A Small Job, a Big Mirror to Our Mindset

I saw this post on LinkedIn because Dr. Poonam Kondalwadikar liked it—thanks to her, I was able to come across it. It stayed with me long enough for me to post the picture on my WhatsApp status.

What followed was unexpected, but telling.

A few messages came in almost immediately—sarcastic, dismissive, some even bordering on mockery. Not directed at the person in the image, but at the idea of the work itself. The subtext was loud and clear: “Is this really something to admire?” That reaction said far more about our collective mindset than about the job being discussed.

A delivery partner sharing his monthly earnings stirred a familiar response everywhere—surprise, comparison, disbelief. Degrees were invoked, job titles were weighed, and social hierarchies were quietly defended. Applause was rare; judgement was common. Yet the real story isn’t about who earns more. It’s about movement—the decision to step out of the house, take responsibility, and earn with dignity.

We’ve slowly trained ourselves to judge work by how it looks rather than what it does. Air-conditioned offices feel superior to sun-soaked streets. Polished LinkedIn titles seem heavier than honest effort. Somewhere along the way, we confused social validation with self-worth. But the economy doesn’t run on perception—it runs on people who show up, day after day, without applause.

There is something deeply grounding about earning through effort, especially in a culture that glorifies waiting—waiting for the “right” role, the “perfect” opportunity, the “ideal” beginning. Waiting drains confidence. Work restores it. It creates routine, responsibility, and a sense of agency that no excuse ever can.

This isn’t an argument against education or ambition. Those matter. But they don’t cancel the dignity of starting where you are. Any job that gets you moving, learning, and earning is not beneath anyone—it is momentum. And momentum has a way of changing lives quietly.

The discomfort this picture triggered—on my status and elsewhere—reveals an uncomfortable truth. We are far more disturbed by the collapse of old job hierarchies than by unemployment itself. Effort unsettles entitlement. Adaptability challenges pride.

Maybe the real lesson is this: no work is small if it moves you forward. What truly limits people isn’t the nature of their job, but the mindset that prefers judgment over action.

Progress doesn’t need approval.
It only needs the courage to begin.

 What you Think ?!!

Making a Life — Reflections from a Conversation That Stays

What a wonderful experience it was — one of those rare sessions where a conversation doesn’t just answer questions, it rearranges something inside you. On 22nd November 2025, as the Banyan Hall slowly filled for the session “Making a Life,” I felt an unusual calm settle in the room. Perhaps it was the theme itself. Perhaps it was the presence of a man who has lived many lives within one. But as soon as Gurcharan Das began speaking, something shifted — expectation melted into reflection.

The first thing he said felt almost like a whisper to anyone searching for their own meaning:

Write a memoir, not an autobiography.

He wasn’t talking about publishing a book. He meant something far more intimate — that life becomes clear only when you connect your own dots, when you see not events but a pattern, not a timeline but a theme. The honesty with which he spoke made me realise how few of us ever stop to do this for ourselves. We live, but we rarely pause to understand.

Listening to him speak about his childhood, I felt that memory for him was not a sentimental place but a teacher. His mother’s diary, filled with innocent observations of a “restless baby,” became the anchor to a lifetime of self-awareness. But it was the heavier memories — a brutal moment during Partition, a silence that hurt a classmate — that revealed to me how character is formed not by success but by scars. Those stories stayed with him not as burdens, but as reminders of what it means to be human. And as I listened, I found myself revisiting my own buried memories — the ones that shaped my instincts more than any achievement ever has.

I smiled when he spoke about the transformation from Ashok Kumar to Gurcharan Das. What began as domestic humour ended with a sentence that quietly pierced through the noise in my own head:

Take your work seriously, not yourself seriously.

To hear someone of his stature say this with such simplicity was strangely liberating. It is easy, especially in leadership roles, to confuse responsibility with self-importance. His words felt like a hand resting gently on the shoulder, reminding me to keep my feet on the ground even while my work reaches for the sky.

As he traced his journey from Partition to Harvard, from engineering to philosophy, and from global corporate leadership to writing, I realised that his life was not a series of achievements — it was a series of questions. Questions that nudged him, unsettled him, redirected him. The courage to abandon a PhD at Oxford, the curiosity to move from business to literature, the honesty to admit that clarity sometimes comes disguised as discomfort — all of it reflected a restlessness I recognised within myself.

