Why Am I This Fisherman’s Friend?

I once read a story about a fisherman who was resting under a coconut tree by the beach. His boat was parked nearby, and he had just finished his afternoon nap. A businessman, seeing him idle, walked up and asked, “Why are you wasting your time when you could go and catch more fish?”

The fisherman replied calmly, “I’ve caught enough fish to feed my family today.”

The businessman, puzzled, said, “You could catch more fish, sell them, buy a bigger boat, hire people, and eventually become rich like me.”

The fisherman smiled and asked,“Why would I want that?”

“To live peacefully,” the businessman declared. 

The fisherman laughed softly, “That’s exactly what I’m doing now.”

With Mahesh in 2024

For years, I didn’t either. Until I met Mahesh.

I first met Mahesh during a trip to Diveagar, a beautiful coastal village that feels like it’s untouched by time. On that visit, I didn’t just see the beach, the waves, and the golden sunsets — I met someone who personified the fisherman from the story I had read so long ago.

Mahesh lives in a small, modest home with his wife and two children. He works as a part-time fisherman, catching just enough to support his family. No greed, no rush, no restless ambition — just a quiet, simple rhythm to life that most of us can only dream of.

During my visits, I’ve had the privilege to share meals with his family, watch his children helping him, and sit with him as the sun dips into the horizon. Mahesh never asks for anything. He doesn’t like expensive gifts or grand gestures. What makes him happiest is simply the time I spend with him when I return to his village.

Mahesh’s life hasn’t been without challenges. He suffers from a spine condition that has limited his fishing trips in recent years. Yet, his faith in the God keeps his spirits high. Every morning, despite the pain, he wakes up with gratitude and hope.

His resilience humbles me. His simplicity inspires me.

Meeting Mahesh has been like holding up a mirror to my own life — a life that, for so long, was fueled by deadlines, ambitions, and the never-ending chase for “more.” But every time I meet him, I feel lighter. The noise of my busy world fades away, and for a brief time, I get to experience what true peace feels like.

Sometimes, I think Mahesh feels the same about me. Maybe it’s the joy of friendship, or maybe it’s just that our conversations are untainted by expectations or conditions.

The truth is, we often complicate our lives searching for happiness, when, in reality, happiness is sitting quietly under a coconut tree, listening to the waves, and knowing that you already have enough.

Welcoming the First Generation Beta Member in the Family

She is the first member of Generation Beta (born between 2025 and 2039) in our family. Ishita, a bundle of joy, visited our home yesterday, and our home was lit with happiness. ✨

As for Generation Beta, they will be the first to grow up in a world surrounded by widespread micro-computing technologies. From an early age, they will be highly adept at using AI, virtual reality, and smart systems. It’s expected that they will grow up to be more collaborative, innovative, and deeply aware of sustainability and environmental challenges. 🌍

As we look at my little niece Ishita, we can’t help but imagine the incredible future she represents — a future where technology and compassion go hand in hand.

Welcome to the world, Ishita! Here’s to your bright journey ahead. 🌸

The Day My Dad Became My Hero

This is an incident from the year 1986, a time when I was a child just beginning to explore my fascination with the Mumbai railways. Our home in Kalyan was only about a fifteen-minute walk from the station, and that proximity often made it the backdrop of my early childhood memories. I don’t clearly recollect why Papa had taken me to the Kalyan Railway Station that day, but I vividly remember one thing — if things had gone terribly wrong, my life could have taken a completely different turn.

At some point — I don’t recall exactly when — I let go of Papa’s finger. Something about the train that had halted at the platform drew me in. Perhaps it was the thrill of stepping into a local train coach, the challenge of finding a spot in a crowded compartment, or the sheer joy of standing at the window, gripping the grill and watching the world blur past.

Being a child in Mumbai’s bustling trains had its privileges. Adults would instinctively make way, guiding me toward the window — the best place in the world, I thought. But what felt like a magical moment to me was, on the other side of that window, the beginning of a nightmare.

Papa, suddenly realizing I was no longer by his side, panicked. He searched the platform, the bookstalls, asked strangers — all in vain. His friend joined the search too. Seconds ticked by, but in those moments, fear consumed him. The train I had unknowingly boarded began to move. That’s when Papa, driven by instinct and love, made a life-saving guess. He knew me. He knew my obsession with the window seat. He trusted that knowledge. As the train picked up speed, Papa started running alongside it, his eyes scanning coach after coach. With superhuman effort, he boarded a moving compartment. To me, he was nothing short of Superman.

Determined, drenched in sweat, and with unwavering focus, Papa moved from coach to coach, asking, searching, hoping. At each station — Dombivli, Diva, Kalwa, Thane, Mulund, Kanjurmarg — he got off and boarded a new coach, his eyes relentlessly seeking me. The train was heading toward Victoria Terminus, and the chase continued. Finally, at Ghatkopar station, Papa boarded yet another coach — and there I was. Standing by the window, holding the pane, blissfully unaware of the chaos I had caused. When he saw me, he pushed through the crowd and grabbed me, holding me as though he'd found his entire world again.

