“Mera beta bahut badi MNC mein Director hai. Aur chota beta sarkari afsar hai,” I heard an old man boasting about his kids amidst his regular group of senior citizens in our housing society.

Typical Indian parents have evolved to treat their children with a sense of ownership. And why shouldn’t they? They have been nurturing their persona and upbringing them since they were children. This seems quite normal indeed — but wait. This sense of ownership often grows into toxicity for the child as he grows up, especially when parents fail to realise that it’s time to gracefully let their kids take charge of their own decisions.

It is important for parents to realise that getting their kids married does not end their relationship with them. It is okay for children to live separately — joint families are becoming extinct in modern times for various reasons. All this while, parents have worked hard to instil their family values in their children, and when the children start their own families, that’s when those values are truly put to the test.

Parents these days are themselves not ideal and often demonstrate bad habits, poor decisions, or shortcomings of their own. In such situations, it’s important for them to understand that trying to influence their married children only leads to more problems. This becomes worse when the child is trying to bring in fresh ideas and instil better values in the family he is raising. Based on my experiences, below are the top five indicators that parents are being toxic towards their married children.

1. Over-communication

While it is great to be aware of the well-being of the children, both parents and children should realise that communicating multiple times a day or over-communicating may be harmful. In the Indian context, mothers especially tend to have more influence on their daughters’ emotions and decisions. This can be dangerous and may become detrimental to building a stronger husband–wife relationship.

2. Dependence on Parents for Decision-making

It is okay for children to be emotionally attached to their parents, but they must realise that parental advice is not always necessary. At times, it’s okay for grown-up kids to make mistakes too. It is not always necessary that the decisions made by parents during their time still apply to their children in their context. It’s important to note that parents are human beings and their decisions may be influenced by emotions and viewpoints that are not necessarily the best for their children.

3. Handling Finances

Money management should be strictly handled by married children. While it is okay for them to inherit their parents’ wealth when the time comes, they must build their own wealth and manage their finances separately and discreetly. Sharing financial details with parents can build unnecessary perceptions and may even provoke favouritism among siblings. This eventually promotes bitterness.

If a grown-up child is not ready to handle and manage finances independently or still needs support from parents or relatives, he is unfit to get married and have children — it’s that simple.

4. Parents Praising One Sibling’s Family members and Kids

While it may seem natural for a parent to talk about their feelings and discuss their grandchildren, it may silently hurt the emotions of the other child. Sometimes, parental favouritism is the worst form of toxicity. Appreciating the accomplishments of grandchildren is good, but constantly praising one set of grandchildren in the absence of others spreads toxicity and creates bitterness among siblings.

In nuclear families, siblings usually live separately with their own families. It’s important for parents to act responsibly when dealing with or visiting their children.

5. Treating Daughters-in-law as Their Own Daughters

In the Indian context, we often hear parents say they treat their daughter-in-law as their own daughter — which, in my opinion, is the biggest lie. The girl who comes into a new house belongs to a different family, culture, and set of values, with her own likes and dislikes. Expecting her to be your daughter and give her the same affection as your son is impractical.

Imagine your reaction if she denies your request in the first week of marriage — would you still treat her like your daughter? Let’s be practical and rational.

These are just a few indicators of how parents, knowingly or unknowingly, induce toxicity into the lives of their married children.

Think back to the day you decided to have a child — was that desire born out of social pressure or your own will? In most cases, we bring up children out of our own desire, just as we desire to buy a car, a good house, or own something we dream of. But parents often fail to realise that children are not possessions — they are independent souls, just like their parents. Parents are not the creators of their children’s destiny, and definitely not their owners.

Once a pregnant woman and her husband visited a doctor with her 3 year old daughter.

“We are not ready for a second child yet”, she told to the doctor.

“Okay”, said the doctor. “Which child do you want to kill?”, he asked.

The mother was shaken by the doctor’s question.

“What!?”, the mother of two was unable to speak further.

“It’s safer for you to kill the elder one”, the doctor said in his attempt to pass a strong message.

Man-made laws are a reflection of society’s current values, fears, and compromises. They are not absolute but relative—what is lawful in one country may be unlawful in another. The definitions of crime, justice, and morality are often rewritten according to time, place, and circumstance. This flexibility gives societies room to evolve, but it also exposes their inconsistencies. Murder is condemned because it violates the principle of sanctity of life. But the same principle is conveniently suspended when the subject is an unborn child. The reasoning is that life before birth can be defined differently—sometimes as "potential" rather than "actual." This definition is crafted to suit human convenience, not universal consistency.