For years he lived two parallel lives: a corporate leader through the week, a writer on weekends. That dual existence fascinated me because it held a truth that many of us forget — that purpose doesn’t always arrive in one complete piece. Sometimes it arrives in slices, quietly, like a second life waiting to be acknowledged.

His insights on business people being kinder than writers made everyone laugh, but beneath the humour was a profound understanding of interdependence. Business teaches humility because it demands relationships; writing can sometimes encourage the opposite. I left with a new appreciation for the quiet ethics of ordinary work.

But the moment that sat with me the longest was his decision to leave corporate life. He described looking out of a meeting room window, surrounded by strategy papers for Pampers, and asking himself a deceptively simple question:

Is this what I want the rest of my life to be?

It wasn’t rebellion. It was recognition. And in that recognition, he chose a life — not survival, not success, but life.

His idea of making a life was beautifully uncomplicated. He said you know you’ve reached it when time dissolves while you work, when your ego quiets, and when the work feels like play. Happiness, he said, lies in loving the person you live with and loving the work you do. It felt like a distillation of wisdom earned through decades of living, failing, trying again.

What struck me most was his humility. Even after a lifetime of learning, he said he is still a student of freedom, still trying to lighten the weight of ego. There was no grand declaration, only an honest admission that life is a continuous creation, not a finished sculpture.

By the time we reached the rapid-fire round, the room felt full yet light — as if we had all collectively exhaled. His answers were crisp, personal, unguarded. And as the session drew to a close, I realised this wasn’t just a dialogue; it was a quiet invitation for each of us to re-examine the architecture of our own lives.

Some experiences end when the applause fades.

But some linger — softly, insistently — in the choices we make thereafter.

This conversation with Gurcharan Das was one of those.

 

It didn’t just teach me.

It shifted me.

Hamare Ram, Aur Woh Ravana - When Ravana Became the Mirror

Yesterday evening in Nagpur, at the Khasdar Sanskrutik Mahotsav, I witnessed something that felt far beyond art. Under an open winter sky, surrounded by warmth, anticipation, and a deep cultural pulse, Hamare Ram unfolded not as a play but as an experience. There are moments when culture doesn’t just speak — it breathes through us. Last night was one of those moments.

For many days, I had been quietly following this particular production. The story, the scale, the creative discipline behind it — there was something compelling about it. So when an invitation arrived, I didn’t have to think twice. It wasn’t only out of admiration for the Ramayana or devotion to Ram. It was a yearning to understand — to feel the story through live expression, to absorb its layers rather than revisit it through the familiar lens. I wanted to witness, not just watch. To experience the difference between knowing our epics and actually sitting amidst their emotion, intensity, and introspection. 

And I am grateful that I went.

The setting itself was a sight to hold — the stage glowing in golden light, classical notes floating into the air, and an audience that wasn’t there for entertainment alone. They were there to connect. To absorb. To belong. Children, elders, youth, and families— a mix that reminded me why tradition survives: because it lives through people, not pages.

As the story began, every character stepped into their space with sincerity. Each artist delivered with discipline, devotion, and respect for the legacy of the tale. The story flowed, not rushed but not still either — paced with sensitivity and strength. Yet, even in that vast canvas, there are moments when one presence demands to be felt differently.

For me, that presence was Ravana.

Truthfully, he was the reason I went. Ravana is not a character one easily forgets or casually understands. He is complex, layered, intellectual, powerful, disciplined, and yet deeply flawed. Admired by some, misunderstood by many, debated across eras — he is not a simple villain nor an easy symbol. And to portray him is not about volume or aggression — it is about presence, restraint, depth, and dignity.

Then came Ashutosh Rana.

He did not enter the stage — he arrived. Not as an actor, not as a performer seeking applause, but as a personality stepping into truth. It was not Ravana being shown; it was Ravana being lived. His silence carried power. His words carried fire. His posture spoke of discipline; his gaze reflected intellect. There was no forced arrogance — there was earned authority. There was no theatrical drama — there was emotional discipline.

Rana did not show Ravana’s ego; he revealed the brilliance that ego corrupted.
He did not show defeat; he revealed the dignity inside realization.

This was not performance.

This was presence.

As scenes progressed, one could feel the emotional currents shift within the audience. People were not merely observing; they were introspecting. For a moment, Ravana was not distant mythology — he was a reminder of human complexity. His fall felt less like punishment and more like consequence, more like a lesson in balance rather than a verdict on morality.

