EpiphanyMoments

“Stay positive, David.” Look at the bright side, David.” “Make your day prayerful, David.” The world hurls these lines at me like flower petals at a wedding. Only, this isn’t a wedding. It’s more like being caught in a daily monsoon without an umbrella—and someone keeps yelling, “At least it’s good for the crops!” People mean well. That’s the most terrifying part. They say pain is a tunnel and there’s light at the end. But what if it’s a tunnel with a lazy electrician? What if the only illumination is from flickering platitudes and WhatsApp forwards about divine purpose and turmeric milk? Each morning, I look at Alka, and I pray. Sometimes silently. Sometimes aloud. Sometimes in words that would not make it past the parish priest’s editing pen. But I pray. Alka, my fierce, graceful, whip-smart partner of decades, now fights a quiet, relentless battle with her body. Her mind? Sharp as ever. Her tongue? Sharper. She speaks fluently, clearly—and with the precision of a poet who also knows...

Why should my happiness be anyone’s generosity? Why must it depend on someone’s kindness, approval, or presence? Happiness, like sunlight, should be mine to seek, to feel, and to live. But often, it’s handed out like a reward—when I please, when I comply, when I’m “good enough.” And if I slip, if I say the wrong thing, if I feel too much—then suddenly, that light is withdrawn. This world is strange. It celebrates smiles but hides from tears. We’re told to “cheer up,” “look at the bright side,” or worse—“don’t be so sensitive.” But what if I am sad? What if the weight of the day presses a little harder? What if the silence around me is louder than the words I long to hear? I am not broken because I feel. I am not weak because I cry. Sadness is not a flaw—it’s a season, a pause, a quiet note in the music of being alive. It teaches me to notice, to care, to sit still with my truth. I’m tired of waiting for someone to say, “You deserve to be happy.” As if it’s theirs to permit. As if my...

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 ...