I have only a faint memory of his emotions that day. But I know he must’ve been overwhelmed — with relief, with love, with fear that finally gave way to gratitude.

Ironically, I was clueless. I didn’t even realize I had been lost. Back then, there were no mobile phones, no GPS trackers, no loudspeaker announcements for missing children. But I always believed one thing: Papa was behind me, with me — my superhero who would never let me fall.

And that day, he proved it.

In Search of Nana’s Love!

As a child, I was very fond of my Nana. Usually, grandchildren have fond memories of their grandfathers — especially their maternal ones. A few of my summer holidays were spent at Mahud Budruk, a village near Pandharpur in Maharashtra. Those days, surrounded by my two maternal uncles, four aunts, and the vast mango farms, were some of the most memorable days of my childhood.

I remember plucking drumsticks every time Aaji (my maternal grandmother) asked me to fetch some vegetables for cooking. Drumsticks were my favorite, and it was always fun knocking them down from the trees with a long stick. The mango tree standing tall above the well was my absolute favorite. Along with my brother and other cousins, I would climb to the highest branch, reaching for the ripest mangoes.

“Neeraj, stop plucking those mangoes. I need to sell them in the market,” Nana would shout whenever he caught me collecting the best ones. Hearing his voice, I would quietly climb down, clutching whatever I had managed to grab.

When I last met Nana - May 2023

I owe the roots of my numismatic hobby to Nana, who had an impressive collection of rare coins — many dating back to the 16th century. He carried them in a small pocket stitched inside his banian.

“Can you give them to me, Nana? I promise I’ll keep them safe in my collection,” I once pleaded, noticing that some of his coins were wearing smooth from years of rubbing against the fabric of his pocket.

Nana, ever determined, stayed silent. After much coaxing, he finally parted with a couple of coins — the ones that were damaged the most. One was a 1908 British India One Anna, and the other, a 1945 Paisa. He kept the rest of his precious collection with him until, one day, a thief stole them while Nana was bathing on the banks of the Chandrabhaga River at Pandharpur. I was deeply hurt when I heard the news — perhaps even more than he was.

As I grew older, I began to understand more about Nana and his ways. What once felt like him being distant or even mean started to make sense. In those days, grandparents often showed favoritism. Grandsons received special privileges over granddaughters, and the grandsons of sons were loved a little more than the grandsons of daughters. This wasn’t just Nana; it was a pattern deeply rooted in Indian traditions for generations.

Nana lived a long life, crossing the age of 95, before leaving this world in 2024 — leaving me longing for the grandfatherly love I had always hoped for.

I vividly remember his last visit to our house with Aaji a few years ago. As they were leaving, Aaji, as she always did, took out a hundred-rupee note from her little savings to give me. She paused, exchanged a quiet glance with Nana, and then handed me a fifty-rupee note instead. I accepted it with a smile — it felt less like money and more like a quiet blessing from her.

Kids In Motion - Are They On The Right Path?

I am a father of two kids – a daughter, a member of Gen Z (born between 1997 and 2012), and a son who belongs to Gen Alpha (born after 2012). While our family values have been moderate and somewhat conservative, we have always strived to inculcate a habit of thoughtfulness in both of our kids.

Last week, our nine-year-old son came to us with an unusual update:

“I have got hair around my Nunnu!” he announced while getting ready for school.

That one sentence paused time for me. It took me straight back to the early 90s when I experienced the same change. Had I ever reported this to my parents? Most likely not. Back then, such updates were kept quietly to ourselves.

“You are growing up, my boy,” I told him. “Grown-ups have hair all over their bodies – their armpits, moustaches, butts, and legs.” I tried to explain in a way that would keep him comfortable and confident.

That moment meant a lot to me. He wasn't shy or hesitant—he felt safe sharing this personal development with me. And as a father, I see it as my duty to ensure he always finds comfort, guidance, and trust in our conversations. I was relieved he hadn’t turned to someone else in his classroom for an answer. Parental trust and open communication are key. When parents become overly authoritative, unsupportive, or dismissive, kids start looking for answers outside, slowly eroding the trust at home.

The question was too innocent however, this incident also made me realize that Gen Alpha is very vocal. They aren’t shy about expressing themselves; they are curious and want immediate answers.

On the other hand, I see stark differences with Gen Z. My daughter, like many in her generation (aged between 13 and 28), tends to be more individualistic and strong-headed. They might appear to listen, but when it comes to decisions, they want to carve their own paths—often ignoring shared experiences or advice.

One of my colleagues shared his own encounter with his Gen Z kid on an upcoming Friendship Day.

“My kid, who’s in 7th grade, asked me for two thousand rupees to celebrate Friendship Day,” he said.

"What are you gonna do with that much of money?", he asked the kid.

"I will treat my girlfriend", proclaimed the little kid.

