The Woman who Saved me: A Tribute to Nerkar Taai

Some people enter your life not as visitors but as lifelines. One such name, forever etched into the fabric of my existence, is Nerkar Taai. I owe my life to her — not in metaphor, but in the most literal sense. This post is not just a recollection of the past; it is a bow of gratitude to the woman who stepped in when everything else collapsed.

With Nerkar Appa & Taai in 2005

The incident dates back to the early 1980s. I was just a baby — barely a few months old, too small to fill a pair of arms, fragile and helpless. My father had just started his career as a banker in Mumbai. With limited means and even more limited financial planning, he had managed to secure a modest one-room-kitchen home for himself and my mother. While that may sound like a humble yet hopeful beginning, the reality was anything but.

Papa, driven by a sense of duty to his own father in the village, would money-order most of his salary home. What remained was barely enough to keep our own home running. Groceries were a challenge. Medical emergencies? Unthinkable.

And then, the unimaginable happened.

One blurry afternoon — a memory more like a faint shadow in my mind — I fell. A hard fall on my head. I had fainted. Blood loss, panic, the kind of silence that fills a house louder than any scream. Both my parents were home. And yet, no immediate action was taken. There I lay, a baby in critical condition, while my father stood frozen, his eyes speaking what his lips couldn’t — I don’t have the money.

Time became a cruel joke. Seconds dragged like hours, minutes like days. My mother, a homemaker with no resources of her own, looked into his eyes and saw no hope, no plan, no lifeline. In that moment of raw maternal desperation, only one name surfaced in her mind — Nerkar Taai. With no slippers on her feet and me bleeding in her arms, she ran. Ran to Taai’s door. She didn’t knock — she cried. Placed my tiny, bloodied body on the floor and pleaded, “The life of my child is now in your hands, Taai.”

What followed might seem harsh, but it was the spark that reignited hope. One tight slap. Taai slapped my mother — not out of contempt, but out of frustration, anger, urgency. “It’s not the money, it’s the time that matters right now,” she snapped. And without another word, she scooped me up and ran to the hospital.

I was saved.

I was reborn that day, not just by medical intervention but by the sheer will of a woman who chose action over excuse. Nerkar Taai and her husband, late Aapa, were my saviours. Their courage and instinct gave me a second chance at life — one I continue to live with a heart full of gratitude and a mind full of unanswered questions.

Even today, I struggle to reconcile with that moment in my father’s life. Was his hesitation a sign of helplessness or apathy? Is it ever justifiable for a parent to freeze — to let worry about money outweigh the instinct to protect their child? These are questions I may never be able to fully resolve.

But what remains crystal clear is the weight of gratitude I carry for Nerkar Taai. When I visited her in 2005 to express my heartfelt thanks, she responded in her usual understated way:

“I just did the right thing.”

My First Konkan Visit with Aai & Aaba

It had been long on our minds to take some quality time with Aai and Aaba. Little did we know that the cancellation of our Ladakh trip amid unfolding events would pave the way for this spontaneous journey. In May 2025 we packed our bags and set off—with excitement, anticipation, and unwavering family togetherness. Our two-night stay in Kolhapur was anchored around visits to the Mahalakshmi Temple, a revered Hindu shrine known as Ambabai, built in the 7th century in Hemadpanti style with a black-sculpted gem idol that faces west—believed to grant spiritual fulfilment and moksha. A leisurely evening at Rankala Lake, about a kilometre from the temple. Once a stone quarry that was flooded by an earthquake, it’s now a serene freshwater lake surrounded by gardens. A visit to Kaneri Math (Siddhagiri Gramjivan Museum), where vibrant life-size cement sculptures depict traditional Maharashtrian village scenes across more than 80 setups, nestled around a tranquil Shiva temple on seven acres.

Outside the Kolhapur New Palace

 However, poor Aaba—nearing 75—was struggling with stomach upset from dietary changes. With his strength waning, he missed the temple and lake outings. Still, hearing him say he was determined to join us next time warmed all our hearts.

