#18. Svadhisthana – The Sacral Chakra

The joyful rides during winter mornings in Chennai's autorickshaws are a wholesome experience. The canopy of trees overhead filters the early light as we wind through familiar streets toward the beach road. Same routes, yet never quite the same—each morning brings its own texture, its own quiet revelations.

One such morning, I read a saying painted on a wall: "Creativity is about connecting disconnected things and crafting them beautifully." The words stayed with me long after the autorickshaw had passed.

Svadhisthana—the sacral chakra—is the second energy center, located just below the navel. It represents creativity, emotions, and the delicate balance between them. This orange glowing flower of energy is where our creative impulses are born and nurtured. As a stage artist, I live with this energy daily. The play of creativity isn't optional; it's essential to everything I do.

During a recent rehearsal, I found myself telling my students something important: "Creativity isn't just about making the best of yourself. It has a direct and progressive connection with the wellbeing of yourself and the people around you."

We are social animals. We navigate our own struggles and joys, but in between those moments, we have the capacity to reach toward someone else and make them better. This requires empathy—and empathy, I've realized, can be deeply creative. It asks us to imagine another's experience, to connect with what seems disconnected, to craft understanding where there was none.

Someone once told me: "Don't take appreciation too much to your head—it transforms into ego. Don't take criticism too much to your heart—it makes you weak." Balance, my friend, is all we need. This is what the chakras teach us: the art of alignment, of joining the dots with intention and drawing a straight line through the chaos.

Svadhisthana unfolds when we give it attention—a little tapping, a little love, a little nurturing. It reveals the talented, beautiful self that resides within all of us, waiting to be met each day with kindness and courage. 

So, I visualize that orange glowing light,

Shining through my internal sight,

Unfolding with empathy, caressing what's true,

Revealing the artist I'm becoming, ever new.

Vam, Vam, Vam! – The Chant vibrates within us.

The mantra resonates. The autorickshaw moves forward. Another morning, another chance to create, to connect, to balance. The beach road awaits, and so does the work—always the work of becoming.

#17. Muladhara – The Root Chakra

It's not going to be our way all the time. What happens has a reason and a time, and that is generally experienced through pain and pleasure. Life by itself is like walking into a fair—chaos everywhere, yet smiles too. Candies and clowns, all meant for joy. Then we run into a roller-coaster, jump into the seat, and wait for the wheel to rotate, knowing that there will be moments of fear and anxiety. We all have those moments—an unknown fear, a feeling of restless anxiety, troubled sleep. We definitely cannot erase it, but we can address it. I would say that begins with 'Lam'—the activation of the root chakra called Muladhara. Ancient Wisdom Speaks.

The scarlet red chakra whispers—'I am Safe!' Located at the base of the tailbone, it signifies the element earth, governed by survival, physical identity, security, and trust. I would replace the word survival with being grounded—rooted in who we truly are, trusting our own abilities, and building that trust within ourselves rather than seeking emotional dependence on others. The ancient wisdom links this first root chakra, the Muladhara, as the starting point for spiritual ascent, making it essential for grounding.

Indian ancient wisdom fascinates me, and I often practice it. This technique takes just a few minutes to begin, though its deeper benefits unfold over time with dedication. Activating it involves simple methods: visualizing a bright red flower unfolding its petals and radiating light throughout your being. To deepen the experience, we can chant—Lam! The vibration resonates through the body, anchoring us to the earth beneath our feet. Each practice becomes a conversation with our deepest self, a reminder that we carry within us the strength to weather any storm.

When anxiety creeps in and the world feels unstable, this simple practice becomes our refuge. It teaches us that being grounded doesn't mean being unmoved—it means being rooted deeply enough to sway with the wind without breaking.

Red scarlet placed on the tailbone

Unfolding my fears, revealing my scars

To tell me—you are stronger than you know

Stay strong! Stay grounded… Lam! Lam! Lam!

Where earth meets spirit, where body meets soul,

The scarlet whisper makes the broken whole.

 

 

#16. Old Books, New Books

 There's a chill in the air. Spotify plays jazz and carols. Tucked in my cosy corner, who keeps me company? Books.

Fairy tales and Ikigai, mysteries and The Alchemist, drama and devotion—so many stories rest in our hands. December brings me happiness with a cup of black coffee. I gaze outside my veranda at the new baby leaves on the tree and in my little garden. The air is crisp and cool. I wrap my arms around myself—that magical hug—but what's nestled close to my heart? The book I'm reading this winter night.

Money has bought us fancy things—Kindle, Audible, AI readers, and more. Technology promises convenience at our fingertips. Yet holding a book, old or new, brings back that innocent smile to our faces. There's something magical about turning physical pages. Reading a fairy tale or our beloved Amar Chitra Katha still fills us with childlike delight. Every book carries its own world within worn or crisp pages, waiting to transport us elsewhere.