When the father refused, the child didn’t speak to him for two days. This is a problem with many modern day teenagers. In another case, a young man in his twenties felt completely comfortable drinking liquor with his father—a clear sign of shifting boundaries and attitudes in this generation. I do not see the young man at fault here - it's probably how he was brought up by his father who had kept giving justifications for his drinking habit at home.

Children are deeply influenced by their surroundings—especially by how their parents behave and lead their lives. In many modern households, both parents are working long hours to build a better lifestyle and contribute to a broader social good. But true elevation of lifestyle isn’t about purchasing more comforts. It’s about nurturing relationships and emotional health at home.

We often forget that while we’re busy shaping the world outside, our children may be silently struggling with loneliness, unstable relationships, confusions and a search for genuine happiness. All they need is proper guidance and support—every single day. Let’s not forget: education begins at home.

Meet the Iron Lady of My Life!

She always wears a smile of kindness on her innocent face. Her black, mystic eyes always held many untold stories. They seemed to speak only to those who cared to look into them—with a vision of understanding. Whenever I met her, she always seemed to be striving to make things perfect—for everyone around her, for every occasion.

"Can I call you - Mumma?" I asked her during our very first call. This was the kind of question one asks only once in a lifetime. Of course, you do not ask this question to your own mother. But yes, she was my mother-in-law to be.

With her in 2023

Life took a dive into a dark tunnel when she lost her husband in 1996, after just fifteen years of marriage. While the world was heading towards the 21st century, life as a single woman with three young children was far from easy. Though Mumma and her children lived in a joint family, discrimination was apparent. Priya, then in the 10th grade, was the eldest of the three. It was a crucial academic year, and losing her father was a disaster—a disruption she had to endure.

Baba, Mumma’s father-in-law, emerged as her biggest supporter during these trying times. With his encouragement, she decided to pursue higher education—to walk the path toward the light at the end of this tunnel of darkness.

That year, both Mumma and Priya burned the midnight oil. Their efforts began to bear fruit when Priya topped her school, leading her mother and two siblings by example. Mumma didn’t look back. She resumed her own education after years of academic gap.

Her immediate journey of struggle paused briefly when the Reserve Bank of India hired her as a Class 4 employee. Securing a job was a win, but it was only the beginning of another phase of hard work. Shoulder to shoulder with her male colleagues, she carried weights in the cash department. At times, she also worked in the office canteen. But none of that mattered to her when she saw her children progressing in their careers. Alongside all this, she continued to study and steadily carved out her own path.

This year, Mumma retired as a Class B Officer from the Reserve Bank. It was her life’s greatest milestone. I was with her all day for the retirement ceremony. Her three children and all the grandchildren attended the function, along with RBI staff. Each grandchild spoke about her journey. Her colleagues, who had witnessed her sincerity and dedication over the years, celebrated her achievements with heartfelt applause. I could see a sense of gratitude on their faces - the one that was spontaneous and pure.  

"I could serve the bank for five more years very easily. I don’t feel like I’m a sixty-year-old woman," said Mumma during her farewell speech. Her spirit was applauded by everyone in the conference room.

After the farewell function, we proceeded to the lunch in the office lounge. I stood beside her, holding her hand at the lunch table.

She leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Look Neeraj, there was a time in my life when I picked up the plates here. Today, I am a guest of honor.”

I could see tears in her eyes. I could feel the rough journey she had just concluded. Her professional life is an epitome, a testimony of where persistant hardwork, kindness, knowledge and tolerance can take us. 

"These tears do not suit your eyes. You are an iron woman, Mumma!" I said, giving her a tight hug.

What My Grandmother Never Said!

She sat there for hours in our living room, in the same position, without speaking a word. I was a teenage boy in the 1990s—her grandson. I knew she was my father’s mother, but I also knew she was not used to the apartment culture in the city.

She wasn’t a woman in the sense of how we see women today—independent, outspoken, wearing jeans, crop tops, and carrying confidence in their stride. My grandmother was different. Silent. Reserved. Rooted in a world I could barely imagine. I often wondered what went on in her mind as she sat quietly for so long.

“What are you thinking of, Aaji?” I once asked her, my curiosity getting the better of me. Her calmness always carried a shadow of worry.

“The whoosh whoosh of the washing machine… it’s so uncomfortable,” she replied.

Picture of Aaji I took in 2012

She was born in the pre-independence era in a village named Aundhi in the Solapur district of Maharashtra. Married off too early—most likely a child marriage—she faced early pregnancies and the struggles of raising a large family. She was the mother of three sons and five daughters, one of whom passed away in childhood. The second son was my father.

In those days, women’s liberation was unheard of. Her world was confined to the four walls of the ancestral house—the Shinde Wada. After her marriage, she lived in one of its rooms, spending most of her time cooking with firewood. Years of exposure to smoke eventually stole her eyesight. That’s perhaps why she sat for hours in one place, barely moving.