From Kolhapur we drove to Radhanagari, checking in to Ranmala Resort for a one-night stay. The resort's proximity to a riverside made for a delightful afternoon dip—kids splashing joyfully while Aaba rested indoors. At just 25 km from Radhanagari lies Dajipur Wildlife Sanctuary, where we’d been before. This time, planning an evening safari felt special. Although Aaba again opted out, the rest of us had an awe‑inspiring encounter with a herd of bison—seeing them up close in that golden evening light was magical and reaffirmed why wildlife trips are so soul‑nourishing.

Next, we headed for Ganpatipule, settling into the MTDC Ganpatipule resort, a serene property just steps from the beach and close to the famed self‑originated Ganesh temple. We had heartfelt darshan at the Ganesh temple and savoured the khichadi prasad offered there. A highlight for all — including Aaba — was the visit to the Keshavsoot Smarak, a memorial that blends peaceful ambience with cultural resonance. On our second day in Ratnagiri area, we visited the Thiba Palace, Ratnadurg Fort perched on the sea cliffs, the Fish Museum, and drove along the stunning Aarey Ware beach road, enjoying panoramic coastal views.

This May trip was more draining than any we'd planned—but it was also our most memorable with Aai and especially Aaba. Despite his health setbacks, Aaba insisted he wouldn't miss future journeys, motivated by the time spent with his grandson Sarthak and granddaughter Shamika. Seeing him smile through moments of weakness showed that travel isn't just about destinations—but family, love, and shared experiences. In the end, it was more than sightseeing—it was heartfelt bonding, rediscovery, and joy. They say the best trips are the ones not planned too far ahead. 

Why We Never Buy a Green Tooth-brush?

 It all began when my wife, Priya, decided to revolutionize our dental lives. She brought home a set of four sparkling new toothbrushes—each with its own identity. A red one, a white one, a blue one, and the most remarkable of them all: a vibrant green brush that almost glowed with pride.

“This way, no confusion,” she declared. “Everyone gets their own brush!”

Sarthak, our 7-year-old speedster, instantly pounced on the red one. Red is his favourite world. Priya kept the elegant white. I, obviously, took the majestic green, which left blue for Shamika, our ever-observant daughter.

For the first few days, mornings were smooth. Sarthak and Shamika brushed up early and marched off to school. I, starting office a little later, would bask in the joy of my new green brush. There's something oddly satisfying about using a brand-new toothbrush. Sometimes I feel attached to this materialistic world.

But as days turned into weeks, and weeks into six whole months, something odd happened.

My green brush… aged. Badly. The bristles looked like they had been through a sandstorm. They were tired. So was I. I started dreaming of a fresh toothbrush. But in our household, ordering brushes is Priya's department—unofficially official.

One morning, Priya reviewed the dental lineup. “Why is the green one so worn out?” she asked.

That’s when I paused. The green brush was always oddly wet. Even when I was the first to reach it.

“Why is my brush always damp in the morning?” I mumbled, as a tiny bell rang in my head.

I did what any responsible adult would do in such a situation—I called an urgent family meeting.

“Papa…” Shamika yelled before I could even open the case. “That’s MY green brush!”

“What?! That’s mine! I’ve been using it for six months!” I said, shocked and slightly betrayed.

“Noooo!” she screamed in horror, her face twisted in ultimate disgust.

She made a dramatic fake vomiting sound, just for effect. We both stared at each other, horror-struck. Six months. Same brush. Two people.

“Well,” I tried to recover, “done is done.” No point digging into emotional cavities now.

Without a second thought, I walked up to the bin, saluted the poor green brush—who had unknowingly worked double shifts all this time—and chucked it.

Shamika was still glaring at me like I had just licked her ice cream.

“Why don’t you start using the blue one now?” I offered, trying to lighten the moment. “No one ever used it.”

“Errrhhh…” she grunted in peak teenage disgust, while I burst into uncontrollable laughter.

And thats how a green toothbrush united (and divided) a father and daughter. Moral of the story? Label your brushes. But since then, we have stopped using green tooth brushes.