Each page holds an emotion. Each page has a distinct smell—that musty scent of old paper or the fresh aroma of new print. Each page is beautiful in its own way, telling its part of a larger story. As we read, sometimes skipping ahead in anticipation, we connect deeply with the words. Sometimes they pierce our hearts with longing and separation. Sometimes they make our hearts race at the climax of a thrilling mystery. The sentences whisper to us intimately: you're not alone, healing lives in these pages, and there's always hope ahead.

There's always a leaf clinging to the tree, wanting to live and breathe through changing seasons. Books give endlessly, like long-living trees—offering shade from life's harsh sun, comfort in difficult times, and quiet companionship when we need it most. Every year, like a happy ritual I cherish, books find their way to me as gifts. This time it's Miss Marple and her clever mysteries. Next time something different will arrive. But the wonder of books never fades, never disappoints.

What story is keeping you company on these winter nights? :)

#15. Santa and the Socks :)

Based on a true story – both from the legend of St. Nicholas and mine.

They say that long ago, in the 4th century, there lived a kind bishop named St. Nicholas. One night, he heard of a poor father with three daughters who had no dowries for marriage—a fate that would leave them destitute. Under the cover of darkness, St. Nicholas crept to their humble home and dropped bags of gold down the chimney. The gold tumbled into the stockings the daughters had hung by the fire to dry. By morning, their lives were transformed by an anonymous act of love.

This ancient generosity became the heart of a tradition that has warmed homes for centuries—the tradition of hanging socks for Santa to fill with gifts on Christmas Eve.

I, too, had my own Santa. This is my story.

Growing up, I was blessed to celebrate every festival with joy and wonder, but Christmas held a special place in my heart. One December evening, as I walked through the bustling market clutching my mother's little finger, I spotted them—bright red socks dangling beside glittering stars and miniature Christmas trees.

"What are the socks for, Ma?" I asked, tugging at her hand.

She knelt down to my level, her eyes twinkling. "My little child, Santa comes every year to good children and fills these with gifts."

My heart leaped. "Can I have one? Please, Ma?"

She smiled that gentle smile of hers and bought me the prettiest red sock in the entire market.

That night, I hung it carefully and whispered a prayer before bed. "Please, Santa, visit my home too." As my mother tucked me in, she stroked my hair and said softly, "Don't keep staring at the sock all night, sweetheart. Whatever will be, will be—just like the song says."

I closed my eyes, trying to sleep, my mind dancing with dreams of Santa's arrival.

Morning light streamed through my window, and I bolted upright. The sock! I ran to it, my heart pounding. Should I look? What if it was empty? Taking a breath, I reached out and felt... something inside!

"Santa came, Ma! Santa came!" I shouted, my voice echoing through the house.

Inside was a small box of chocolates—smooth, sweet, and utterly perfect. They weren't just chocolates; they were magic wrapped in foil, proof that goodness existed in the world. That Christmas morning remains one of the happiest of my life.

Year after year, the tradition continued. Each Christmas Eve, I'd hang my sock with hope, and each Christmas morning, I'd find treasures waiting.

Then one year, much older now, I couldn't sleep. I crept quietly toward the living room and froze. There, in the soft glow of the Christmas lights, was a beautiful lady gently filling the red sock, caressing it with such tenderness. My mother.

I closed my eyes, a smile spreading across my face. I understood now. Santa had been real all along—not in the way I'd imagined, but in a way far more precious. My Santa wore my mother's face, her love filling those socks year after year, keeping alive the wonder and innocence she treasured in me. She taught me that miracles aren't just things we believe in—they're things we create for those we love.

Red socks hanging, shining bright,

Filled with love on Christmas night,

Santa came with tender care,

In my Ma's love, always there!

Thank you, Santa, sweet and true,

Every Christmas gift was you!

Merry Christmas! :)

#14. The Voice for Carols

Jim Reeves and the Magic of December

December is one of my favourite months in the entire year. Glittering lights! Chill in the air! Hot black coffee. It used to be the winter vacation and my visit to Kolkata, the City of Joy. The City of Joy had a different dimension in my life – books, music, and lots of fun. Jingle Bells!

I remember visiting the bookstores like Crossword or Starmark, picking up a handful of books, then rushing to Baba (in Bengali we call father that way), giving him the sweetest smile and asking him to pay the bill – these memories are etched in gold. As we walked around the cafeterias and the bookstores, one voice would follow us with different songs: "Silver Bells... Silver Bells... soon it will be Christmas day" or "Silent Night." We would take a deep breath, a happy breath. The voice would linger throughout the festive season. The voice of Jim Reeves.

Jim Reeves, better known as 'Gentleman Jim,' had this remarkable soothing voice, so velvety that it still reaches the listener's souls. His deep baritone wrapped around Christmas carols like a warm embrace, transforming familiar melodies into something transcendent. There was an intimacy to his singing, as though he was performing not for millions, but for each individual listener gathered around their radio or cassette player.