“Tell me some stories from your childhood, Aaji,” I would often plead, eager to know more about her. Sometimes, I would lay my head on her thighs, hoping she would caress my hair like other grandmothers did. But she never did. She grew uncomfortable whenever I tried.

“What stories should I tell? I was married to your grandfather when I was a child. He never loved me,” she said once, drifting into her painful memories.

After a pause, she continued, “Your grandfather kicked me in my stomach. He was after another woman. I had no one to complain.”

A tear rolled down her nearly blind eye.

When she did open up, she spoke for hours. But our worlds were different. She knew about farms, cattle, village recipes, home remedies, grains, the rains, and the seasons. I knew about refrigerators, mixers, sofas, and ceiling fans—the things that filled our apartment. This wasn’t her world.

As a child, I often saw her mistreated—manhandled by her husband, dominated by her daughters-in-law, ignored by her sons, and not understood by her grandchildren.

To me, she was just another grandparent. One who didn’t love me much. At least, that’s what I thought then.

But sometimes, she would quietly hand me a 25 paise coin from her little cloth bag. That bag was her treasure chest—it held her secrets, small notes, coins, and little personal things. For me, that coin meant an ice candy, and in those moments, it felt like love. Perhaps she just didn’t know how to express it.

She passed away in 2014 while I was in the United States. I couldn’t attend her last rites. Even today, when I think of her, I remember that 25 paise coin she used to give me. It was the only testimony of her silent love.

Yes, I expected her to love me the way other grandmothers loved their grandchildren. But maybe that was unfair. After all, how could someone give love when they never received it in their own lifetime?

The Sad Irony of the Pizza Box

Her name is Suvidha. She is a maid, a single mother, and the world to her little son. Life has been an endless tug-of-war between survival and hope, between sacrifices she makes quietly and the dreams she dares not chase.

Last night was her son’s birthday. He had insisted on having a pizza — the kind of food that fills television ads, billboards, and the streets with its tempting aroma. For him, it was not just about food; it was about being like the other children in his school who often boasted about weekend pizzas and birthday celebrations at restaurants. But Suvidha knew too well that her meager income could not stretch that far.

This morning, Suvidha walked into the apartment where she worked. With broom in hand, she began sweeping the floor as she always did. And then she saw it — a box of pizza, half-eaten, lying carelessly on the ground, along with bottles of Coke and leftovers from a night of indulgence.

Her hands stopped moving. The broom froze mid-air. Time stood still.

Her mind wandered.

The irony was cruel. The very thing her son had longed for, she now had to pick up as trash and throw into the bin. To others, it was waste; to her, it was a dream — discarded, uneaten, unwanted. She imagined the joy on her son’s face if she could have carried this box home. But even that thought ended quickly, for stale pizza from someone else’s floor was not something she wanted her child to eat.

Her eyes filled with tears she couldn’t afford to shed. She resumed her work, pushing the broom slowly, carefully, as if sweeping away not just the crumbs of food but also the fragments of her broken heart.

Suvidha’s story is not just her own. It is a mirror held up to society — to us. We party, we waste, we spend thoughtlessly. We throw away food that could have been a meal for someone hungry. We order more than we need, leave behind leftovers, and move on without a second thought.

But somewhere, someone is yearning for what we carelessly discard. Somewhere, a mother is stretching every rupee to bring a smile to her child’s face. Somewhere, a little boy is blowing out a candle on a pastry, dreaming of a pizza he may never taste.

The next time we gather at parties, order lavishly, or waste food and water, let us pause. Let us think of Suvidha. Think of her son. Think about the price of the pizza - it’s more than the monthly salary we pay to Suvidha. An even kinder move - try and help her generously and see if it feels better than the pizza.

When being Sporty comes with a Cost

I being a non-smoker, non-drinker and a vegan do not find pubs and bars an inclusive place to visit for team outings. But things become too dramatic at times when there is too much of emotional blackmailing.

“Oh come on, Neeraj, you are not a sport,” a colleague said in a team meeting when I expressed my inability to join for a dinner. In our context, dinner implies boozing.

Now that’s something hard to deal with. Yes, I am a sportive and supportive person, I thought.

“Let’s do it!” I said, as I surrendered to their cravings to spend an evening at a pub at Koregaon Park. The pub was named “Talli” which literally explains what customers expect being here.

“I am not a drinker. Why do I need to produce my Aadhaar card?” I said to the reception person, realising that I may create an unnecessary record with them. For a moment, that made me think I was a misplaced person visiting a wrong place. The other two colleagues produced their proof of identity which was scanned by the reception. A wristband was attached to their hands that gave them a special privilege to be high. I looked at my wrist and that of my other female colleague — both empty — a blank look filled with exclusivity and awkwardness.

The place gradually started filling with people as our table filled with bottles of liquor, beer and non-vegetarian starters. With the fear of missing out, we had a careful look at the vegetarian menu/starters.