Unlike human laws, the law of karma does not shift with opinion, culture, or political convenience. Karma is impartial and exact. Every action carries its own consequence, regardless of whether society approves of it or not.

From a karmic perspective, taking a life is taking a life—whether it occurs before birth or after. The repercussions flow not from human definitions but from the universal law of cause and effect. Karma is not selective, and it does not bend for debates or parliaments.

By framing laws that separate the killing of a child inside the womb from killing outside the womb, humanity demonstrates its desire to control reality. But in truth, these divisions are illusions. They may protect a person from human courts, but they do not shield anyone from the court of nature, or the silent balance of karma.

This is not merely about abortion versus murder. It is about the broader human tendency to redefine truth for convenience. We build laws that soothe our conscience rather than align with universal principles. We rename destruction as "progress," exploitation as "development," and indulgence as "freedom." But the universe remains unmoved. Its laws remain the same.

The question then is not whether something is legal, but whether it is aligned with the truth of existence. Human law may pardon, but karma never forgets.

This year’s Ganesh Festival has been truly special for me. It was the first time I joined a Dhol Taasha Pathak – something I had dreamed of experiencing for years.

The Taasha Vadaks: Shot on 27-Aug-2025

Playing the taasha, however, is no easy feat. It demands precision, stamina, and above all, the right technique. I remember my first few practice sessions — my hands ached, my beats were uneven, and I often got lost trying to keep up with the rhythm. But with every session, guided by experienced members and powered by pure passion, I got better.

Our practice sessions were nothing short of little chaos — and fun! Imagine a group of enthusiastic beginners beating away relentlessly, sometimes off-beat, and sometimes way too loud. I’m pretty sure our neighbors had second thoughts about “peace” during those evenings. But all that noise, sweat, and persistence slowly transformed into harmony.

Finally, the big day arrived last Wednesday. The moment we stepped onto the street with our instruments, the energy around us was electric. As the beats echoed through the lanes, I felt an incredible sense of pride and connection — to the music, to my team, and to the vibrant spirit of the festival. The smiles, the cheers, and the dancing crowd made every moment worth it.

A Dhol Taasha Pathak is more than just a group playing music; it’s a living example of team coordination. Each beat synchronizes with another, and together, we create something magical. It taught me patience, rhythm, and above all, the power of togetherness.

Looking back, this first experience was not just about learning an instrument — it was about being part of something bigger, something that brings people together in joy and celebration. And as the festival continues, one thing is for sure — this is only the beginning of my journey with the taasha.

The Team

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.

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.

Papa, once a high school teacher, had the gift of words. He was endlessly talkative with everyone he met, always full of stories. That day was no different. As we stood on the sparsely crowded platform, a friend or an acquaintance of his happened to bump into us. I stood beside Papa, holding his finger, while their conversation stretched on. Meanwhile, I became lost in the world unfolding before me — trains arriving, halting, leaving; people boarding and alighting; the rhythmic sounds of metal on metal creating a hypnotic "dropper" effect that fascinated my young ears.

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.

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.

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?

My Last Picture with Aaji

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

I visited the West Coast for the very first time in 2014. I was staying at a hotel near Cocarane Plaza in Morgan Hill — a serene little village, a bit away from San Francisco. My office was at a walkable distance from the hotel, so I avoided taking an Uber most of the time.

With Kirk - Our Goodbye Moment in 2014

 It was during one of my morning walks that I first noticed a man outside Walmart. His name was Kirk. I remember the day we shared a smile for the first time. He spent most of his day in the plaza outside Walmart, usually seated on the same bench. After a few days of passing by and exchanging glances, I finally initiated some casual conversation with him.

“Where do you stay?” I asked.

“This place is my home,” Kirk replied, pointing to the bench outside Walmart.

That’s when I understood — he had no home technically. At night, he slept somewhere near the freeway 101. That was his routine.

One sunny Saturday afternoon, with no particular plans, I decided to explore the shops around. I saw Kirk sleeping on his usual bench. I tried not to disturb him.

“Why don’t you buy a bicycle, Neeraj?” he asked as I passed by. I realized he wasn’t really asleep. I was impressed by his attentiveness. I smiled.

“Well Kirk, I’m here for just a month. I don’t want to buy any asset here,” the thoughtful finance guy within me responded instantly.

“You can donate it when you leave,” he said. “Donating is good for you. Don’t they practice giving there in India?” Kirk added.