Mr. Jim Reeves, every Christmas you come along to every household like mine, sometimes during the dawn and sometimes the dusk. You give us that serene smile which we all are longing for and searching for in this busy, running lifestyle. Though the music industry has advanced with its technicality, with AI and falsettos, your deep soothing voice is like a satin cloth over a face – soft yet comforting.

What makes Reeves' Christmas recordings so enduring is their authenticity. In an era now dominated by digital perfection and auto-tuned vocals, there's a human warmth to his voice that technology cannot replicate. Each note carries genuine emotion, each phrase feels lived-in and real. His renditions of classic carols don't try to reinvent or modernize; they simply honour the songs with sincerity and grace.

This Christmas of 2025, you visit again our households with your connection to our souls. Like clockwork, faithful as the season itself, Jim Reeves returns each December – not as a memory of the past, but as a living presence. Your voice still fills bookstores everywhere, still accompanies families on winter walks, still brings that moment of peace we desperately need.

Some voices fade with time. Jim Reeves' voice, somehow, only grows more essential. In the quiet moments of December, when we pause between the rush and remember what matters, there he is – Gentleman Jim, singing us home.

Jim Reeves :)

#13. The Silent Murderers

A story that needs to be told

This is not going to be a happy story. I don't like writing sad ones either. But some stories demand to be told, so from my pen to your vision it flows. This one is a truth written in fine print.

This is a story of a joint family—the kind that looked like a fairy tale, where everyone lived happily ever after.

I wish it were true.

The Beginning

The joint family had two sons. The sons married two wonderful girls whose eyes sparkled with dreams of a happy household. Children followed—two for each couple. But this story is primarily about those two sons.

The silent murderers.

They were tall, not-so-dark but handsome. Moustaches declaring their manhood, physiques toned like boxing bags—hard and unyielding. And so was their temperament. Tight. Dominating. Suffocating.

Who did they suffocate? The world? No, they weren't that powerful. Their kingdom was smaller—just large enough to control those two girls who had walked into the house carrying bags full of dreams.

The gentle upbringing their parents had given them faded into the background. These two men became the new architects of their home. They taught their women to accept in the name of compromise. They made their women swallow words instead of speaking them. They made their women wipe tears in silence and reach for sleeping pills instead of taking brisk walks in the open air.

The sons, the heroes of this story, walked around being the greatest sons of all time. Sons to a smart mother who refused to let go of charge of the house. She made the girls wrap their wings and caged them to her directions. The sons? They were blind. Blind not with love for their own mother, but with the need to stand as dominating pillars—the men, the masters of the house.

Then came the rift. Brothers fought because men sometimes play games of ego, games where someone must win and someone must lose. But blood is thicker than water, and they reconciled. Meanwhile, everything seemed picture perfect on Sundays when the family sat with plates of kachoris, samosas, and jalebis, relishing them. Faking and playing the game of a perfect 'Happy Family!'

Who suffered in the shadows? The two women. The two who compromised for family and forgot they had identities beyond being Mrs. So-and-So.

The Children

The two men raised their children with the same iron grip. Right and wrong were dictated, not discovered. There was always a hush-hush culture around certain topics—menstrual cycles, English movies, pop music. Shhhh! Don't say this and don't say that. Everything forbidden was enjoyed in secret. In the cave. The hidden cave that existed only when fathers were away. The children felt liberation only in that small self-made cave.

Some children became timid and fearful. Others became dominating, restless souls—vagabonds of the spirit. But all of them started living in caves of their own making.

The two heroes believed they had raised wonderful children. Bravo! They often felt... we have given the children an upbringing to bring out the best human in them. They were blind to the slow poison seeping in. Drop by drop. Minute by minute. Day by day.

The children learned to eat rich food without restraint, to indulge their senses without discipline. The children grew up. And thankfully—or so it seemed—each one got married and lived happily ever after.

You thought the story ended?

No. This is just the interval.

And there is no happy ending for this one. Mr. Shahrukh Khan, sorry! This one has no happy ending... I really wish it were otherwise. I really wish we could use your dialogue—'Picture Abhi Baaki Hai Mere Dost!'

The Daughter's Tale

The daughter married wealth. She was blessed with a child and a lifestyle wrapped in luxury. But inside, she was becoming hollow.

No one knows why. To this day, no one knows why.

She spent her days in elegant loneliness, caring for her autistic child, waiting for her partner to come home. She dressed impeccably, cooked elaborate meals, bought the latest gadgets—all to fool herself into thinking she was living, not merely surviving.

Days became weeks. Weeks became years.

Every day she spoke to her mother on the phone. Everything was normal. She said she was happy. The mother believed her. Remember, they were taught to fake it. Everything was perfect. She said she was living the fairy tale she had dreamed of. The fairy tale her mother had dreamed for her. They both made hollow choices and called it life.