When Our Dream Trip to Leh-Ladakh Didn’t Take Off — Our Experience with Veena World

 There are some journeys you plan not just with your calendar but with your heart. Our much-anticipated group tour to Leh and Ladakh with Veena World, scheduled for May 2025, was one such trip. Nestled in the majestic Himalayas, Ladakh has long stood as a symbol of peace, beauty, and inner reflection. For us, this was meant to be more than just a holiday — it was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

As someone who usually avoids making expensive travel plans too far in advance, I was already stepping out of my comfort zone. The unpredictability of life is something I’ve always been wary of, and unfortunately, this time, that uncertainty proved justified. Just weeks before our departure, the cowardly Pahalgam tourist attack shook the nation. What followed was a rapidly escalating response from the Indian government — Operation Sindoor — an initiative that soon snowballed into a war-like situation in parts of Jammu & Kashmir.

We were left with a mix of emotions: concern for national safety, confusion about our travel plans, and sadness that our dream vacation had to be reconsidered.

During this turbulent time, I stayed in close communication with Veena World’s office. From the very beginning, they showed exceptional sensitivity and professionalism. They not only acknowledged the gravity of the situation but also assured me that there would be no financial loss to us — a relief that is rare in the travel industry during crisis.

While our travel plans clearly fell under a force majeure situation, Veena World never hid behind policy language. They offered support, empathy, and practical help.

In parallel, all flights to border zones were suspended by IndiGo Airlines, which initially drew public criticism for increasing fares — a blatant attempt to capitalise on a crisis. Thankfully, after public backlash, IndiGo reversed course and offered full refunds to all existing passengers. This action made it easier for Veena World to issue us a note, which we can now use for a future holiday.

During this time, I observed something both disturbing and disheartening. While the government was dealing with an extremely volatile situation in the valley, a few so-called "patriotic" tourists and even celebrities made deliberate trips to Jammu & Kashmir — right in the wake of the Pahalgam attack. Their intent? To showcase a form of nationalism that, frankly, felt more like social media showboating than actual solidarity.

In moments of crisis, true patriotism lies in acting responsibly — supporting the government, safeguarding lives, and not adding further burden to already strained systems. Unfortunately, many tourists today seem more interested in clout-chasing than preserving the sanctity of sensitive areas.

Though our journey to Ladakh didn’t take off, we walked away from this experience with something far more valuable than photographs or souvenirs — a sense of respect for the integrity and care shown by Veena World.

Their honesty, transparency, and customer-first approach during the unfolding of Operation Sindoor have left a lasting impression on us. And while we missed the surreal landscapes of Leh this time, we’re confident that we’ll explore them someday — with Veena World.

To anyone reading this, let this be a reminder: travel is a privilege, not a right. And responsible tourism is not just about where you go, but when you choose to go.

My First School

Nalanda Bal Vihar, Kalyan (East) in 2005

With the Books and the Shoes

 Today, I spent a few hours in one of Pune’s iconic neighborhoods – Appa Balwant Chowk. Known affectionately as "ABC" by the locals, this bustling junction has been a go-to destination for book lovers for decades. From academic textbooks to timeless literature, the footpaths here are lined with piles of books, whispering stories of knowledge, learning, and growth.

But as I walked through the area today, I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of sadness. There they were – books, the very soul of education and the cornerstone of a thinking society – scattered along the pavement. Some covered in plastic, others gathering dust. These weren’t just items for sale; they were symbols of wisdom, stacked carelessly on the ground, stepped over, and often ignored in the daily rush.

Just a few steps away, I passed gleaming glass showrooms proudly displaying rows of branded shoes under bright lights and air conditioning. People walked in and out, admiring and purchasing them with ease and admiration. It was a stark contrast — shoes, a symbol of material possession, elevated and protected, while books, the bearers of ideas and imagination, lay on the ground, exposed and overlooked.

This contrast wasn't just physical — it was philosophical.

How have we come to a place where shoes are showcased in pristine glass shelves, while books lie vulnerable on the footpath? In a society where knowledge literally lies on the road and materialism is celebrated, are we losing sight of what truly matters?

Books are not just printed pages; they are tools of empowerment. They challenge our thoughts, broaden our horizons, and shape the minds of future generations. When they are treated as roadside commodities, it reflects not just on commerce, but on culture.

