UNSPOKEN UNTIL NOW

 

Unspoken Until Now..........

Three generations. One impulsive decision. No group, no fixed plan, no reliable network, just a secluded forest retreat and the definite promise of silence. Anirudh wanted to create some memories, Advait could not allow Anirudh to go alone, and Anay was dragged along for “bonding.” What none of them knew that this trip would unravel more than just old stories.

Ganga Whisper, a beautiful resort nestled deep in the forests of Rishikesh, was unlike anything the trio had experienced before. The wooden cottages situated just kissing the waters of the river Ganga, its waters whispering ancient secrets. The water pristine and the river snaking its way through the forest. The month of January with its cold atmosphere was like the icing on the cake. Anirudh, the grandfather, had chosen this place for a reason. “No distractions. Just us,” he had said. Advait, his son, had hesitated as he was a workaholic considered a 7-day break as insane, as he thought it would be wasting 7 precious days doing nothing. And Anay, the teenager, had protested at first. “No Wi-Fi? Sketchy network? What am I supposed to do, talk to trees?” He being the youngest had really no choice and neither control over the situation. 

But now, on their second day, something seemed to be shifting. They were sitting on the porch as the sun dipped behind the hills. It was a sight to behold, stunning and beauty which was unreal and raw. The three of them were held captive by the beauty which was in its grand splendor before their eyes. Anirudh sipped his chai slowly, watching the river. “You know,” he began, “when I was your age, Advait, I used to dream of writing poetry, Shayari. But I chose the bank. Safe, stable. I don’t regret it, but sometimes I wonder what those poems might have become today.” Advait looked up, surprised. “Dad, you never told me that.” Anay leaned forward. “Dadu, you write poetry?” Anirudh smiled. “Kabhi kabhi, but mostly in my head.”

Later that evening, around a crackling bonfire, Advait opened up. “I have spent so much of my life chasing deadlines. I don’t even know what I enjoy anymore. I used to love cooking. Remember, Dad? That biryani I made in college?” Anirudh laughed. “It was terrible. But you were so proud.” Anay chuckled. “Papa, you cook?” Advait nodded. “Haven’t in years. Maybe I should start again.” The fire flickered, casting warm shadows on their faces. Silence settled, not awkward, but reflective.

On the third day, they trekked to a hidden waterfall. The forest was dense and alive. Anay hesitated. “I don’t know what I want to do with my life. Everyone says engineering. But I love sketching. I feel alive when I draw.” Advait paused. “I get it. I chose law because it felt the safest thing to do. But I still dream of opening a book café. Somewhere quiet. Like this.” Anirudh placed a hand on Anay’s shoulder. “Beta, listen to your heart. Zindagi ek baar milti hai. Don’t live someone else’s version of it.”

Unexpectedly, rain poured on the fourth day, keeping them indoors. They played cards, carrom, ludo and Anirudh told them some stories from the ancient Hindu texts. Stories were a trigger, they started pouring their heart out as comfort had set in between them. Anirudh shared one about his crush - Meera, his college love. “She had eyes like the monsoon clouds. We used to sit by the ghat and talk about everything. But her family moved to Canada. I never saw her again.” Advait was stunned. “Wow Dad, this is a bombshell. I never knew this.” Anirudh shrugged. “Some memories just pop up when there is a trigger.” Anay listened, wide-eyed. “Dadu, you are cooler than I thought.”

By the fifth day, the conversations grew deeper. Anay confessed, “I am scared of failing. What if I disappoint you both?” Advait hugged him. “You won’t. And even if you do, it’s okay. We are all allowed to fall.” Anirudh added, “Har kisi ko girna padta hai kabhi na kabhi. That’s how you learn to stand taller.” The words lingered, wrapping around Anay like the mist outside.

On the sixth day, they meditated by the river. The Ganga flowed quietly, as if listening. Advait whispered, “I’ve never felt this peaceful.” Anirudh nodded. “This place strips away the noise. You hear your own thoughts clearly.” Anay smiled. “I think I want to study art. Not just sketch for fun.” Advait looked at him, eyes moist. “Then do it. We will figure it out together.” The river seemed to carry their words gently downstream.

That evening, they lit three diyas and floated them into the river. “One for the past,” Anirudh said. “One for the present,” Advait added. “And one for the future,” Anay finished. They watched the diyas drift away, carrying their stories, regrets, and hopes. It was absolute peace at that moment, no distractions. Just three men, bound by blood and now, by truth.

It was day 7, the day to leave. As they were packing their things, something had shifted. Anirudh walked with a lighter step, his eyes brighter. Advait looked less burdened, more open. And Anay stood taller, more certain. They had come to Rishikesh seeking silence, but found voices, each other’s and their own. Life hadn’t changed. But their lens had. And sometimes, that’s all it takes. The loudest breakthroughs happen in silence. 

When we pause the noise of expectation, we hear the truth of who we are. Generations don’t just pass down wisdom—they pass down permission to dream differently. And in that space between the past and the future, we find the courage to rewrite our own story.

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.