It’s been 1460 days since life as we knew it came to a screeching halt on Nov 21. Four years of stillness, and yet, immense strength. Four years since my wife Alka – my best friend– suffered a brain stroke that turned our vibrant, spirited lives upside down. You wouldn’t think it could happen to someone like her. One minute she was discussing the next day's activities while at the dinner table and the next, she's crumbled. She was the picture of health and happiness. A woman full of life, brimming with energy, always ready to help, laugh, pray, or pull someone out of their gloom. She wasn’t just my wife; she was my anchor, the glue that held us all together. A God-fearing soul who believed in the power of kindness and prayer, Alka lit up every room she walked into. And then came that night. It was midnight – the hour when the world is at its quietest and fears seem the loudest. She complained of a sudden dizziness, her words slurring just a litt...
If 2024 were a movie, it would be titled "The Great Anticipation" , a Pune-based drama where the credits roll before the story begins. We began the year with grand plans and lofty ambitions. Spoiler alert: none of them happened. First, the Royal Carribean cruise. Oh, the cruise! An 8-night Mediterranean escape that turned into an 8-month-long lament over $92 loss on refund per ticket. Somewhere, Poseidon is laughing at us while sipping a mocktail and eating hummus. The Mediterranean called, but we ghosted. Next up, the Nandan Prospera stair climb. A two-story ascent, unassisted, was to be Alka's Everest. Alas, Everest remained unscaled, and the stairs remained... stairs. They looked daunting every day, like the Sphinx daring us to answer its riddle. The culinary dream of chicken curry and rice cooked entirely by Alka? The chicken stayed in the freezer, the rice stayed in the jar, and we stayed hungry for that unrealised milestone. I swear the chicken chuckled each time ...
I’m a Catholic, but I’m not religious. Or maybe I am—just in a way that would make both a priest and a pandit shake their heads in confusion. I kneel and pray to Jesus with the same sincerity as when I press my palms together and bow before Ganapati. I’ve stood in churches with tears in my eyes and sat through pujas with the same devotion. If there’s a God listening, I’m making sure He, She, or They get my message. Around my neck, I wear a golden cross on a chain and a brown scapular. A symbol of faith, tradition, and, in my case, a little bit of superstition. If layering faiths worked for my ancestors—who probably had a rosary in one pocket and a coconut for an offering in the other—then why should I be any different? But faith is a funny thing. It’s easy to believe in miracles when you’re praying for a job, a house, or a good monsoon. But what about when you’re praying for something bigger? What about when you’re kneeling on the cold floor at 3 a.m., whispering, “God, are you ...
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