This experience left me with more questions than answers. Is this how we now value knowledge? Is comfort and appearance gaining precedence over substance and intellect?

Appa Balwant Chowk remains a treasure trove for anyone in search of knowledge, but it’s time we reconsider how we value and preserve these treasures. Books deserve better. They deserve respect, space, and celebration — not just from readers, but from society at large.

Let’s not allow knowledge to gather dust on the pavement while consumerism polishes its brand-new shoes in a glass case.

Fanar Taught Me a Different Perspective

 

Few years back, I had the chance to step inside this iconic structure rather than just admire it from afar. What I discovered was far more than I expected.

From the moment I entered, I felt both welcome and intrigued. Fanar is not just for Muslims—it’s a bridge between cultures and faiths. For non-Muslim visitors like myself, the center offers a range of immersive, educational, and genuinely unforgettable experiences. I was introduced to the basics of Islamic faith through an informative and engaging crash course that felt more like a conversation than a lecture. The staff were kind, patient, and happy to answer questions—no matter how basic or complex.

One of the highlights of my visit was the opportunity to attend khutbah—the Friday sermon—delivered in English. This thoughtful gesture makes Islamic teachings more accessible and understandable for international visitors. Before the prayer, a staff member kindly explained mosque etiquette: where to sit, what to wear, and the dos and don’ts within the mosque. This respectful orientation helped ease my nerves and deepened my appreciation of the spiritual and communal experience that the mosque represents.

Fanar also offers Arabic language courses, guided tours of the mosque, and rotating exhibitions that explore Islamic art, history, and culture. Whether you have a few hours or a few days in Doha, a visit here will leave a lasting impression.

As I left the building that day—its spiral minaret standing tall behind me—I realized that Fanar had shifted from a distant architectural curiosity to a place of personal connection and learning. It’s more than a landmark; it’s a welcoming invitation to understanding.

If you're ever in Doha, don’t just admire Fanar from a car window. Step inside—you’ll come out with more than just photographs. You’ll come out with perspective.

Rendezvous with the “Strict Father” of Bollywood

Every so often in life, a seemingly routine moment unfolds into something profound. Mine happened during a layover at the Hong Kong airport, thirty minutes of conversation with Vipin Sharma—the actor who portrayed the stern father in Taare Zameen Par—left an impression far beyond the screen.Vipin Sharma played Nandakishore Awasthi, a father whose authoritative parenting style reflects a familiar image in Indian households—loving but firm, often unyielding. That performance earned him a Screen Award nomination for Best Supporting Actor in 2009. Yet what I discovered over coffee in the airport lounge was far softer and more modest.

As we chatted, it became clear that the sternness of his character didn’t define Vipin Sharma the person. He spoke warmly, humbly reflecting on how he approached portraying the father—not as someone unfeeling, but someone constrained by societal expectations and generational norms. I was struck by the contrast: the stern father of the film and the gentle, thoughtful man sitting across from me. Our conversation naturally gravitated to parenting. I shared my belief that parenting is an art—a delicate balance between guiding and understanding each child’s unique nature. Children aren’t blank slates; their likes, habits, emotional expressions are all intrinsic and diverse. Rather than molding them through fear or anger, we need to nurture and gently shape their natural dispositions.

Vipin nodded in agreement. He admitted that his role in the movie forced him to confront a common Indian parenting archetype: authority, discipline, rigid expectations. But he emphasized that the character’s heart was never meant to be cold. That internal conflict—between love and expectation—is what made the role resonate with so many. I shared how I view fatherhood as a chance to relive childhood—with wisdom this time. To be not only a parent, but also a friend and a philosopher for my children. To offer guidance, to be a safe harbor, to grow alongside them. Building that deep, trusting bond requires empathy more than discipline. It means shaping with love, not breaking through authority.

Vipin smiled and shared that his own children keep him grounded—reminding him daily that no matter the role he plays on screen, real life calls for patience and humility. That airport conversation shattered my expectations. The Father in Taare Zameen Par was a powerful cinematic image—but the man himself was surprisingly modest. A real-life embodiment of empathy over authority.

