EpiphanyMoments

F or the CKP (Chandraseniya Kayastha Prabhu) community seafood isn’t just food—it’s an identity.a way of life, a tradition, and an art form!  I should know. My wife is a true-blue, ghaari-gori Thanyachi CKP.  Conversations about fish quality, the right masalas, and 'baazaar andlai ka? (Got fish today?) are part of daily life. Some families even have trusted fish vendors as if they were family doctors!   CKP cuisine is known for its bold, fiery flavours, and seafood is its crown jewel. Their unique spice blends—often featuring a mix of garam masala, coconut, and tamarind—turn every fish curry ( kaalvan ), fried fish ( tukdya ),  dried bombil (kaadya) crab preparation ( chimborya ) prawns biryani (kolambichi khichdi) into an explosion of taste. If there’s one dish that proves CKPs can turn even the flabbiest fish into a fiery masterpiece, it’s Bomblache Bhuzane! This isn’t your regular bombil fry—this is a slow-cooked, semi-dry green curry that packs a punch ...

To those reading this, cherish what you have. Hold your loved ones a little closer. Appreciate the mundane, the ordinary, the unspectacular moments of health and freedom. Because nothing—absolutely nothing—is guaranteed. Life changes in an instant. And when it does, all that remains is how well you lived before it happened.  I write this today after my wife suffered her 3rd seizure late last night. It lasted for 45 lifetime seconds. It scared me. It scared her.  Nearly five years ago, Alka and I were a whirlwind of energy—a couple that thrived on travel, food, conversations, and the thrill of life itself. She, the life of every gathering, effortlessly balancing work, friendships, and our adventures. I, always by her side, reveling in the sheer joy of our togetherness. Then, like a thief in the night, a brain stroke struck, stealing from us the ease and normalcy we once took for granted. Life didn’t just change; it transformed into an unrelenting battle, one filled with hospita...

Somewhere in the annals of WhatsApp history, nestled between endless "Good Morning" messages and forwarded jokes older than the internet itself, lies a group like no other—The DaSilva Boys, Class of 1975, now proudly calling ourselves DSBians. Unlike most school groups that fizzle out faster than New Year’s resolutions, we have defied time, distance, and the usual "Sorry, too busy" excuses to meet almost every mmonth And this year, we celebrate a monumental milestone—the Golden Jubilee of our passing out. Fifty years! Half a century of camaraderie, chaos, and conversations that haven't aged a day. What makes us unique? We are a multicultural mix of architects shaping skylines, sailors who have seen more seas than Sinbad, engineers who pretend they understand quantum physics, software engineers who keep rebooting their retirement plans, journalists who can still smell a scandal from a mile away, media mavens who know exactly which lighting makes them look younger...

I was born in Hamzoo Terrace, Dadar. Hamzoo Terrace wasn’t just a building; it was a living, breathing carnival of cultures, where smells of overflowing common toilets and garbage harmonised with aromas of fish being fried or dal being tadka-fied, a miniature world where no religion, caste, or creed could ever outshine the sheer chaos of our community. It was a utopia packed into 39 houses stacked across two floors, a ground floor, and, most importantly, the terrace.  The terrace divided in two parts wasn’t just a social space—it was a stadium, a stage, and a battleground. Football and cricket matches and tournaments on the terrace were legendary. Neighbours would remove their drying papads and kurdais, shaking off any lingering flour dust, to clear space for the games. The tournaments were grand affairs, with the umpire often doubling as the commentator and the scorekeeper. After the matches, the same terrace transformed into a cultural hub, hosting everything from Ganpati dance p...

Ever since my wife Alka fell ill, I’ve had to learn how to cook a decent Indian meal that both of us enjoy. And while I won’t be headlining a MasterChef episode anytime, or taking my hometown Pune by culinary storm, I have realised that good cooking—like good storytelling—relies on the right ingredients, timing and a little flair. That’s why I want to use culinary art to describe the art of storytelling in communications. Because without a good story, even the best message is just a pile of raw ingredients—technically edible, but utterly unappetising. If communication were a meal, storytelling would be the secret sauce that transforms bland words into Michelin-star magic. Without it, speeches taste like unsalted porridge, articles feel like an overcooked dissertation, and campaigns are as forgettable as yesterday’s aamti-bhaat (lentil curry-rice). Yet, in the grand kitchen of communications, storytelling is often treated like an optional Maharashtrian tadka (tempering) rather than the ...

Farewell, Dada Paddy Shivalkar, my idol, is no more. He passed away yesterday at the age of 84. To the world, he was one of India's finest left-arm spinners, a magician with the ball. But to me, he was so much more.   He was my Dadar Portuguese Church neighbour, the humble forever-smiling man with a cowboy walk who sometimes told his younger brothers Chotu and Das to let me carry his cricket kit to Shivaji Park; who I never saw eating a vada pav himself but always bought me one, along with a slice of watermelon from the cart next to Shivaji Park Gymkhana; who I can still see strolling through our lane to his small ground floor home in Thatte building next door, tirelessly pressing that spring contraption in his left palm—always strengthening, always preparing; who we knew was back from his domestic tours when we saw his konkani speaking Aai drying his whites along the church wall; who loved to sing old Hindi songs on his rickety harmonium; who was a chief guest for the buildin...

In the past few years, I have come to understand that dwelling on WHY offers no solace. When my wife, Alka, fell ill, when our world turned upside down, I spent countless nights asking why. Why her? Why us? Why now? But no answer ever came, and even if it had, it wouldn’t have changed a thing. What mattered then, and what matters now, is what comes next.' At first, I thought if I could understand the reason—why life had dealt us this cruel hand—it would somehow make it easier to accept. But the world doesn’t work that way. Life doesn’t pause to offer explanations or justifications. It just keeps moving, indifferent to our grief, our struggles, and our desperate need for clarity. And as I watched Alka, once strong and independent, struggle with her new reality, I realised that searching for WHY was keeping me stuck when she needed me to move forward. People mean well when they ask, “How are you managing?” But the truth is, they don’t really want to know the long answer. They don’t w...