Then one fine day, she was gone.

Instant. Peaceful. A cerebral attack.

Grief descended like a storm. Years passed. Her friends finally spoke: "She wasn't happy."

The parents wondered—why?

But should they ask the friends, or should they ask themselves? The answer was always there, wasn't it? Remember the hero who taught women to swallow rather than speak? She swallowed. She swallowed so perfectly that even her mother couldn't hear her voice trembling on the other end of the phone. Every single day that she spoke to her.

But how could she hear? She had swallowed too. She made that choice for herself and unknowingly taught it to her daughter.

We type RIP—Rest in Peace.

Or perhaps, for this one it should be SIP—Swallow in Peace.

The Son's Tale

The other hero had a son who walked in his father's footsteps. He fit the shoes of his father perfectly. A so-called rational man who seemed to know everything. He believed he made the wisest decisions. And his choice? To become exactly like the father, he watched while growing up. The dialogue that internally pushed their morality—'I am who I am, and everyone else has less strength'—it's me who rules, the remaining are weak and meek. (The famous Hindi saying – Hum, Hum Hai! Baaki Sab mein Dam kam Hai!)

He grew indifferent to the emotions that piled up in the women around him. This was normal in his world. He crafted a lifestyle of beautiful chaos—undisciplined, unrestrained. He refused to listen. Not to his father. Not to his mother. Not to his spouse.

He lived his life. Aloof. Ignorant. Selfish.

When a person grows up believing life is only about meeting financial obligations, he becomes a machine—producing results but devoid of emotion. The son grew up to be that.

Time passed. He and his wife had a lovely daughter who became a companion to her grandmother, the woman who was once a teacher, a good one. The grandmother found new joy, a new purpose, a new reason to wake up each morning.

More days passed.

Then came that dreadful morning. No one would have ever expected it.

The routine was familiar. The son returned from his night shift, poured himself a glass of scotch, collapsed into disturbed and incomplete sleep, then forced himself awake to go running. This cycle repeated endlessly until that one day when he collapsed on the floor.

The heart stopped pumping.

He was gone. Gone!

Cries of loved ones mixed with the wailing sirens of the ambulance.

It was too late.

The Reckoning

The heroes—the two fathers—stood there, watching it all unfold.

Remember Rancho from 3 Idiots? The scene where he confronts Virus at the funeral and says, "You're so lucky—you committed murder and no one even knew."

The silent murderers got away with their crime. And they had accomplices—the two wives who learned to silence themselves and taught timidity as virtue. Together, they passed these lessons to their children. The same tired script: boys like blue, girls like pink. Boys run wild, girls stay quiet.

Today, the parents lie in their bedrooms—defeated, diminished.

Mothers who lost their children.

Women who lost themselves.

They say time heals all wounds. They say forgiveness sets you free. They say we must understand, empathize, move on.

But I look at those two empty graves—one holding a daughter who swallowed her voice until her brain gave up, another holding a son whose heart stopped from years of emotional numbness—and I think about the silent murderers who still breathe, still wake up each morning, still live in that house.

I would not forgive them. The Silent Murderers! 

Would you?

#12. On the MasterChef's Table

In a recent work meeting, I relearnt something I had always known but had forgotten in the rush of daily life—the art of plating. And how vital it is to everything we do.

Remember the gift shops we used to visit before this online era? Those tempting displays of beautifully wrapped presents? The shopkeeper would carefully select paper in just the right shade, fold each corner with precision, and tie it all together with a satin ribbon. Wrapped in scarlet paper, sealed with care—the gift became an experience before it was even opened. The anticipation grew from the presentation itself. Life works the same way. Even the finest cuisine and the tastiest dishes fall short if not presented well.

The Art of Plating before we take it to the MasterChef’s table! 

Plating is as important as gathering the right ingredients. It demands precision and is an integral part of creation. It's about those finishing touches that separate good from exceptional. It's about clearing the stray drops of curry from the plate's edge. About arranging each element with care so it appeals to the eye before it delights the palate. About knowing that the MasterChef sits there with an eagle's gaze, ready to spot that one tiny fault—the garnish placed carelessly, the sauce pooled unevenly, the dish served without intention.

But here's the thing—the MasterChef isn't the villain in this story. They're not there to crush your spirit or diminish your efforts. They're simply there to push you, to challenge you, to bring out the absolute best in your work. They see the potential you might be missing.

We all fall into the trap sometimes, don't we? We race like rabbits, focused only on crossing the finish line, on completing tasks rather than perfecting them. We check boxes and meet deadlines, but we forget that the final presentation matters just as much as the work itself. We forget to choose the right wrapper, the right ribbon, the right plate for our carefully crafted work. We rush past the details that would make our work truly memorable.

A Little More Time...

All it takes is a little more time. A careful review. A final glance. A moment of precision before we serve our work on that MasterChef's table. That pause to ask ourselves: Is this truly my best?