The most powerful moment, for me, arrived with Ravana’s final words to Lakshmana. A dying king, stripped of illusion, offering wisdom instead of resentment — what a profound moment of truth. The audience fell silent. Not because silence was demanded, but because wisdom arrived. That dialogue did not just belong to an epic — it belonged to life. To humility. To understanding that knowledge is not a possession but a journey.

In that brief silence, we were not just viewers; we were students.
Students of discipline, ego, pride, humility, and realization.

Walking out of the venue, I carried something precious — a sense of gratitude. Gratitude for art that does not reduce our heritage to spectacle, but elevates it to introspection. Gratitude for theatre that challenges us to feel deeply instead of watching passively. Gratitude for artists like Ashutosh Rana, who remind us that when sincerity and discipline meet art, the result is not entertainment — it is awakening.

And as the night settled, one thought stayed close — our epics are not merely stories. They are reflections of human nature, of choices and consequences, strengths and vulnerabilities, clarity and confusion. Ram stands for dharma. Ravana stands for intellect pushed beyond humility. Both are lessons — and together they complete the human journey.

In fact, tucked somewhere within the applause and silence, a quiet wish took root in me — a hope that someday, we witness Hamare Ram once through the eyes of Ravana. Not to change the balance, not to question the truth, but to deepen the understanding. To see the same epic from another emotional lens. To explore how wisdom, pride, knowledge, devotion, and downfall can coexist in one soul. To feel not only the righteousness of Ram, but also the tragedy and brilliance of Ravana that was known only to Ram.

Not to glorify him — but to understand him, to Understand Ram Better.

Not to shift the narrative — but to expand the learning.

Not to indulge in drama — but to soak in knowledge.

Because sometimes, to truly understand Ram, one must also understand the one who stood against him. In that contrast, the story gains fullness. In that duality, wisdom finds depth. In seeing both, we don’t pick sides — we rise above them.

Hamare Ram — yes.

But one day, perhaps, also

Hamare Ram through Ravana — to understand, to learn, to reflect.

For culture matures when we stop only worshipping stories and start learning from them.
And last night, through Ravana’s awakening, a part of us awakened too.

PC: @Tushar Naidu @Khasdar Sanskritik Mahotsav

 

Beyond the Shuttle: An Evening with Living Legend Shri Pullela Gopichand

There are some interviews you prepare for, and there are some that prepare you. 7th August 2025,—an evening when the lights didn’t just illuminate the stage, they seemed to spotlight a philosophy.

The chairs were full. The air felt like it had been holding its breath for days, waiting for the moment Pullela Gopichand would walk in. And when he did, there was no blaring fanfare, no exaggerated announcement—just a dignified presence that carried the quiet authority of a man who has lived every syllable of his own motto: Play. Pause. Rise Again.

The occasion was part of the Orange City Literature Festival’s Knowledge Series, In the front rows sat people who have shaped sport and culture in our city; in the back rows, young faces leaned forward, ready to drink in something more nourishing than a highlight reel.

When I began the conversation, we went straight to where all great stories begin—childhood. Gopi Sir confessed, with a grin that disarmed the formality of the moment, that cricket was his first love. Badminton, he said, “happened to me by chance.” His early coach, with that teasing affection only true mentors can get away with, nicknamed him “chuha” (rat). What could have been an insult became a small talisman of humility in his narrative. The real turning point, he shared, was meeting coach Hamid Husain—not because of technique alone, but because he taught Gopi to fall in love with the game. “Children should not just play because it’s routine,” he said. “They should love the game.” It was not a sports tip—it was a life tip. Passion, not compulsion, builds champions. 

What struck me most was how free of romanticism his honesty was. There were no grand myths about a smooth journey. He spoke of serious health issues like allergic sinus that cost him matches, the uncertainty of sports as a career back then, and days when the scoreboard didn’t tell the story he’d worked for. “I did many crazy things in life for badminton,” he admitted with a chuckle that masked years of discipline, sacrifices that didn’t trend, and resilience that didn’t wait for applause.

Most people remember their toughest chapters with an aftertaste of bitterness. Gopichand remembers his with gratitude. “My life is a blessing,” he said plainly—not because the road was easy, but because along it walked family, friends, coaches, and even members of the media who believed in him when it would have been easier to doubt. His gratitude was so unperformed, it was almost shy.

