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.

The Quiet Magic of Time

Mumbai is a city of millions. A place where lives crisscross every day — in locals, on footpaths, at railway platforms — often without us realizing how close we come to the people who will one day matter the most.

 Priya and I grew up just like any other kids in a typical Maharashtrian middle-class household. We both lived in Mumbai — in fact, not just the same city, but often in the same parts of it. Our lives mirrored each other in ways that still leave us amazed. We did our engineering in the same year from colleges just a few kilometres apart. We attended the same centralized admission center at VJTI, standing in similar queues, probably minutes apart. We both took crash courses at Vidyalankar in Dadar — sat through the same lectures, possibly in the same classrooms.

Our fathers worked in Cuffe Parade, their offices in buildings adjacent to each other. Everyday, they probably had their tea breaks around the same time, perhaps even nodded at each other without knowing their children would one day share a life.

And yet, somehow, we never met.

In a city known for its chaos and coincidences, we remained invisible to each other for decades — living parallel lives, unknowingly sharing spaces, routines, and even dreams. It wasn't until we decided to marry — through an arranged setup — that we finally came face-to-face. No meet-cute, no dramatic crossing of paths. Just a quiet, grown-up realization that sometimes, destiny doesn’t rush. It waits. It weaves.

Now, years later, we laugh about it. How many times did we brush past each other? Did we ever share a train compartment? Stand in the same canteen line? We’ll never know.

But today, we grow older together — two people who unknowingly grew up together all along.

And that, I think, is the quiet magic of time and destiny.

The Story of Kirk - And the Life Lessons he Taught Me

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

The Story of Ben - And How He Touched My Heart!

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.

A Man with Clarity of Thoughts: A Tribute to Late Sunil Kaka

There are people who live quietly, without ever demanding the center stage, yet leave behind a silence that feels larger than life when they are gone. My cousin uncle, Sunil Kaka, was one such soul.

Sunil Kaka on March 6th, 2010

I didn’t meet him very often—usually just during my visits to our farms—but each interaction left a lasting impression. I always saw him on his wheelchair. A tragic road accident many years ago had left him paralyzed from the waist down. It was a life-altering moment for him, but not a life-defining one. While many of us may view such a condition as limiting, even devastating, Sunil Kaka seemed to transcend it. He lived with acceptance, quiet dignity, and, I dare say, extraordinary grace.

There was something about him—something beyond the physical. During our brief conversations, I always had the sense that he possessed a kind of inner power, a sixth sense. He had a razor-sharp mind and often surprised me with his insights into the world—be it village politics, international affairs, or even weather forecasts. Sitting in his chair for hours, he would reflect deeply on the happenings around him. Some might call it idleness; I saw it as contemplation.

What particularly stood out was his passion for chess. He was an exceptional player. Perhaps the stillness of his body had allowed his mind to sharpen beyond ordinary limits. I often wondered if his disability had somehow unshackled other faculties within him—making him not less than us, but perhaps more in certain ways.

Sunil Kaka was also an active participant in our family WhatsApp group. He was known for his long messages—updates, thoughts, reflections. In the rush of life, I had stopped reading those messages attentively. I regret that now.

Toward the end, he began to suffer from severe kidney problems—likely caused by years of drinking borewell water. The pain became unbearable in his final days. It was one of those phases when a person runs out of options and battles the night alone. Yet even then, Kaka’s unusual sensitivity didn’t leave him.

At 4:11 AM, in the early morning darkness when most of the world was asleep, he sent a message to our WhatsApp group. Just three words:

“Goodbye Shinde Pariwar.”

By 6:30 AM, he was gone.

I stared at that message and its timestamp for a long time, reading it again and again. Did he know? Could he feel the knock of death approaching? That uncanny sense of awareness had always surrounded him, but this time, it was deeply personal.

Since that day, I’ve often returned to my memories with him—the quiet conversations, the unexpected wisdom, the way he made his wheelchair a throne of thought rather than a prison of limitation. Sunil Kaka didn’t just survive after the accident. He lived, reflected, played, shared, and finally, he said goodbye with a clarity most of us may never have when our time comes.

He left us in the same way he lived—with awareness, calmness, and a gentle whisper, not a cry.

Goodbye, Kaka. You’ll be missed—not for the life you couldn’t live, but for the depth with which you lived the one you had.

Watching Her Grow: My Journey Through Time

Fourteen years. That’s how long it’s been since I first held Shamika in my arms—a tiny, fragile bundle of innocence. In those early days, everything felt new. The first giggle, the first stumble, the first time she said “ta ta ta….geeee” I was clueless, nervous, and utterly overwhelmed. But above all, I was in awe.

 Watching your first child grow is a bit like being gifted a second childhood. You get to be silly again, laugh for no reason, dance around the living room, and make funny faces just to get a smile. You find yourself doing ridiculous things in front of a camera because that’s what freedom looks like through your child’s eyes—unfiltered joy. There were messy days too—quite literally. I still remember cleaning Shamika’s nose when she had a cold, gently reminding her (more like nagging, really) about hygiene and grooming. I was her coach, her nurse, her storyteller, and her cheerleader. And somewhere in that chaos, I found my own life becoming fuller and more meaningful.

Fast forward to now—she’s a teenager. Independent, opinionated, and fiercely conscious about her image. She rolls her eyes at baby photos and groans when I show her that one picture—yes, the one she hates me for keeping. But I can’t help it. That photo is a time capsule. It’s proof that no matter how grown-up she becomes, there was once a time when she clung to my finger just to take her first step.