After all, if you wouldn't serve a half-plated dish to a guest at your dinner table, why would you present half-finished work to the world? What does your plating say about the care you put into the meal itself?

Create with passion. Plate with precision. Present with pride.

The plate's here. But are we plating to our potential? Let's reflect! :)

#11. Tang Tang, Tango! :)

Why do we sometimes make decisions we later regret? Why do snap judgments feel so right in the moment but wrong in hindsight? Daniel Kahneman, the Nobel laureate, gave us a simple yet profound way to understand how we think. He showed us that our mind works in two systems, constantly dancing together in an intricate performance.

System 1: The Rabbit

Remember Aesop's fable of the tortoise and the hare? System 1 is like that overconfident rabbit—always running, always fast. These thoughts move like a Land Cruiser at 150 km/hour on a highway, gone zooop. They work effortlessly, relying on patterns we've learned, habits we've formed, and instant emotional reactions that bubble up without conscious effort.

This is the system that helps you recognize a friend's face in a crowd, finish familiar sentences, or brake suddenly when a car swerves in front of you. It's automatic, intuitive, and incredibly efficient. But because these thoughts are so fast and operate at the surface level, they're prone to biases and errors. They take mental shortcuts and don't pause to question themselves.

System 2: The Tortoise

This is like the wise tortoise—calm, slow, and steady. These thoughts are deliberate and require effort. They pause and think things through carefully. A younger version of you might react impulsively to criticism, but as you grow and experience life—shaped by wounds and wisdom—you learn to respond differently.

System 2 is what you use when solving a complex math problem, evaluating multiple job offers, or choosing your words carefully in a difficult conversation. It knows the art of filtration—knowing what to accept and what to question. It doesn't just consume everything directly; it filters first, analyses, and then decides. Let’s go Tango In life, we perform a tango between these two systems—switching from 1 to 2, from 2 to 1, back and forth in rhythm. But here's the key: System 2 leads the dance. It can watch over System 1 and step in when needed.

So, let’s meet our tortoise self. Train it. Because however fast the rabbit runs, it will get tired. Even the fastest Land Cruiser needs to stop for fuel.

The wisdom is in knowing when to let the rabbit run and when to let the tortoise take over. And just like in the fable, slow and steady often wins the race. The best dancers know when to slow down and when to speed up—that's the art of the tango.

(Inspired by the book – Thinking Fast and Slow by Daniel Kahneman) to be continued... 

Though we all grow up, don't we need someone to constantly remind us of this evergreen tale? :)

#10. The Factory Man

 Once upon a time, there was a factory man. He made machines.

Once upon a time there was a flower girl. She sold flowers.

Then They met.

He was like the king of the jungle—a lion who ruled his territory with power, whose presence alone commanded respect. He cared only for his victories, not for the hearts that wished to love him. As he aged, his charm faded, and with it, his control over those around him. When he finally craved affection instead of conquest, all he found was fear—fear within himself and fear in others who could no longer come near.

But this story isn't about the lion. It's about a little girl who sold flowers outside the factory gates. Each day she stood there glowing, offering blooms in different colours and scents, hoping to catch the eye of the factory man who passed by without a single glance. She called out gently, but he never turned. He was the factory man—the mighty factory man who serviced his machinery and counted his production. He was building machines that followed orders and delivered perfect results, his prize, you see. He'd forgotten how to connect with human beings who weren't machines, who were more than switches turning on and off, more than producers of output.

The little girl grew older and lovelier. Her basket held beautiful flowers, and she wore prettier clothes. One day she appeared in a bright red dress decorated with yellow and blue flowers. The weather was pleasant, the breeze soft. She hummed a tune while selling her flowers: "La la, ta da, the flowers are fragrant and crimson, the flowers are fresh and new, won't you buy them for someone you love... la la, ta da!" Her song didn't rhyme perfectly, but it carried the sweetest smile.

To everyone's surprise, the factory man stopped and stood beside her. She looked him straight in the eye. He asked for a bunch of flowers. Her smile grew even brighter, like sunshine breaking through clouds. She handed him the entire basket—not in resignation, but in generous joy. "Take them all," she said, "they've always been meant for you."

The man stood speechless, holding the basket as warmth flooded through him. As he entered his factory grounds, he paused at the gates and turned back. She was still there, radiant and free, humming her imperfect song.

He lifted a flower from the basket, but this time he didn't walk toward the power switch.

Would the factory man finally learn that love cannot be manufactured, only received? Receive it when it's given, before it vanishes from the horizon. Because love cannot be manufactured—it can only be received, given, and accepted.

#09. Kit Kat 109

Have a break, have a Kit Kat. This time a 109! Break to banta hai! 

We've all seen that advertisement. The red wrapper. The snap. The promise of a moment to yourself. In the recent version, it even has my favourite song—'I Want to Break Free' by Queen. But where are the real breaks? That deep breath we're all looking for… that feeling of being present instead of always zoned out!