“Edamame? And probably some paneer mushrooms,” the other vegan colleague suggested. When it comes to ordering food, I usually refrain from being the first to suggest for a simple reason — I do not want to snatch away the liberty to choose food from others.

“Yes, of course,” I agreed. I had probably heard “Edamame” for the first time. It’s good to try something new. We all do it, right? I thought. After all, a hungry person has no preferences. Adding to our adventures, the dish turned out to be a disaster. There was nothing to eat except two seeds and a whole lotta garbage - an expensive garbage indeed.

“That’s something new to try! Of course!” exclaimed the other colleagues as they grabbed a share of the vegan starters after gulping a bite of meat drenched with a sip of beer. Soon I realised that the portion size of the other dishes too no way made justice to the price tag it came with. The dishes kept coming both vegan and non vegetarian - the vegan dishes were shared. And this is what I hate - Non vegetarian are vegetarians too. The ones without ethical eating habits too are ethical eaters. 

But for us, this was followed by moments of wait — with our stares at the plates filled with chicken starters waiting to be picked up, and with our empty vegan plates waiting to be refilled.

In order to fill the time and to pretend we were drinking too, we ordered a mocktail - again the one that wasn’t worth the price tag. I started missing the sweet nimbu pani that my 9 year old prepared for me last Sunday.

“Are you enjoying, Neeraj?” asked the colleague sipping another bottle of liquor now his eyes red— eyes that now saw me as a sporty man. 

Gathering immense strength, I nodded.

“I love you, Neeraj!” he shouted as he hugged me. I returned it to him as I held my breath, trying to find fresh air within the smoke of cigarettes. I have always avoided passive smoking but here, there was no escape.

I looked at the watch. It was 10:15 PM and I was hoping to see the bill. Knowing it was not a sponsored one, it made sense to review it by someone who was in a position to do it.

“We will pay it!” the other colleagues yelled, by now in their highest spirits of tranquillity. Apparently, they were in a no mood to leave the place. We left the worries of splitting the bill after realising that they weren’t done yet. 

“It was a Great team bonding”, I said as I left the place with the other colleague. 

Diversity, Equity and Inclusion - these words kept rolling over into my mind as I left the bar that night. 

Later that night, with our stomachs half filled, we found some local sensible eateries on our way home to get them filled.

The Non Vegetarian Dog Lovers

In Indian cities today, the phrase “dog lover” is worn like a badge of compassion. It paints a picture of someone who cares deeply for animals, someone whose heart melts at wagging tails and soulful eyes. And indeed, many genuinely do. But there’s an uncomfortable truth lurking in the background — a hypocrisy that we rarely talk about.

These self-proclaimed animal lovers can sometimes be shockingly selective in their empathy. They will passionately defend street dogs, post tearful social media stories, and protest against any perceived harm to them — and then happily eat chicken biryani for dinner. They’ll rail against cruelty to dogs while ignoring the equally horrific cruelty inflicted on cows, goats, fish, or chickens in slaughterhouses.

The psychology behind it is simple: humans tend to empathize more with creatures that they can relate to emotionally, physically, or socially. Dogs have evolved alongside humans for thousands of years; they live in our homes, share our emotional space, and give us unconditional affection. In short, we “humanize” dogs far more easily than we do a chicken, a pig, or a fish. This in-group empathy works exactly like human social biases — we care deeply about those who feel like “us” and ignore or rationalize harm to those who don’t. In other words, it’s not pure compassion; it’s tribalism dressed up as kindness.

The irony becomes dangerous when selective empathy blinds people to other realities — like the growing stray dog crisis in Indian cities. Over the past few years, there has been a surge in reported dog attacks — some leading to serious injuries, and in tragic cases, even deaths.

Yet, some urban dog lovers refuse to acknowledge this problem, framing all concerns as “hate” towards dogs. They romanticize the idea of street dogs as harmless community pets, while ignoring evidence and real experiences of fear and trauma faced by pedestrians, children, and the elderly. The same people who shout “dogs are family” sometimes fail to extend the same protective instinct towards in their neighborhood.

Real compassion doesn’t have a favorite. It extends beyond cuteness, familiarity, or convenience. If you call yourself an “animal lover,” you should be able to hold two truths:

Street dogs deserve care, humane treatment, and responsible management. Other animals — and your fellow human beings — deserve the same empathy and protection. It means working for sterilization programs and supporting ethical food choices. It means protecting people from stray attacks and opposing cruelty in slaughterhouses. It means empathy without borders.

Beer Barwali - The Lady Next Door

Growing up in the 1990s, one of the most exciting events for me as a child was getting a new neighbour. In our small apartment building, new faces meant new stories, new friendships, and sometimes, bonds that lasted a lifetime. Some families that moved in during those years became so close to us, they felt like extended family.

But there was one time when things unfolded very differently.

