EpiphanyMoments

T here’s power in being alone. Not the dramatic, stormy, brooding-in-a-dark-corner kind of alone, but the serene, chai-sipping, thoughts-meandering alone. Ever since Alka fell ill, I’ve discovered a new superpower: loving solitude. It's not that I didn’t enjoy alone time before, but this newfound relationship with myself has turned into something of a rom-com montage—me, a quiet room, and a growing sense of clarity. For starters, spending time alone has helped me  understand the world . Did you know that a dog barks exactly at 8:30 pm every day? Neither did I. Alone time has turned me into a Sherlock of suburban mysteries. From deciphering the cryptic language of pigeons on my freshly painted A4 501 Nandan Prospera  balcony to analysing why people insist on using  cha-maila  to express surprise, anger, self- flagellation or as a mild expletive solitude is a classroom where the syllabus is endless. As Alka’s illness kept me grounded, I noticed something peculiar: peop...

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 ...

 It's the early 1940s, and life is throwing curveballs faster than you can say "textbook." My mom, bless her heart, finds herself smack dab in the middle of this whirlwind, with circumstances dictating that her education wraps up at the seventh-grade mark. Yep, you heard that right – seventh grade was where the  school journey ended for her. Now, fast forward a few decades, and here I am, strutting my stuff in the bustling world of journalism. And wouldn't you know it, my byline finds its way onto the pages of none other than India's premier tabloid, MidDay!  You see, despite her own educational journey hitting a speed bump back in the day, becoming a widow at 35, poverty hovering around our door and having three children on tow my mom's pride knew no bounds when she saw her kid's name in lights, or in this case, in print. It was like winning the lottery of parental validation!  But here's the kicker: that moment of pride wasn't a one-time deal. No...

Belief in the interconnectedness of the universe and its responsiveness to genuine desires transcends cultures and belief systems. It's a belief rooted in the idea that there is a higher power, whether it's called God, the universe, or something else, that listens to our earnest requests and manifests them in mysterious ways. Two incidents from yesterday exemplify this profound connection. In the first instance, when we faced a sudden absence of our cook/maid, the power of intention was demonstrated vividly. With a pure heart and a clear intent, the request for assistance was sent out into the universe, and remarkably, within a mere ten minutes, a new cook/maid appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, to fill the void. The second occurrence revolves around pain in thr arm experienced by Alka. Despite not directly seeking help, her silent plea was heard by dear friend Bandana who practices Reiki. Through the invisible web of the universe, the friend sensed the distress and orchestrat...

Ah, the blackboard duster – that innocent-looking piece of classroom equipment with a not-so-innocent purpose. It was the teacher's weapon of mass destruction, capable of causing chaos, instilling fear, and occasionally improving the reflexes of unsuspecting students. Picture this: a quiet classroom, students diligently taking notes as the teacher writes on the blackboard. Suddenly, like a ninja in the night, the wood-and-fibre scrub would zoom past the studious kids in the front rows and land with a satisfying thud on the intended targets – the backbenchers. It was like watching a scene from an action movie, with the duster as the star performer. Now, you might think getting hit by a flying duster would be a nightmare, but for these backbenchers, it was oddly exhilarating. Dodging the duster became a sport, a test of agility and quick reflexes. Who needs PE class when you have a teacher armed with a duster? And here's the twist – these supposedly legal missiles actually improv...

 I'm husband, caregiver, pujari, priest, and chief cook (not baker, that's still a work in progress!) to my wonderful beautiful wife Alka. Life took a dramatic turn four years ago when Alka suffered a brain stroke. Our globe-trotting adventures, lavish dinners, and stylish outings came to an abrupt halt. Now, my days are filled with managing Alka's medication, helping her with daily tasks, and being her rock and the one she gets angry to rid herself of angst.  It's a challenging yet rewarding role. I've learned to juggle multiple responsibilities, from doctor's appointments, to being handyman and physio, to meal prep (my culinary skills have improved, but don't ask Alka: she'll tell you different!). Of course, there are tough moments. I feel scared about the future, worried about Alka's progress, and anxious about my own well-being. Exhaustion creeps in, and some days, I wonder how I'll keep going. But here's the thing: my love for Alka keeps...

 Dear Mr. S. Claus, For four Pune winters, your magic wand has been as absent as road-discipline near Balewadi stadium during peak hours.  The stardust that once painted our lives with joy, laughter, and raucous music parties has been shelved like an unshared CKP dessert ninav. Good friends have become as rare as snowflakes in Baner, and the soul-warming elixirs of good whiskey, Bailey's-laced coffee, and Alka’s chicken biryani remain an unfulfilled dream. This festive famine must end, samjhey?  Let your sleigh be fueled not by reindeer but by Peshwa resolve. Let fish cutlets sizzle, laughter echo, and sound of guitar ignite every Nandan Prospera's A4 501 room. Your four-year hiatus has turned our mirth into myth, and patience, my dear Claus, is melting faster than an ice cube in that 18 year old Mr. Walker that's been sitting behind a string of Christmas lights that seldom work.  Fail me again, and I shall lodge a formal complaint with Mr. JC himself, whose birthday...

Oh the Covid days in India—when life felt like a reality show with bizarre tasks, except no one signed up for it! Who can forget the iconic "mask hai toh task hai" mantra? We went from casually breathing free air to becoming human ninjas, armed with masks and hand sanitisers like it was a Bollywood heist movie.   And the "no-touch, stand 5 feet away" protocol? Ah, the golden era of dodging aunties at weddings who still insisted, “Beta, ek plate mithai toh le lo!” Suddenly, everyone was a germophobe. Elevator buttons in our Nandan Prospera society were pressed with car keys, and namaste replaced handshakes faster than you could say "social distancing."   Remember the infamous thali bajao evenings? What a concert! India united in a symphony of steel plates and wooden spoons, as if scaring off the virus required an orchestra. And the diya jalao nights? Our balconies lit up like Diwali, but the virus stubbornly stayed. Such vibes, much disappoint!  Then came t...