WHISPERS FROM THE SKY

 

"Whispers from the Sky"

"You run from me now, but once, you danced in my arms.”

I am Rain. Not just drops falling from the clouds, but a living, breathing witness to your world. I have traveled across centuries, kissed the cheeks of kings and peasants alike, and whispered into the ears of sleeping forests. Now you see me as a forecast, a disruption, a mood, but I am more than that. I am memory in motion - remember your first love? I am an emotion in liquid form. I fall not just to quench your thirst, but to remind you of the rhythm of life, the renewal, the pulse that connects all living things.

In the good old days, my arrival was met with joy and laughter. Like the charging bulls, children would burst from their homes barefoot, arms spread wide, their faces excitedly looking towards the sky. Their laughter echoing through the fields and the narrow alleyways, uniting with my own song. I was a playground, a celebration, a moment of freedom. But now, I watch from above as these little souls press their noses against glass, forbidden to step out. Overprotectiveness has wrapped them in plastic and caution, and soaking in me has become a rare indulgence.

I do not resent this change, but I mourn it. I mourn the loss of spontaneity, of muddy footprints and dripping hair. I mourn the sanitized silence that has replaced the splash and squeals of joy. You have built walls not just of concrete, but of fear. The fear of germs, of stains, of discomfort. O human, I am not your enemy - you are the enemy. It's you, who has polluted the pristine atmosphere, it's your carelessness which has polluted the rivers, it's your over enthusiasm and so-called scientific advancement which has caused the damage. In fact, I am the Earth’s way of touching you, of reminding you that you are part of something vast and alive.

Still, I come. I come to cleanse your air, to cool your burning cities, to nourish your roots. I carry the essence of the oceans and the secrets of mountains. I bring out the stories from the abyss of your heart, the emotions you have long buried. I do not ask for permission. I arrive with purpose. My only motive is connection, a divine connection with you. I fall so that life may rise. I vanish so that life may bloom and thrive. I am the pause in your rush. It's my gentle way of reminding you, that you gotta respect Nature.

But I hold secrets too. I have seen the grief of farmers whose fields cracked in my absence. I now unwillingly carry the toxins which you generate. I have wept over rivers choked with waste, and sighed as your machines pierced the clouds to bend me to your will. Cloud seeding as you term it, it's cloud bleeding for me. You think you control me with satellites and sensors, but sadly I am not programmable. I am a mirror which reflects your choices, your carelessness, your hopes.

In these modern times, when screens dominate your gaze and silence is rare, I urge you to listen to the soft tap on your window, stop scrolling, take a pause. Let me in. Let me remind you of the tenderness you have buried beneath the deadlines and data. Let your children run again. Let your elders sit beneath my rhythm and remember. Let your cities breathe. I am not a threat, I am the balm.

Here’s my advice, if you take it: slow down. Soak in me once in a while, without rushing. Let your skin feel the stories I carry. Plant trees, not just for their shade, but to create memories. Harvest rainwater, not just for sustainability, but for respect, respect for the Universe. Speak kindly to the Earth, and I will respond in kind. I am not your enemy, nor your tool. I am your companion. Treat me as such, and I shall nourish you beyond measure.

And when I leave, don’t forget me. I shall return, as I always do, in rhythm with your choices. Whether I come gently or in fury depends on how you live. I am Rain. I am an emotion in motion, the sky’s way of touching the Earth, always watching, always waiting for you to remember me not as a forecast, but as a feeling.

THE BENCH TALK

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

BREATHING ROOMS, LIVING MEMORIES

 

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

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

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

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

Homes Are Not Built—They Are Breathed Into Being

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

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

The Invisible Imprint of Emotion

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

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

Transforming Space with Intention

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

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

The Sacred Responsibility of Atmosphere

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

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

THE HEALTHY PEOPLE DIET

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE SECRET LIFE OF EVERYDAY THINGS

 

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

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

Sir Whisperer – The Tangled Philosopher of Sound

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

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

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

Loo-Lid – The Enduring Throne Keeper

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

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

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

Dr. Judgment – The Digital Mirror

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

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

Channel Chieftain – The Buttoned Bard of Boredom

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

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

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

Chef Micro – The Culinary Therapist with PTSD

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

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

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

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

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

THE 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}