The first crack in that distance came unexpectedly. One afternoon, my younger brother, in the midst of his carefree play, simply wandered into her apartment. I followed out of curiosity, worried he might be intruding. But instead of annoyance, she greeted him with a gentle smile. That was how the invisible wall began to crumble. Her interactions with Mom increased. We learned she worked late evenings — “graveyard shifts” as the adults called them — and spent her mornings resting. That explained the closed door. But after school, it was a different story. My brother and I would visit, and she welcomed us without hesitation. Sometimes she gave us chocolates, sometimes she just chatted while we played. We didn’t even know her name — to us, she was simply “Sweet Aunty.”

For a while, it was all easy and warm. Until the day Mr. Dhage came.

Dhage was the sort of neighbour who carried gossip the way some people carried prayer beads — with dedication and frequency. That afternoon, he leaned into our living room and asked my mother, in a tone dripping with intrigue, “Do you know who that lady next door is?”

My mother said she seemed nice, lived alone, worked hard.

“She’s a bar girl. Beer Barwali,” he said, with the air of someone revealing state secrets. “I saw her at the bar last night.”

I remember my mother’s silence. I remember Dhage’s voice filling it with more insinuations, his words turning a neighbour into a cautionary tale. The news spread quickly — faster than kindness, faster than truth. Soon, even the society’s managing committee knew.

After that, things changed. We were told not to visit her. Our afternoons together became fewer, then stopped altogether. I still remember her friendly talks, the candies, the way she treated us with patience. But those memories became tainted in the eyes of the adults around me, all because of a label — Beer Barwali.

Even then, in my child’s mind, I sensed she was struggling. Maybe she was escaping a bad relationship. Maybe she was carrying loneliness like a second skin. Maybe she was just doing what she could to survive in a world that wasn’t kind to single women. The 90s were not a forgiving time for women who lived alone, and the neighbourhood offered little understanding, let alone support.

What I couldn’t understand then — and still struggle with now — was how quickly kindness can turn into judgment. I also wondered: if Dhage saw her at the bar, wasn’t he there too? How different was he from her? I never found the answer.

A month later, she moved out quietly. No goodbye, no explanation. Just gone. All that remained was the memory of a woman who had been “Sweet Aunty” to us — until the day she was reduced to a name whispered behind closed doors - Beer Barwali. A name that had nothing to do with who she really was.

When the Sibling Rivals United - Rakshabandhan

If you think Rakshabandhan is a festival of love, respect, and lifelong sibling bonding, you clearly haven’t met Sarthak and Shamika. For them, Rakhi is not a celebration — it’s an annual WWE pay-per-view event. The ring? Our living room. The referee? Me. The prize? Eternal bragging rights (and maybe some chocolates).

And the tradition continued

Yesterday was Rakhi day, and as expected, the tension was thicker than the ghee in Shamika’s ladoo.

“Don’t tie a Rakhi to me, Didi. I’m not gonna gift you anything,” Sarthak declared, puffing up like a freedom fighter fighting against sibling tax.

Without missing a beat, Shamika shot back, “Did you know you were adopted, Sarthak? I’m in no mood to tie a Rakhi to a fake brother.”

Ouch. Somewhere in the distance, I swear I heard the sound of dhishoom.

But Sarthak, being the chocolate-hoarding general he is, counterattacked: “Well then stay away from the chocolates. They all belong to me.” He grinned.

That’s when I had to step in, because in this house, you can insult lineage and character — but you do NOT threaten the family’s access to food.

“In that case,” I announced like a judge passing the final verdict, “we are not visiting Chung Fa — our favourite Chinese restaurant — today.”

So yes, we did end up celebrating Rakhi — but not before witnessing a live performance of the timeless sibling play: Love you, hate you, now feed me noodles.

Moral of the story? In our house, sibling love isn’t measured in gifts or rakhis… it’s measured in plates of fried rice and sizzler.

The Inspiration of Two Brothers - Dnyandev and Tukaram

The story begins in the early 1950s, in the quiet Indian village of Uplai, a small village in the Solapur district of Maharashtra. Two brothers, Tukaram and Dnyandev, grew up under the same roof, the elder fondly called Tuka. In those days, male-dominated households often favoured sons—especially the eldest—over their sisters. Eldest sons were showered with privileges: the best food, the most attention, and in Tuka’s case, even a bicycle—the only one the family could afford.

Creative representation of the brothers

Years passed. By 2025, the brothers were in their mid-seventies. Dnyandev, now a retired banker, had raised two successful sons who built their lives in Mumbai and Pune. Tuka lived simply in the same village, his only steadfast companion a bottle of alcohol.

Last year, Dnyandev fulfilled a childhood dream: he built a bungalow in the village, naming it Vitthal Smriti—“In the Loving Memory of Vitthal,” their late father. Vitthal had been well-liked but flawed, his only claim to success being that he never sold the family’s ancestral land despite his own drinking habit.

The friend paused, understanding at last. The same roots had fed two very different trees. And sometimes, the same inspiration can lead to entirely different destinies.

Vitthal Smruti - Built in 2024

Why I am Grateful to this Pune Autorickshaw Driver?