Then came a statement that made the audience sit up straighter: “There is no better country to become a champion than India.” He meant it. Yet he didn’t dress it in false guarantees—he acknowledged that the nature of sport is as unpredictable as a shuttle in a sudden gust of wind. Even the best coach, the best facilities, and the best preparation can’t promise a gold medal. His definition of success? Whether an athlete has realised their potential. “Not everyone can be number one,” he said, “but everyone must be encouraged to give their best.” And in that moment, his voice felt like it was speaking to every student, artist, entrepreneur, and dreamer in the room.

As a coach, his compass points to what is best for the student, even if it means letting them lose. In his philosophy, losses aren’t stains—they’re chapters. He teaches his players to embrace defeat, not fear it. “Treat success and failure the same way,” he urged. “What matters is fulfilling your potential.” It was one of those rare sentences that felt like it belonged in both a sports manual and a book on life.

Between questions, I noticed the pauses—the laugh when talking about “chuha,” the long breath before recalling certain matches, the light in his eyes when describing the feeling of stepping onto a court. These weren’t rehearsed moments; they were the spaces where his truth lived. It reminded me that passion, pursued with discipline, becomes purpose. And purpose, anchored in humility, becomes legacy.

He wasn’t without humour. He laughed at memories of training without modern equipment, at family reactions to his career choice, and delivered a line that earned applause when asked about handling pressure: “Pressure is like your shadow—it’s always there, but you decide whether to dance with it or run from it.”

By the time the Q&A ended, the hall was still full. Not a single person had slipped away. That’s the thing about genuine inspiration—it makes you stay, not because you have to, but because you can’t imagine missing what might be said next. People left with photographs, yes, but also with something quieter, something more lasting—a recalibration of how they saw their own paths.

When I finally stepped off stage, I realised that interviewing Pullela Gopichand isn’t about drawing out answers—it’s about holding up a mirror to your own sense of commitment. His life is living proof that you can play with joy, pause with grace, and rise again with purpose. And perhaps that’s the lesson we didn’t just hear, but felt: champions aren’t defined by how high they jump, but by how gracefully they land… and rise again.

 

Change Demands Movement — What you Think ?.

 

What a post I stumbled upon on LinkedIn the other day. It wasn’t flashy, long, or begging for attention—but it stuck. Anish K. wrote, “You can’t move a cemetery and expect help from the people buried in it.” Funny, yes. Absurd, even. But somewhere between the chuckle and the pause, it revealed itself as pure truth dressed in satire. And if you’ve ever tried to bring about change—in an office, a family, a school, a society, or even in yourself—you’ll know exactly what he means.

Think about it. How often do we dream of doing things differently? Of breaking old patterns, challenging systems, reimagining workflows, or building something fresh and meaningful? And yet, we instinctively turn to the same set of people—the tried and tested (and tired), the habitual naysayers, the “that’s not how it’s done” crew—to rally behind us. It’s as if we’re trying to put together a flash mob using wax statues. Enthusiasm? None. Movement? Minimal. Relevance? Questionable.

The real kicker is that many of us keep repeating this cycle, expecting different results. We want to launch rockets with anchors. We expect people stuck in 1982 mentally, emotionally, and culturally, to suddenly pioneer the future. But the truth is, someone who has spent their entire life resisting change is not going to lead transformation just because you made a Canva presentation about it. No offence to Canva. But you get the point.

There’s an almost tragic comedy to it. In organizations, you’ll find innovation committees led by those who haven’t updated their browser in years. In families, dreams of new beginnings are often crushed under the weight of “log kya kahenge.” In friend circles, when someone wants to start something bold, the first reaction isn’t curiosity but caution. And when one finally steps out, those same skeptics turn around and say, “I always knew you’d make it.” Plot twist? They didn’t.

The grave reality (pun intended) is that we keep trying to bring about change with people who aren’t ready—or even interested—in moving. It’s not just unproductive. It’s exhausting. And unfair to those who are willing. Because while we’re busy waiting for consensus, for every single voice to agree, we’re losing momentum, and sometimes, even the initial fire that sparked the idea.

Here’s something no one likes to admit: change is never about everyone. It’s about the few who believe, who act, who move. The rest usually follow when the results show. Or they just don’t—and that’s okay. It doesn’t make them villains. But it does mean they shouldn’t be holding the steering wheel.