Breaks, you see, are of two kinds—escape and the 109th bead. One is short-lived, the other keeps you going. The first kind helps you escape. Chocolate, Netflix, scrolling—they help you check out for a bit. Get through the day. Survive the madness. And there's nothing wrong with that. We all need it sometimes. But then there's the second kind. The break that doesn't help you escape your life—it brings you back to it. This is where the 109th bead comes in.

The Story of the 109th Bead - Straight from my personal experiences. My regular mala Jaap practice is quite the challenge. My mind is a monkey—a cute, playful little creature who wants to jump from branch to branch. And like the restless Dre Parker in The Karate Kid (2010) under Mr. Han's patient teaching… it refuses, it argues, it rejects every instruction. Remember that restlessness, that need to jump ahead to "the real training"?

Mr. Han simply ignored that impatience.

We do the same. We ignore that restlessness long enough to complete the 108-bead count and finally reach that 109th bead… only to begin the whole journey again. That final bead? That's our Guru Bead.

This isn't about religion or spirituality—it's about that little Kit Kat break we all need, whether we're doing the simplest of things or the most difficult tasks.

You don't count it. You pause there. You stop. You breathe. The 109th bead. Today I smiled as I reached it. It's not part of the cycle—it's where the cycle ends. That pause? That's the break we've forgotten exists in our busy lives. I just remind myself these days. 

Then, when we begin again, many options open up before us—we can begin with clarity, we can repeat what we've practiced, we can learn from our mistakes, fix them, and move forward. Move forward after that Kit Kat 109.

To notice that I am breathing. To feel the warmth of a jaadu ki jhappi. To smell that beautiful smell after monsoon rain touches the earth. To see that perfect drop of water on a newborn leaf. To feel alive after the 109th bead. And smile.

Let's have that Kit Kat break, yaar! Chota hi sahi, banta to hai na? have that 109.

#08. Some Oxygen Please!

It was a loud scream…. Jaagte Raho!!!! – Keep Awake! Keep Alert! Keep Steady!

Inhale. Some oxygen please, Inhale! Inhale!

"In the event of a loss of cabin pressure, oxygen masks will drop from the compartment above your seat. Place the mask over your nose and mouth, secure it with the elastic band, and breathe normally. If you are travelling with someone who requires assistance, secure your own mask first, and then assist the other person."

Why am I repeating an air hostess's instructions? Because buried in this safety announcement is a truth we've forgotten: help those who need it, but first, let’s not become helpless ourselves. And make them helpless too.

Self-care isn't about indulgence or Instagram-worthy spa days. With the wisdom earned through years—marked now by silver strands in my hair—I've discovered that caring for our loved ones begins with caring for ourselves. Not out of vanity or narcissism, but out of necessity. It means nourishing our bodies properly, feeding our minds with enriching thoughts, keeping ourselves strong and capable of offering real support, and maintaining a positive outlook rather than becoming someone who constantly needs rescuing. It's about refusing to be the burden while claiming to lighten others' loads.

Consider Florence Nightingale, perhaps history's most celebrated caregiver. In the disease-ridden hospitals of the Crimean War, she revolutionized nursing and saved countless lives. Yet she failed in one critical way: she didn't protect herself. She worked without proper precautions, without thought for her own longevity. The result? Illness confined her to bed for much of her remaining years. The woman who could have served for decades was forced to serve from a sickroom. Her devotion shortened her impact. We make the same mistake. Constantly.

But here's what troubles me more: we don't just exhaust ourselves—we weaken those we claim to love. Watch carefully. We sprint to open doors for people who can walk perfectly well. We stand with water pitchers ready to pour for hands that work just fine. We solve problems for children and even adults who need to learn problem-solving. We do, and do, and do—for people who don't actually need us to do it. And we call this love. But is it?

Or are we creating dependents instead of capable human beings? Are we building strength in others, or are we quietly stealing their opportunities to grow? Serving without need isn't love—its foolishness dressed up as devotion.

There's a razor-thin line between caring and crippling, between supporting and smothering. When we rush to do what others can do themselves, we're not serving them—we're teaching them helplessness. We're training them to wait for rescue instead of learning to walk. We're making ourselves indispensable at the cost of making them incapable.

And meanwhile, we collapse under the weight of unnecessary service. Exhaustion clouds our judgment. Guilt creeps in for no reason. We wonder why we're so tired, why are we tagged as being strict, why the people we've "helped" seem less capable each year.

Perhaps we've been foolish.

What if we asked ourselves the hard questions: Does this person truly need help, or do they simply prefer we do it? Are we building their capacity, or are we becoming their crutch? Is this emergency care, or have we made ourselves a permanent solution to a problem they should solve themselves?

What if we inhaled our own oxygen first—not from selfishness, but from wisdom? What if we cared with discernment, not just emotion? What if we loved people enough to let them grow, even when growth is uncomfortable?