I nodded and gave it some thought. Maybe he is expecting me to donate it to him, I thought. That day, I felt a bit disconnected from Kirk and avoided further conversation.

The next day, he met me again. He had just finished his breakfast. It was a Sunday and I had a whole day of free time. Kirk offered to take me hiking around.

“The fact is, I will be leaving for India on Thursday,” I said.

“Well, that’s it?” he responded, in a choked voice.

I offered him lunch that day, and he happily accepted.

“Why are you homeless, Kirk?” I asked, after gauging that I wasn’t intruding too much into his personal life.

“I was at a crossroads in my life,” he began. “There came a moment when I had to choose — settle a wrong marriage, continue the battle in court, or donate my wealth to her.”

Kirk paused, the chopsticks in his hands motionless.

“And you know, I chose the latter. I bought my freedom,” he said.

His eyes showed no faith in the judiciary. It had clearly been a tough decision — to keep fighting and ruin the rest of his life, or to walk away and live like a free bird, managing with the little finances he had left.

I remembered his advice about buying a bicycle, and my assumption that he wanted it for himself. I was wrong. Completely. I had doubted a man who had the courage to donate his life’s savings to a selfish woman, and chose to live on the streets instead of living tied to bitterness.

The last time I saw him

I first met Benedicto—or Ben in 2013. I had just started making business trips to Qatar, and my company, Mannai, had leased a few well-set-up apartments in a building at Al Mansoura. It was my first visit to this Arab country, and everything felt new: the weather, the city, the culture and the people.

Room allocation for our business trips was managed by the travel team back at our Pune office. Usually, it was two people to an apartment, and many of my colleagues already had obvious and familiar roommates. But since I was new to the Doha travel circuit, I was still to be paired.

One day, while my travel documents and visa were being processed, a travel team member reached out to me with a strange question.

“Are you sure you want to share the apartment with Ben?” he asked.

The Party Evening with Ben - June 19, 2013

That question raised my eyebrows. “Why do you ask that?” I responded, clearly curious.

“I’ve heard he’s not an easy-going person. Several of our Indian colleagues have complained about him in the past. He’s usually allocated an apartment by himself,” the agent explained.

Interesting, I thought. I soon found out that Ben was from the Philippines, and that his lifestyle, especially his food habits, were quite different from what we were used to. I was curious rather than cautious, so I gave the go-ahead.

When I landed in Doha, Ben wasn't home yet. His room was locked—which, I later learned, was always the case when he was away. I took my time exploring the apartment, familiarizing myself with what would be my temporary home. Later that evening, I finally met Ben.

He greeted me warmly, and I did the same. He politely asked if I had any issues with his things in the fridge.

“What’s in it?” I asked, unsure of what to expect.

Ben walked me over to the kitchen and opened the fridge. Inside was a big stingray fish—its smell instantly filling the air. There were other non-vegetarian items as well.

“I don’t mind, Ben,” I said, catching his reaction. “I usually eat out anyway—never really have time to cook.”

That was my first impression of Filipino cuisine—interesting, but a bit odd to my Indian palate. Ben seemed relieved to know I wasn’t put off. I think that’s when he realized I was easy-going, and that was the beginning of our unexpected friendship.

In the trips that followed, I was often allocated to stay with Ben. Over time, we started getting to know each other better. One day, Ben invited me into his room. It was… a world of its own. Messy, yes—but filled with personality. Posters covered the walls, including celebrity pictures, and a few quotes he said he believed in deeply. There were also all kinds of unique items he had collected over the years.

He spoke about his family—his wife who lived in the United States, and his daughter who stayed in Europe. A family spread out across the globe. I sensed a story there but didn’t want to pry too much into his personal life.

The following Friday, Ben seemed unusually quiet. I asked him if everything was okay.

“I want to take you out, Neeraj, for a small party in the evening. Are you okay with that? We can go to an Indian restaurant—or anywhere you like,” he offered.

“Of course,” I said. “Who says no to a party? But… what’s the occasion?”

“It’s my brother’s death anniversary today,” Ben replied, his voice slightly breaking. “I loved him very much. And you, Neeraj… you remind me of him.”

“Aww,” I said, touched, as I gave him a hug with my left arm.

“Let’s go to a Philippine restaurant then,” I declared.

“Are you sure?” he asked, and just like that, we both burst out laughing.

That evening, we honored his brother’s memory in the way Ben knew best—with food, stories, and quiet companionship. And in that moment, thousands of miles from home, we both found something rare—a friendship built not on similarity, but on respect and open hearts.