This reminds me of countless projects I’ve been part of—education reforms, literature festivals, leadership courses, sports events, and spiritual learning spaces. Every time we tried something new, there was resistance—not from opponents, but from those supposedly “involved.” They weren’t against the idea. They were just...not moving. Silent. Apathetic. Or waiting for “someone else” to do the hard part. The initial conversations were full of energy until implementation knocked at the door. Then suddenly, phones rang less. Emails went unanswered. People got “busy.” But a small group—passionate, agile, clear—stood up and said, “We’ll make this happen.” And we did. Not because everyone came onboard, but because a few decided to paddle while others floated.

It’s also important to acknowledge the emotional layer in all this. We’ve grown up being told to involve everyone, to respect hierarchy, to not step on toes. And that’s not bad advice. But when the house is on fire, you don’t organize a committee to debate water pressure. You act. You pull in those who are awake, alert, and ready to help. The ones who are stuck in rituals of the past can’t be expected to build the rhythm of the future.

And let’s not pretend that change agents are always the loudest, most senior, or the most experienced. Often, they are the ones quietly trying new things, asking inconvenient questions, breaking rules with respect, and carrying hope like it’s muscle memory. They’re the ones with dirt on their hands, not dust on their resumes.

What this really boils down to is permission. Giving yourself permission to move without waiting for a unanimous vote. Trusting your instincts. Partnering with the willing. Because the truth is, a few passionate people aligned in purpose will move faster than a stadium full of undecideds.

So the next time you find yourself stuck in stagnation—whether it's in a team, a relationship, a dream, or just your own mindset—ask yourself: am I expecting support from the living or the buried? Am I trying to build the future with hands that are clinging to the past? And most importantly, am I waiting for applause from an audience that never bought a ticket?

Because when it comes to creating something meaningful, you don’t need everyone. You just need someone. Someone who gets it. Someone who’s ready. Someone who’s alive. And as for the rest? Let them rest. Don’t disturb the cemetery. Just build somewhere else—with the living, the moving, and the ones who still believe in possibility.

And if ever in doubt, remember the line that started it all: “You can’t move a cemetery and expect help from the people buried in it.” What a laugh. What a truth. What a wake-up call.

Words, Voice, Love, Memories, Feelings, Thoughts… aur Gulzar

I often hear it — "Oh god, how boring you are! Why don’t you listen to something peppy? Something from this decade maybe?" And to that, I usually smile, sip my coffee, and say, “Okay, I accept. Maybe I am boring. But boring in the most beautiful way possible — because I have the privilege of having Gulzar Sahab’s words as my soundtrack.” You know, sometimes I feel like a museum piece among Bluetooth speakers. But hey, some museums house the most priceless treasures.

People like me belong to the era of Javed Akhtar and Gulzar Sahab — a generation that doesn’t just listen to songs, but feels them deeply. For us, music is not about beats and hooks; it’s about meaning, metaphor, and memories. The songs we hold close are not fleeting trends but treasures of thought. Our choices are woven with intensity — moments captured in words that refuse to fade. And with Gulzar Sahab, it’s a love we may never express directly to him. We don’t write to him. We don’t meet him. We just love him — and most of all, we love his words.

Now here's a little secret — before he became Gulzar Sahab to the world, he was known as Sampooran Singh Kalra. Yes, the man whose words feel like they’re dipped in the ink of the soul once walked the streets of Dina (now in Pakistan), dreaming under open skies. ‘Sampooran’ means complete, and if there’s ever been a man whose words complete our silences, it’s him. Somewhere in the dusty corners of post-partition India, Sampooran became Gulzar — not as an alias, but as a chosen skin to carry the fragrance of words that would one day become our emotional heirloom.

Meri aawaaz hi pehchaan hai, gar yaad rahe...

This iconic line doesn't just begin a song, it opens a portal to a lifetime of memories, feelings, and experiences. It is a proclamation that echoes in the hearts of generations who have found solace, reflection, and companionship in the words of Gulzar Sahab. He is not merely a poet, lyricist, or filmmaker; he is a quiet confidante who has been present during our most vulnerable silences and our most overwhelming emotions.

Gulzar's genius lies in his ability to connect across time. My father would hum "Dil dhoondta hai phir wahi fursat ke raat din..." on wintry evenings, lost in the nostalgia of youth. My mother would often pause during chores when "Tujhse naraaz nahi zindagi, hairaan hoon main" played, her eyes speaking volumes that words never could. And now, as I sing "Lakdi ki kaathi, kaathi pe ghoda" to my daughter Siya, I witness the seamless continuation of this lyrical legacy. Gulzar Sahab’s poetry doesn’t belong to one generation; it is a bridge between many. Each listener, regardless of age, finds a version of themselves reflected in his words.