Incident at Kharadi, Pune on August 7, 2025

But now, here I was, facing a bigger mess — this time caused by a seemingly drunk auto driver. It was clear that he was in no position to pay for the repairs. I realized I had a choice — to fight or to let it go. This was a test of my tolerance. I searched within for my mistake, but found none. And yet, I decided to forgive. Forgiveness is one of the toughest things to practice, especially when harm is done to something you deeply value. My colleague advised me to lodge a complaint, but the choice was mine.

I chose the difficult path — to repair the broken tail light but leave the dents as they were. As a remembrance. A reminder to not to hold too tightly to things, lest they slip away. A reminder to not to be like the friend of mine who bought an expensive Benz but drove it through Pune’s crowded streets filled with constant worry and stress.

Sometimes, life’s greatest lessons come from the worst incidents — and yet, instead of being thankful for the wisdom they bring, we often waste our energy fighting for the wrong reasons.

A Billionaire On The Hospital Bed - An Experience from Bangalore

This was in October 2007, a Halloween weekend and I was lying on a hospital bed. For me, it was the fourth day on a hospital bed at the Apollo Hospital on Bannerghatta Road in Bangalore. I was recuperating after suffering a fall that tore the ligament off my right knee. Movement was a Herculean task. My world was reduced to the ceiling above me and occasional glances at other patients and their visitors.

One such patient, very close to my bed, was Mr. Mehra.

Mr. Mehra was in his fifties or probably in his early sixties. A teenage daughter, a son, and his wife visited him every morning without fail. It had become a routine I silently observed for the past two days. The wife always sat beside his pillow, gently touching him. The son stood at a distance while the daughter wept quietly. They spent some twenty minutes with him each day. Mr. Mehra, however, always wore a smile — a content, peaceful one.

“Mukesh Ambani bought a 245 crore worth of private jet — his flying office, they say,” I read aloud the newspaper headline to Mr. Mehra.

“Well sir, that’s true,” I responded, as my admiration towards the billionaire quietly converted into pity.

I was stunned.

There was a brief silence between us. I recalled the faces of his family members I had seen earlier in the morning. And then I looked back at Mr. Mehra’s smiling face. Such a tough man, I thought.

“I am so sorry to know that, sir,” I said quietly.

Mr. Mehra gave me a careful look — as if trying to read my thoughts.

“You have a beautiful family,” I offered, trying to pacify the moment.

“Yes, my wife is a strong lady, and I am proud of her. I have spent the best days of my life with her. In this situation, she is the most affected person in my family. But look at how strong she behaves in front of her kids,” Mr. Mehra said, still calm and composed.

“Your son seems aloof and does not talk to you much,” I observed.

“No, he is the one who loves me the most. Have you noticed he stands away from my bed? It’s because he knows that he cannot look into my eyes without bursting out crying. He doesn’t want to be a wrong example for his sister and mother. You know, he keeps on calling me all throughout the day,” Mr. Mehra clarified.

The next two days, I spoke to Mr. Mehra on various topics. But the fact that he was a dying man — a billionaire, not with money but with the riches of relationships — kept haunting me.

I was unable to read the newspaper that day.

When God Put Me to a Test – Papa’s Heart Surgery!

Life has a way of testing our character at the most unexpected moments. Here’s something that happened to me on the morning of my father's CABG bypass surgery—Tuesday, August 9th, 2022 a day I’ll never forget.

With Papa in November 2024

Walking under the umbrella, looking down at the muddy path, I suddenly saw what looked like bundles of ₹500 notes lying on the ground - stranded in the rain water waiting to be found. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I looked around—no one was there. My first thought: these must belong to some poor person; maybe they dropped them in their haste to reach a hospital for a relative’s surgery. It could also belong to a poor wife who came there to save her husband - it could belong to any passerby and any strange face walking around. The amount was large. 

Many in my shoes might usually think, “I'll just keep it…” 

But that’s not right. As we all know. 

I spent an hour walking around at the hospital, every floor reading faces - worried, in search of something, enquiring or may be crying. But, nobody seemed to be looking for the money. I approached the OPD security desk and asked, “Has anyone reported missing cash here?” They replied that someone was looking for their money a couple of hours back. 

I didn’t tell them the exact amount for an obvious reason - it was the only secret key for me to identify the owner of the cash. I asked them to contact me and handed over my phone number. 

"When the rightful owner reaches out with details, please contact me.", I affirmed. 

Hours went by without a call. When that happened, dark thoughts began to harass my mind—what could I possibly do with such a sum? Every face I passed among the patients’ family members, I tried to figure out who the owner might be—but I found no one.

As time passed by a firm resolve grew within me. Even if the rightful owner never appears, the money came into my hands for the very reason I was there. For a moment, poor thoughts lingered into my mind. It turned out to be a battle on conscience. I was with my Papa - to be with him on his surgery day. So it must be used for that reason, in that spirit. Patients at the hospital do not have faces. Their nearest relatives carry the worry. 