Parenting, I believe, is an enduring journey. One where every moment with our kids can become an opportunity to grow—together. They remain unique and special, shaping our roles as fathers and friends anew. And meeting Vipin Sharma reminded me that integrity, humility, and love live outside the reel, in the quiet grace of real people.

The Girl Who Decided To Marry Me

There’s something surreal about love stories that don’t begin with grand gestures or picture-perfect backdrops—but with honesty, awkward confessions, and small rooms full of hope.

I never thought I’d be writing something like this. Back in my university days, I believed I’d never find love. The idea of having a girlfriend seemed so distant that I’d quietly accepted that maybe I wasn't the kind of guy anyone would fall for. Growing up in a cramped 450-square-foot home in Navi Mumbai didn’t leave much room for guests, let alone dreams of romance. But life has a funny way of proving us wrong.

It was 2008 when I came across her—Priya. A girl I first connected with on Orkut, that long-gone yet unforgettable social media platform. Ironically, we’d both registered on a matrimonial website, and it was there that she found me. I was working in Bangalore back then, trying to figure life out. She, on the other hand, was already a topper, well-settled in her career, and had that unmistakable spark of confidence. But what really struck me was the innocence on her face—it said everything her words didn’t have to.

Our conversations began casually. We exchanged stories, laughs, even silences. Slowly, it felt like I was starting to understand her, and she was doing the same with me. One day, out of sheer curiosity and self-doubt, I asked her, “Why would you want to marry me, Priya?”

Her response still rings in my ears.

"Because you look like my brother… and he is a nice person."

Now, let’s be honest—at first, I thought this was possibly the worst answer ever given to that question. But as I sat with it, I realized something beautiful: it reflected her purity, her sense of family, her instinct to love and trust deeply. It wasn’t a romantic line from a movie—but it was real. And in that honesty, I found something more enduring than mere words.

Back then, I had nothing—not a house, not a car, not even savings. All I had was a belief in myself, and a silent promise I made to her: I will protect you, care for you, and make you smile every single day until my last breath.

A girl who chooses to believe in a man when he has nothing but potential is nothing short of extraordinary. That trust, that leap of faith—deserves nothing less than unwavering love and lifelong respect.

Seventeen years have passed since that moment. And not once has Priya looked back or stopped being the rock behind everything I’ve achieved. She’s managed an IT career, raised two wonderful kids, run our home, and done it all with a smile that somehow still has that same innocence I fell for.

Sometimes I watch her and think, How does she do it all?

Truth is, I don’t know. But I do know this—she’s one in a million. A woman of quiet strength, endless love, and rare resilience.

If there’s such a thing as a real-life Supergirl, I’m lucky enough to call her my wife.

Thank you, Priya—for choosing me, for believing in me, and for building this beautiful life with me.

A once hopeless boy who found hope in you.

Why I Still Own this Toy from the 1980s?

We all have that one item from our childhood that holds a special place in our hearts — a blanket, a photograph, a storybook, or in my case, a rather peculiar toy made of rubber. This isn’t the kind of toy you see anymore. Today, plastic rules the world of playthings. But back then, in the 1980s, rubber was the go-to material. Durable, flexible, and oddly comforting to chew on — which I’ll get to in a moment.

My first toy was a rubber elephant with a little boy named "Om" sitting on its back. Om’s head could rotate a full 360 degrees — something that felt like pure magic when I was a toddler. The elephant wasn’t just a passive ride; its rubber neck moved too, allowing for endless imaginary adventures.

What makes this toy special isn't just its vintage charm. It’s the history embedded in it. You can still find tiny tooth marks on Om’s head — evidence of my early teething days. Yes, I gave it a fair share of bites. Somehow, the rubber survived both time and toddler rage.

And then there’s the whistle — a clever little design feature. Two small holes were drilled into the elephant’s feet where a whistle was fitted. Press the elephant’s stomach, and out came a sound that was part squeak, part trumpet — and all joy to my young ears.

Now you might wonder, why am I describing such a silly old toy in a blog post?

Because it’s not really about the toy.