What makes his writing universal is not its complexity, but its simplicity. Gulzar Sahab doesn’t use ornate phrases to impress — he uses everyday imagery to express the extraordinary depth of ordinary emotions. "Chhod aaye hum woh galiyaan..." isn’t just about a geographical departure. It encapsulates the melancholic acceptance of outgrowing places, people, and versions of oneself. His metaphors are never superficial; they are lived-in, weathered, and intimately familiar.

Then there’s his unmatched gift of transforming memory into poetry. Songs like "Mera kuch saamaan tumhare paas pada hai" aren’t just lyrics; they are confessions. They articulate the heartbreak of unfinished stories, the remnants of relationships that time cannot reclaim. The beauty of this song lies not in its melody alone but in its structure — a list of intangible belongings, each tied to an emotion that refuses to fade. Listening to it feels like reopening an old letter, yellowed and fragile, yet deeply alive. And let’s be honest — who else could make a list of forgotten things sound like a love letter?

Equally compelling is his ability to capture the many shades of love. In "Tere bina zindagi se koi shikwa to nahi," Gulzar Sahab does not dramatize heartbreak. Instead, he chooses to reflect on love that remains unfinished, incomplete, but still cherished. There is no anger here — only gentle resignation. It mirrors the maturity many of us only arrive at after years of living and losing. Basically, if Bollywood was a buffet of emotional songs, Gulzar Sahab would be the slow-cooked daal that reminds you of home.

His voice — oh, his voice — adds another layer of meaning to his work. When Gulzar Sahab recites his poetry, it's not a performance but a presence. His tone carries the weight of wisdom, of someone who has seen too much and still chooses to write with kindness. There’s an unhurried rhythm to his reading, allowing the listener to breathe in every word, every pause, every silence between lines. It’s like being read to by time itself.

Yet, Gulzar Sahab is not confined to romance and nostalgia. His canvas includes loneliness, aging, war, childhood, and urban chaos. He writes of everyday things with such tenderness that they become profound. A line like "Roz akeli aaye, roz akeli jaaye, zindagi..." doesn’t scream philosophy but holds the quiet weight of existential truth. He gives language to emotions that many feel but few can articulate.

Children, too, have grown up under his poetic wing. Songs like "Machli jal ki rani hai" and "Lakdi ki kaathi" are not just playful rhymes — they are crafted with the same care, rhythm, and charm as his more mature work. He never talks down to his audience, regardless of age. Instead, he invites everyone into his world of lyrical simplicity and depth. The man writes for toddlers and philosophers with the same pen. Who does that?

Throughout different phases of life, Gulzar Sahab transforms. As a teenager, I found in him the vocabulary for my first heartbreaks. As an adult, his words became companions during moments of loss and rediscovery. And now, as a parent, I pass on his songs and stories to my child, knowing that she too will find her own meaning in them one day.

To call Gulzar Sahab just a poet or lyricist is to miss the larger truth. He is a chronicler of the human condition, a weaver of emotions, a silent friend who sits beside you when words fail. His verses don’t provide solutions; they offer understanding. They tell you it’s okay to feel deeply, to be fragile, to remember, and to hope.

"Kal ka har ek pal mujhse pehle jee gaya tu..." — this line, like many of his others, resonates because it feels true. Gulzar Sahab has lived through emotions we haven't yet named, and he’s left behind maps in the form of poems and songs to guide us when we do.

He is, in the truest sense, a timeless voice — one that we carry in our memories, our relationships, our heartbreaks, and our quiet joys. He is not a passing influence but a permanent imprint on the soul of Indian poetry and cinema.

And so, whenever I hear "Meri aawaaz hi pehchaan hai," I pause. Because yes — Gulzar Sahab’s voice is his identity. And what a profound, beautiful identity it is.

 

12th June 2025: The Day Time Froze

I’m still staring at that photo. A couple in their thirties maybe, with three kids, smiling, leaning in for a selfie — you can almost hear the laughter in that frozen frame. It was taken on board Air India Flight AI171, just minutes before takeoff may be. The kind of photo people click to mark a beginning — a new job, a fresh chapter, a dream waiting across the ocean. No one knew it would be the last photo they’d ever take.