But deep in my mind, I was firm - "This was not my money!"

Dr. Gulshan Rohra, the heart surgeon performed two heart surgeries everyday - one in the morning and another was post lunch. That day it was Papa and another lady's turn. The lady was operated in the morning. It was Papa's turn in the afternoon. After hours of uncertainty, his heart surgery was ultimately successful. He recovered but the lady who was operated in the morning couldn't. 

It could have been Papa - I never felt this helpless before. It was all about a prayer - a prayer performed with a pure heart. There is immense power in good thoughts. I was determined even before his surgery - I will use this money for a right cause. It was about overcoming the obsession towards the unknown cash - the one that did not belong to me. I was determined to give it up. But, it was about owning the selfless thought of not deciding to give it up in return of a vested purpose. It was about being pure at heart. Seeing Papa restored to health felt like receiving my father back.

A few days later, the sum found its way into the hands of another needy, distressed acquaintance —someone who had lost focus and lacked hope in repaying a debt that was acquired to pay their ICU bills. In that act of thoughtful giving, peace was restored. As for finding the real owner of the cash was concerned, I decided to leave it to the cycle of Karma.

Papa - just before his surgery in 2022

Why Do People Drink Alcohol? His Question Left Me Speechless

It was a quiet Sunday afternoon. Sarthak, my 9-year-old son, and I had just finished watching a movie together. As we relaxed, he turned to me with a question that caught me slightly off guard—not because it was unexpected, but because of where it led.

“Papa, why do people like to drink alcohol?” he asked with innocent curiosity.

An AI image representing thoughts in Sarthak’s mind

I could guess where the question had come from. The movie we’d watched had a few scenes showing alcohol, and this wasn’t the first time such imagery had popped up. It was natural that he’d want to understand.

Still, I was prepared for this one.

“People like the feeling they get after they drink it, Beta,” I replied. “Once they drink it the first time, they can become addicted to it. So it’s bad.”

He stayed quiet for a moment, thinking. Then came the follow-up:

“What is that feeling like?”

Now I was in a fix. This wasn’t something I could brush aside or answer half-heartedly. I had to be honest, but careful.

“They feel lighter,” I explained. “They get an illusion that their problems are fading away. The more they drink, the more they lose their sense of reality. They just get this feeling—but at the cost of their health.”

Sarthak listened intently, still curious. I could see he was processing what I had said, probably piecing it together with stories he’d heard from school—about classmates’ fathers who drink, about habits he didn’t fully understand.

After a moment of quiet, he said something that truly stunned me:

“Oh! Losing the sense of reality! Then why don’t they just… just die? It’s the same feeling, right!”

He looked at me, genuinely waiting for an answer.

And I had none.

It hit me hard. If a 9-year-old child can connect the dots and grasp the gravity of escapism through alcohol, isn’t it a pity that so many grown-ups still fall into its trap—damaging their health, hurting their families, and losing themselves in the process?

Sometimes, the most innocent questions reveal the deepest truths. And they leave us, as parents and as people, speechless.

Learnings from the Covid-19 Lockdown

When the COVID-19 lockdown began, we were at our home in Pune. Like everyone else, we were suddenly stuck indoors, unsure of how long it would last. At first, it felt strange and uncertain, but soon we saw it as a chance to try new things and make the most of the time we had.

Since there was no house help, we had to manage everything on our own. Tried new things for the first time - shaving my head at home for the first time in my life, learning how to mop the floor, wash dishes, and take care of everyday chores. It made me appreciate all the work that goes into keeping a home running smoothly.

A self-haircut

 I used the time to learn something new and finally completed my master’s degree in Data Science, which had been on my mind for a while. In 2021, I made the big decision to switch jobs. It wasn’t easy to do that during such uncertain times, but it turned out to be a good move. At work, our team actually became more productive while working from home. It was surprising to see how well we could adapt and still stay focused. We also used this time to upgrade to our new house. Making small changes here and there made it feel more comfortable and welcoming. One of the biggest blessings was getting to spend more time with our kids. We played games, cooked together, shared more meals, and simply enjoyed each other’s company in a way we hadn’t in years. We tried out new recipes and found small joys in cooking and eating together.

But it wasn’t all easy or fun. We lost a few relatives and colleagues to the virus, which was heartbreaking. There was always a fear of falling sick, and the news only added to the stress. The stock market kept going down, getting a vaccine slot on the CoWin website was frustrating, and at one point, both Priya and I got COVID. The days in quarantine felt long and isolating—almost like being in jail. It was emotionally draining, and the fear of what could happen was always there.

Still, all of this taught us some important lessons. We learned to be stronger, to stay calm in difficult moments, and to keep smiling even when things felt heavy. We understood that even the darkest times do come to an end—and after every tunnel, there is always some light.

Looking back, the lockdown changed us in many ways. It was full of challenges, but also full of growth. We tried new things, discovered new parts of ourselves, and most importantly, we came out of it stronger and closer as a family.