This elephant and Om are a symbol — a reminder of how deeply we, as human beings, get attached to things. People, places, habits, even objects — we give them meaning, wrap emotions around them, and let them become part of our identity. Over time, of course, many of these attachments fade. New ones replace them. The old becomes memory.

This rubber toy, now worn out and tucked away in a drawer, once meant the world to me. It was my companion, my entertainment, my comfort. Today, it’s a fond relic — something I can hold, press, and smile at. The intense bond I once had with it has loosened its grip, but the warmth of the memory still lingers.

And maybe that’s the real point. Life is all about forming attachments — and then, learning to let go. That’s growth. That’s maturity. That’s moving on.

But once in a while, it's beautiful to look back — to a time when all you needed to feel joy was a squeaky elephant and a boy named Om.

Reciting the Most Powerful Poem in Marathi - Kana

Why We Stopped Traveling International for Leisure

“Indians love to insult themselves… They’ve turned the flight into a train or bus.” 

By that point, I realized it wasn’t about Thailand—it was about how our collective behavior abroad was shaping the experience for all of us.

These incidents don’t just spoil individual trips—they contribute to growing international critique. Thailand, having shifted from Chinese tourists to expanding Indian arrivals, faces complaints about public misbehavior, discrimination, and safety concerns. Such backlash affects not only government strategies but also the atmosphere we, as responsible travelers, hoped to enjoy.

India is a vibrant, proud nation. But our collective behavior abroad shouldn't undermine that pride. Thailand offered beauty and opportunity—but the overshadowing issue was us, not the destination. We didn’t see Thailand through Thai eyes; we saw it through crowded lenses of misplaced behavior and cultural dissonance. Until we change that, international travel for me remains an anxiety-laden gamble.

Let’s reclaim the joy of cross-cultural exploration—and do India proud, every step, plane ride, and temple visit of the way

#DesiFamilyTravelers

@DesiFamilyTravelers

Booze-Loving Culture and Me!

In a world increasingly glamorized by the clink of glasses and the glow of bar lights, choosing sobriety feels less like a lifestyle and more like a quiet act of rebellion. I’ve walked this path — a non-drinker surrounded by colleagues for whom alcohol is not just an occasional indulgence but a ritual, a bonding mechanism, even a personality trait. It’s a struggle not rooted in envy or moral superiority, but in the dissonance between values, in the discomfort of isolation, and in the pursuit of a life guided by inner clarity rather than external chaos.

Just a few years ago, society collectively acknowledged alcohol for what it truly is — an addictive substance that often leads people astray, damages health, and destroys families. It was seen as a vice, not a virtue. There was at least a faint echo of moral consensus. But today, that collective voice has grown quieter. Alcohol is no longer just accepted; it’s celebrated. It’s a symbol of status, of freedom, of being "fun." The idea of drinking in moderation has become a convenient veil, often masking dependency with terms like “social drinking” or “controlled consumption.”

The workplace, unfortunately, is no exception. My colleagues, many of whom I genuinely respect for their professional acumen, often define camaraderie through shared drinks and weekend hangouts revolving around alcohol. For them, it’s a culture, a lifestyle — sometimes, even a badge of honor. While they make plans over pints and discuss spirits with the same enthusiasm as some discuss books or travel, I often find myself politely declining invitations, staying on the periphery of these tight-knit social groups. And no matter how respectfully you bow out, abstinence often feels like exclusion.

Being someone who finds joy in the simple pleasures — a walk in the morning sun, a meaningful conversation, reading something thought-provoking, or just sitting in silence — I sometimes wonder if I belong to a disappearing tribe. I refrain from all addictions, not just for discipline’s sake, but because I seek clarity, purpose, and a life of conscious intention. I aspire to be a cultivator — someone who is constantly tending to the garden of their inner life, removing weeds, planting seeds of good habit, and striving for a higher standard.

It’s not easy, though. At times, maintaining relationships with people who don’t share your values can feel like walking through a storm while trying to keep a flame alive. The path is lonely, and the world often mistakes solitude for arrogance or aloofness. But what concerns me more than personal isolation is the broader shift in societal values. When addiction is normalized, when overindulgence becomes a joke, and when “fun” is defined by substances that dull the senses, we as a society must pause and reflect.