What if we became Florence Nightingales who serve for lifetimes because we serve wisely—helping those who truly need it, empowering those who don't, and protecting our own capacity to keep showing up?

Perhaps true care isn't measured by how much we sacrifice. Perhaps it's measured by how much strength we build—in ourselves and in others.

After all, a lamp that burns too bright, too fast, leaves everyone in darkness far too soon. Right?

 

#07. Let’s make some Ketchup :)

The Past is History, The Future is a Mystery, Now is the Time, My Friend… Seize It! Now is the Gift—That's Why It's Called the Present.

Picture this: 1929. The Great Depression. Stock markets crumbled, unemployment soared, and industrial productivity plummeted to depths previously unimaginable. The theory of Natural Order held its iron grip on economic thought. Chaos reigned. Collusion flourished. Adam Smith, with his doctrine of the Invisible Hand, prescribed a brutal remedy: "Purge the rottenness. Liquidate everything—labour, farmers, real estate, stocks!"

Meanwhile, ordinary people cried out for essentials as prices climbed beyond reach. Who should bear the responsibility? Who would face the consequences? The wealthy might grow wealthier while the poor stagnated—or worse, perished. Were we really meant to wait for the Invisible Hand, that mystical force of natural order, to restore balance?

But why wait for the "right time"? What even is the right time? Some distant, suitable moment? What kind of forward-looking approach are we seeking?

Consider this: a basket brimming with tomatoes—some fresh and vibrant, others wilting and imperfect. The classical approach would discard the damaged ones, trusting the market's magic to eventually revive agricultural productivity through newly grown crops. But here's a radical thought—why not make ketchup? Transform the less-than-perfect tomatoes into immediate nourishment. Make some soup. Then, with what remains, begin anew. Why not launch an entirely new venture? The Ketchup Industry.

The Ketchup Industry! A revolutionary perspective—we create an entirely new solution for rotting tomatoes. We employ people. Yes, it might strain present budgets, but the horizon gleams with promise. The employed generate income. Income fuels consumption. Consumption revives demand. And just like that—voilà! —the economy awakens.

Now, bring this home: we all carry imperfect thoughts, unresolved emotions, misunderstood feelings within us. Why keep beating against the same unyielding wall? Why not channel that energy into creating something entirely new? When we emerge from our moments of doubt, we discover something unexpected—a bottle of rich, tangy, perfectly spiced ketchup, ready and waiting. The hard part is done. Now we simply need to prepare the meal.

As the father of modern economics, John Maynard Keynes, famously declared: "In the long run, we are all dead." Sobering, isn't it? So when will we start filling that bottle of ketchup? Seize today, my friends. Because as Master Oogway wisely told our beloved Kung Fu Panda—yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, but today is a gift. That's why it's called the present. (Excerpts from my classes – A special thanks to my students).

(Pic.) What's the Ketchup you're gonna make? :)

#06. Dahi Papdi Chaat :)

"The purpose of life is to find the purpose." — quoted Pagla Rinpoche in an interview.

From driving a Maserati through European streets to selling it on his journey back to monkhood—Pagla Rinpoche's story mirrors another: the monk who sold his Ferrari. But this isn't about him. This is about layers. The delicate, intricate layers of Dahi Papdi Chaat, and how they mirror this beautiful, complex journey we call life.

Picture it: a gourmet masterpiece before us. Do we eat it, or simply admire it? Crisp papdis cradle whisked yogurt. Boiled potatoes nestle beside chickpeas. Crunchy onions and tomatoes burst with colour, crowned with ruby pomegranate seeds and some dash of fresh coriander leaves. Tangy-sweet chutneys weave through it all. This is more than food—it's poetry on a plate, a soulful rendition from the chef's imagination to our table.

Life unfolds the same way. Each layer we peel back reveals a new colour, a new spice, a new taste. As we savour each spoonful, something magical happens—flavours dance with textures, creating a symphony that would even make Mozart proud (I suppose). One layer leads to another, each discovery illuminating what was always there, waiting.

But what if we never unveiled them? What if we stopped at the surface? Life would remain monochrome. The stars wouldn't glitter. The soul's fire would flicker, waiting for the fuel it never receives. Adam Smith might never have seen beyond a simple pin factory to envision the division of labour. We wouldn't have journeyed from those humble pins to the technological marvels of NVIDIA. Pagla Rinpoche's Maserati represented material success—until he peeled back that layer to discover something far more valuable: his true self.

The beauty lies in the journey itself. Each layer holds its own wisdom, its own lesson. The crisp papdi teaches us about foundations—how we build our lives on experiences that shape us. The cool yogurt reminds us of balance, of finding peace amidst chaos. The spices speak of passion, of the fire that drives us forward. Together, they create something extraordinary, something that transcends the sum of its parts.