June 12, 2025. Ahmedabad. A regular Thursday. A 13:39 departure to London Gatwick. 242 souls on board. A Boeing 787 Dreamliner — ironically named, because that day, it carried people not into their dreams, but straight into a nightmare so horrific, it made even headlines feel like epitaphs. Within minutes of takeoff, the aircraft dropped to a dangerously low altitude — just around 800 feet — and crashed into the BJ Medical College hostel near Civil Hospital. The very walls meant to nurture young minds turned into their tombstones.

I kept reading the news over and over. Not because I couldn’t believe it — but because my heart just wouldn’t accept it. It felt like my chest was being carved open by the reality of it. One flight — and nearly 300 lives extinguished, including bright, ambitious medical students and who had no link to the flight, no role in the story — they were just studying. Or maybe napping after lunch. Maybe whispering dreams into the phone, talking to a friend, texting a silly meme, planning the evening chai. I kept picturing their shoes lying by the hostel door… notebooks left open mid-sentence… laughter interrupted mid-air.

There’s a story that stays with me — Arjunbhai Manubhai Patoliya, a father from Gujarat. He had just lost his wife in London and returned home with her ashes. Performed the rituals in Vadiya, surrounded by grief and people who understood it. He then boarded AI171 to return to his children — the only purpose keeping him stitched to this world. The children waited, probably counting hours to his landing. But he never arrived. How do you explain to them that grief can have grief of its own?

And then, among the debris, a strange whisper of fate: one man survived. Seat 11A. Vishwash Kumar Ramesh, a British national. Some say he jumped before impact. Others say he was simply in a spot the fire didn’t reach. Whatever the reason — he lived. One name on a list that otherwise reads like a prayer gone unanswered. A miracle resting in the middle of devastation.

Equally haunting is the story of the girl who missed the flight by 10 minutes. She cried at the gate when they wouldn’t let her in. Argued. Begged. Probably cursed the system for its rigidity. Little did she know, those 10 minutes saved her life. Isn’t that what life often is? A delay we think is unfair, but later realize was grace in disguise. We complain about missed trains, postponed meetings, denied entries — never realizing they might just be divine interventions in civilian clothes.

A line I once heard keeps echoing in my head: “We don’t own time. We borrow it.” That’s never felt truer. We keep assuming life owes us more chances. More time to make that phone call. More time to forgive. More time to visit home. More time to slow down and sit with a child without a screen between us. But life — life has no contract with our plans. It doesn’t promise anything.

What do you say to a mother who sent her son off for postgrad studies and now receives a sealed box instead of a phone call? What do you say to the little girl in London whose dad never turns up at her school gate again? Or to the boy who watched his roommate vanish from the balcony they shared every morning tea on?

Air India’s CEO turned back mid-air when the news broke. The government announced compensations. Investigators from Boeing, DGCA, and international agencies began the probe. But no amount of money can rewind those few minutes. No technical report can measure the silence in those hostel corridors. No black box can capture the unspoken words that died with those passengers.

I've always believed that every tragedy carries a lesson. But this one… this one doesn’t whisper. It screams. A scream that shakes the soul and says: Wake up. Look around. Speak your heart before time does it for you.

Yesterday morning, I drank my coffee in a rush. I didn’t even notice its taste. And now I recall a quote: “The coffee tastes richer when you sip it like it’s your last.” How blindly we assume we have more mornings. More coffees. More messages. More hugs.

We live with this strange arrogance — that we have time. That we’ll get back home. That we’ll fix things tomorrow. That the goodbye hug can wait. But sometimes… the sky falls.

Today, I write this not as someone with wisdom or insight. I don’t have any. I only have grief. And the accidental privilege of still being here. Of still being able to hug my daughter. Call my mother. Tell a friend “I love you.”

If you’re reading this, maybe you have that privilege too.

So please, don’t wait. Say it. Do it. Hug them. Slow down. Sip your coffee. Watch the sky. Let your dreams run faster than your fears. Because time — as AI171 reminded us — is not something we lose.

It’s something we never truly had.

 

The Unspoken Weight of Words: Why How We Speak Matters More Than What We Say

Have you ever heard your friend saying - I swear, they didn’t say anything bad — they just said it like I owed them rent and was three months late! Or they just said ‘okay’… but with the kind of tone that felt like they were filing a complaint against my existence!

In a world flooded with voices, what often gets lost is the soul behind the sound. We’ve grown used to decoding words, catching flaws, correcting grammar — but rarely do we pause to understand the emotion that came stitched between the syllables.