The deeper issue is not alcohol itself, but the erosion of universal values — health, discipline, clarity, and integrity. Friendship today often hinges on similarity in habits, not on shared principles. “He’s fun” or “She’s chill” have become more important than “He uplifts me” or “She brings out the best in me.” But what is fun if it doesn’t enrich the soul? What is friendship if it doesn’t help us grow?

They say a man is known by the company he keeps. But I believe a true cultivator is known by what he is willing to leave behind in the pursuit of higher truths. The road to self-improvement demands courage — the courage to be different, to be misunderstood, and at times, to stand alone. It’s about rising up, filtering out the distractions, and staying true to your path, even when the world calls you strange.

In the end, life is not about how many friends you have or how many parties you attend. It’s about how many lives you’ve touched, how many minds you’ve awakened, and how deeply you’ve inspired others to look within. That, to me, is the real celebration. That is joy in its purest form.

So while my world may never revolve around the clink of a glass, it will always revolve around the clarity of purpose — and that, I believe, is worth raising a toast to.

The Day We got Thrashed - And Why I’ll Never Forget It

There are some memories from childhood that stick—not because they were triumphant or glorious, but because they made us laugh later and taught us something deeper about life. One such memory involves a bruised ego, a very large school bully, and my little brother, Nikhil.

I was in school—somewhere between learning multiplication tables and mastering the art of avoiding trouble—when I had a run-in with a boy from a higher grade. He was older, bigger, and evidently not a fan of me. The details are fuzzy now (thankfully), but I remember clearly that things escalated and he ended up assaulting me. It was a humiliating experience, and though I tried to brush it off, the sting stayed with me.

But it wasn’t just me who was affected.

When my younger brother Nikhil found out what happened, he was furious. He couldn’t stand the thought of someone treating his elder brother like that. His reaction was fierce, protective—and honestly, a little naive. He looked at me with the kind of seriousness only a younger sibling can muster and said, “Let’s go fight him.”

Now, if you know anything about younger brothers, you’d know they don’t back down easily once they’ve made up their mind. And so, with a misplaced sense of courage (and maybe a bit of dramatic sibling loyalty), we marched right up to this big boy. Spoiler alert: it did not go well.

Let’s just say that what followed wasn’t exactly a glorious battle. The boy thrashed me—and Nikhil—clean. We didn’t stand a chance. It was a short-lived fight, and we limped away with bruised bodies and even more bruised pride.

But here’s the funny thing. Even today, when Nikhil and I remember that incident, we can’t stop laughing. It was ridiculous, brave, and foolish all at once. We were no match for that guy, but at that moment, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that we stood together.

That silly, painful memory still brings a smile to my face—not because we lost the fight, but because we didn’t back down from it. Nikhil's loyalty and fierce belief that no one messes with his elder brother is something I’ll never forget.

And maybe that’s the real story here: not about getting beaten up, but about brotherhood. About showing up for each other, even when the odds are clearly against us. Because in life, we’re going to face a lot of big guys—some metaphorical, some not. But having someone who’s willing to stand by your side, no matter the outcome? That’s everything.

So here’s to childhood scraps, shared defeats, and the kind of bond that gets stronger with every bruise and belly laugh. Nikhil and I may have lost that battle, but we gained something much more valuable: a lifelong reminder that together, we face the world.

How Kids Killed their Boredom on a Rainy Day

I was baby sitting with our 14 year old and 9 year old last Sunday. While getting lost into the screen is quite common for us being a parent, a long spell of silence brought me back to them that afternoon. I heard them giggling together in another room. The giggling continued for several minutes and it was after a while I decided to walk into their room. What came out was something interesting - this was a complete detective story of a mosquito 🦟 that was murdered by them. The dead body was put up as an evidence and there was this whole lotta investigation around the crime scene. The work was full of their experiences and memories watching many crime investigations and mystery books that they have read. I do not want to spoil the fun and want you to witness it all by yourself.

A Note That Touched My Heart

The broken spine of the Indian media and the thoughts of our 14 year old