The truth is simple yet profound: the spices are already within us. They're not missing. They're not lost. They're simply waiting—waiting to be discovered, layer by layer. Waiting to be invented and reinvented with each new experience, each moment of courage, each decision to look deeper.

That Dahi Papdi Chaat sits before each of us, in its own form. It whispers an invitation: to become not what we ‘ought to be’, but what ‘we want to be’. To taste every layer. To savour every colour. To finally discover what was always there, waiting beneath the surface. Unveiling the layers of life – the dahi papdi chaat of our own lives. 

(Pic.) Don't the layers contain wonder!? :)

#05. Scarlet Scars Thus Speak

Advertising has evolved into something more profound. Remember the two half circles that gracefully matched up to form the Doordarshan logo? Much like our lives – two circles, perhaps many more, weaving together to create that one magnificent circle, engulfing all the experiences we carry within us.

Picture a child playing in the mud, returning home with dirt-stained clothes, tiptoeing quietly to the washing machine and slipping that little t-shirt into the drum already brimming with garments. Finally emerges a whitewashed piece of clothing – "Daag acche hai na?" (Stains are good, right?) Stains can be whitewashed, scrubbed away until they vanish, but scars? Scars leave an indelible mark not just upon the skin but deep within the soul. And yet, scars are good. If not for those scars, who would we truly be? If not for the scars, where would we find that treasure chest brimming with experiences?

We believe in things, even knowing they may not hold truth. We believe this would last 'forever.' Forever is a fancy word reserved for fairy tales where Rapunzel waits patiently and her prince eventually arrives. We wait like Hachiko, the Akita Dog with unwavering hope that his master Mr. Ueno will return. But where are the scars? Do you see mine? Do I see yours? We camouflage them beneath countless variations of smiles and laughter. It was that invisible scar that appeared when we walked with that dear friend till the turning point, and when we finally turned around – whoosh! They were gone. The friend had vanished. Later, the mind contemplates endlessly – was it even real? What truly happened? The mind, you see, remains ever practical, but the soul harbours that heart – forever young, forever dreaming. (Dil to baccha hai ji – excuse me, I refuse to grow up, it declares!)

The soul understands deeply that the scars were good. They delivered piercing, unforgettable pain, but the scars were good. If not for these scars, how would we ever truly meet ourselves? How would we ever become who we are meant to be? How would we look back with tender smiles and relish each precious moment that we lived, lived without a single regret? It was us then! This is us now!

A drum overflowing with hope and clouds. Clouds pregnant with hope and pain. Pain interwoven with smiles and laughter. Laughter bursting with Zindagi! Life itself, in all its messy glory...

So, won't you agree – "Daag acche hai na?"

The scars, my friend, not just the stains!

(Pic.)  Scars :)

#04. Back to Finding Nemo!

Keeping up with Gen Z vocabulary, I asked my students, "Do you all know what FOFO is?" There were mixed reactions. Some knew, some didn't. Then one student innocently smiled and answered, "Ma'am, I only know Finding Nemo." I smiled back. That answer made me happier than any trendy acronym could.

There's a theory in economics called conspicuous consumption. It's fascinating because economics isn't just about money—it's about human desires and behaviour. This theory explores how we try to keep up with society, always finding more, consuming more, measuring ourselves against others. It started with FOMO—the Fear of Missing Out. Social media turned this into an epidemic. Millennials and Gen Z scrolled endlessly, chasing something they couldn't quite name. What were they finding? Why were they searching? For whom? The answers remained a mystery—even to them.

I watched a generation transform, living life in selfie mode. They found more but couldn't sustain it. Eventually, FOMO evolved into something darker: FOFO—the Fear of Finding Out. Why the shift to fear? Because the unknown triggers anxiety. Research shows our heartbeat spikes when we're about to discover something that might disappoint us or confirm our worst fears about ourselves. The endless scroll became exhausting. Discovery became dangerous.

Then came that student's answer: "Ma'am, I only know Finding Nemo." A gush of fresh air. In the film, young Nemo—a clownfish with one small fin—gets captured by divers. His adventure unfolds the hidden strength in that little fin his father lovingly called his "lucky fin." Both father and son discover themselves through their parallel journeys. Our little Nemo, caught between FOMO and FOFO, finally reunites with his true self—a self far more capable than he ever imagined.

We've all begun our own journey with our "little fins"—those parts of ourselves we think make us inadequate. The pressure to find more, know more, and be more has left us exhausted. But what if, like that student, we simply knew one thing deeply? What if we stopped performing and started being? From FOMO to FOFO to Posting Zero—not posting nothing, but choosing peace over performance. We're all on our own journey of finding our little Nemo. Not the endless discovery that social media demands, but the quiet discovery of who we truly are. Complete with our lucky fins. Perfectly capable. Wonderfully enough.

Sometimes the most profound answer is the simplest one: I just know Finding Nemo.

(Pic.) Are you willing to find your little Nemo? :)