The truth is, it’s never just about what is said. It’s always about how it’s said, why it was said at that moment, and most importantly, how it made someone feel. You can read a thousand texts and listen to a hundred arguments, but if a single sentence unsettled your core — not because it was wrong, but because it lacked empathy — that’s the line your heart remembers.

People aren’t hurt by logic. They’re hurt by tone. By indifference wrapped in politeness. By cruelty disguised as honesty. You can’t measure a sentence by punctuation marks alone — its true weight lies in the silence that follows it.

We are emotional beings long before we are intellectual. We speak, but we feel first. That’s why even the most intelligent reply can feel like a slap if it carries arrogance instead of understanding. And that’s why the simplest phrase — a well-timed “I’m here” or a sincere “I get it” — can feel like balm.

Context matters. Say something when someone is already in pain, and your words — even if well-meant — might feel like salt. Say it later, once they’re breathing easier, and the same words may feel like love. Communication isn't only about speaking. It’s about sensing. It’s about knowing when to hold back, and when to lean in gently.

Most people don’t walk away because they weren’t heard. They walk away because they weren’t felt. They weren’t seen beyond their reaction. They weren’t acknowledged in the moment that mattered. That’s when a door quietly shuts — not always loudly, not with a dramatic exit — but slowly, and for good.

And the one who spoke may still be defending themselves: “But I didn’t say anything wrong.” Maybe not. But the intention didn’t land. The tone didn’t soothe. The timing wasn’t right. The truth, though accurate, was stripped of tenderness.

This is the cost of not paying attention to emotional currency. We bankrupt relationships not with lies, but with truths delivered without care.

So here’s something to remember: every word we speak carries energy. It either builds or breaks. It either brings someone closer or pushes them into their own shell.

Don’t just aim to be right. Aim to be kind. Speak not just with intelligence, but with awareness. Let your silence carry softness. Let your honesty carry humility. Because eventually, people forget the exact words. But they never forget how those words made them feel.

And when someone finally decides to leave — emotionally or physically — it’s rarely because of one thing you said. It’s the culmination of how they stopped feeling safe in your presence. When the words stopped sounding like warmth and started sounding like weapons, even unintentionally.

They leave, not because they’re weak. But because they’re finally strong enough to protect their peace. And in that moment, it’s not the grammar they remember — it’s the grief.

Let your words be a home, not a courtroom. Because in the end, we are remembered not for how well we spoke — but for how deeply we touched.

Now Entering at 41

There’s no milestone waiting with a bouquet.

No music.
Just a kind of calm you didn’t know you were craving.
Like your soul finally sitting down…
after standing for years.

At 41, the truth doesn't shout anymore.
It just shows up,
sits beside you,
and says,
“You know now, don’t you?”

Nothing is permanent.
Not love,
not friendships,
not even the version of you that once swore “forever.”
We shed skins without noticing.
Sometimes, we even outgrow the dreams
we once lost sleep over.

Love...
It’s different now.
It’s no longer about the butterflies.
It’s about being understood in a room full of noise.
It’s knowing someone’s rhythm,
and still dancing beside them
even when the music changes.

You can love someone deeply,
and still not end up building a life with them.
And sometimes,
you build a life with someone
and learn to love them slowly—
or not at all.

That used to feel like failure.
Now, it just feels human.

Because people change.
Circumstances change.
Even your needs change.
What you needed at 25
isn’t what you long for at 41.
And that’s not a loss.
That’s evolution.

And here’s the surprising part—
not everyone who was meant to stay
needs to.
Some people are chapters.
Others are bookmarks.
And very few…
are the whole book.

But what stays—
if you’ve done the growing—
is respect.

Respect for yourself,
for the journey,
for people who tried,
even if they couldn’t stay.

It’s in how you speak now,
how you choose your battles,
how you walk away when it’s time—
without burning the ground behind you.

At 41,
you begin to understand that peace
is not always found in holding on.
Sometimes, it’s in letting go
without bitterness.
Without blame.

You stop chasing “forever,”
and start valuing real.
You stop asking “Why me?”
and start whispering “What now?”
Not as a question—
but as a decision.

So no—nothing is forever.
But growth is yours.
So is wisdom.
So is the quiet pride
of having made it here
with your heart still soft
and your spine still straight.

Welcome to 41.
Where truth is simpler,
but your soul is richer.
And finally,
you know:
You’re allowed to become someone new.