And here’s the twist I never saw coming—Shamika now teaches me. She points out when my shirt is outdated, nags me to trim my beard properly, and insists I comb my hair "like a normal person." Somewhere along the way, our roles began to shift. She's becoming her own person, and I’m learning to let go, slowly, carefully.

But no matter how grown she gets, she’ll always be my little girl.

They teach you patience, vulnerability, and above all, unconditional love. Watching Shamika grow has been the most humbling and joyful experience of my life. And while the days seem to race by, the memories we’ve created are stitched deeply into my heart. Here’s to every father out there getting a second shot at childhood through the eyes of their child—and to daughters like Shamika, who make that journey unforgettable. Daughters are special.

The Infosys Tag That Came With a Cost

2004. The year I passed out from a reputed engineering college in Navi Mumbai with dreams stitched tightly in my chest and hope clinging to every heartbeat. But dreams, as they often do, met the hard face of reality — a reality that wasn’t too kind to fresh engineering graduates seeking a break in the IT industry.

 It was a sluggish season for campus placements. While IT giants like TCS, Infosys, and Wipro did visit our college, they picked only one or two students. I wasn’t one of them. What followed was nearly a year of grinding — an off-campus placement hunt that tested every ounce of self-worth I carried. Rejection became a familiar tune, and hope started wearing thin.

Eventually, in August 2004, I landed my first job at a modest firm named Atkom Infotech, based in Andheri, Mumbai. It wasn’t the big leap I had envisioned, but it was a beginning. The daily commute was nothing short of an odyssey — two buses and two local trains, taking two hours one way. That daily grind, coupled with long hours at work, drained not just my energy but my spirit.

But amidst the struggle, there were silver linings — Pradnya Panhale, Dayanand Shinde, and Mahesh, my first work friends, whose camaraderie made the chaos feel bearable. We shared lunches, jokes, and even the quiet despair of missed opportunities.

I still remember the feeling of holding my first paycheque — ₹7,825/-. That crisp amount was promptly used by my family for Diwali shopping that year — a simple joy, but significant in its own way. Mr. Ashutosh Karnik, the Director of Atkom, appreciated my dedication and wanted me to continue. But deep down, I sensed the clever calculations behind his praise — and more importantly, I knew I needed to move on. What stung the most wasn’t the money or the exhaustion — it was the look in Papa’s eyes. The quiet discontent he masked in conversations with his friends. My younger brother, just a year behind me, had received offers from both TCS and Infosys. In comparison, I was the underdog in his stories — a well-meaning disappointment.

This silent judgment pushed me harder. I knew I couldn’t cling to comfort.

After a brief jobless phase, I took up a new role at DNC Data Systems in CBD Belapur, Navi Mumbai. It wasn’t glamorous, but it gave me something Atkom couldn’t — space to grow technically. My programming skills found direction, and I found friends and co-strugglers like Subha Fernando, who, like me, was quietly chasing something more.

Together, we prepared for the Infosys entrance test. She made it first and left for training in Mysore. Soon after, I cracked the test too. I was selected for Infosys, Hyderabad.

July 25, 2005 — the day I became an Infoscion. It wasn’t just a job offer. It was redemption, validation, and a long-awaited balm to all the humiliation I had swallowed over the past year.

It came at a cost.

It was the first time I left home, my parents, and my brother. I’ve never truly returned since — not in the same way. That moment marked the start of a new life and the quiet end of an old one. Looking back, that year of hardship gave me more than a job. It taught me resilience, the value of friendships formed in trenches, and the silent power of persistence.

If you’ve ever felt like an invisible name in a crowd of achievers, know this: sometimes the struggle itself carves out your story — one worth telling. And sometimes, it takes a whole year of being an underdog to finally hear pride in your father’s voice.

Picture shot by me in 2005 at Mangalore, Infy

It’s Neeraj (नीरज) - Not Niraj… Period!!

I was named Neeraj — a name chosen with love and purpose by my father. It’s not just a name; it’s a story, a legacy, and a reflection of who I strive to be. The name traces its roots to the pen name of the renowned Hindi poet, Gopaldas Saxena "Neeraj", whose words and spirit continue to inspire generations.

A Picture captured on my way to Joshimath

In Devanagari, it's spelled as नीरज, with a deliberate and graceful elongation in the syllable “नी” — pronounced "Nee". This elongation is not just linguistic; it symbolizes something far deeper for me: longevity, persistence, and continuity. These are qualities I strive to embody in life, work, and relationships.

The literal meaning of Neeraj is lotus — a flower that blooms in muddy waters. It represents beauty, clarity, and resilience rising from challenging circumstances. Knowing this, you can imagine why it hurts a little every time someone reduces it to “Niraj” or “निरज” — altering both its meaning and sound.

Spelling, and especially pronouncing, proper nouns correctly is not a trivial detail. It’s a sign of respect. Names are not just labels; they are identities, cultural markers, and often carry profound meanings or personal stories. When someone corrects you on the pronunciation or spelling of their name, they’re not being difficult — they’re simply asking to be seen and acknowledged as they truly are.

For me, this has meant regularly correcting people — in schools, workplaces, documents, and conversations. And while it can feel tedious, I see it as an important practice. I believe setting the right expectation from the beginning — by correcting mispronunciations or misspellings early — is a good habit. It’s a simple but powerful way of establishing mutual respect. In professional settings, getting someone’s name right is often the first act of trust-building. Whether it's the start of a conversation, a meeting, or a business relationship — names matter. Taking the effort to spell and pronounce them correctly sends a clear message: I see you, and I respect who you are.

So no, it’s not “Niraj.” It’s Neeraj — नीरज — a name given with intention, and one I carry with pride.

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