calls, late trains, small misunderstandings. But just like the rhythm of the local, they always found their way back to each other. Through the madness of city life, they found comfort in each other's company.

And now, years later, they’re settled and have a family of their own. But whenever they hear the sound of a local train, it brings a smile. It takes them back to stolen glances, shared theplas, and a quiet love that grew in the heart of Bombay’s chaos.

Their story isn’t flashy. It’s soft, simple—and full of heart. Just like Bombay itself.

 

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.......