I have never understood the reason why my father is so obsessively fond of my grandfather. We called our grandfather ‘Anna’, which means the eldest in the family. His only accomplishment apart from bringing up four daughters and three sons was that he managed to not sell our ancestral land. Anna was a profound wrestler and was a renowned bodybuilder—something which has been a major reason why Papa loves and respects him for.

Anna’s death has been a mystery to all of us. He died on 6th May 1996 while he was 72. I shared a 14-year timeline with him and could not stop recollecting his visits at our small, one-bedroom home in Airoli, Navi Mumbai. He wore a pink turban whenever he went out. During his era, in our village, a pink turban was a symbol of pride and dignity. In the 90s, I remember when he visited our home in Mumbai, the pink turban was something I disliked. While he walked on the city streets, he was the centre of attention to the passersby. I hardly remember when I had walked with him together on the street.

Anna was always financially dependent on Papa. On the contrary, Papa’s selfless pride for Anna fails to explain to me why he till date regards him as an epitome of self-respect. How can a person who is not able to manage his own finances be a symbol of respectfulness? My young mind was unable to understand these things.

They say when you start judging people, you never find time to love them—the relationship of my Papa with his father has been a living example of this. The living memories of Anna have been a source of inspiration to Papa till date. I tangibly saw him realising it when our new house at Madha was named after Anna: Vitthal Smruti. The memories of a person are truly built upon how you perceive the person. When the perception is coated with pure love, you fail to remember his negatives.

I, being his grandchild, failed to find a reason why I could love Anna. Hence, the memories that I had built up as a child were quite contrary to Papa’s. I remember him as a pink turban of embarrassment, a smile with betel nut stains, a person who constantly wrote letters to Papa to seek money orders, a man who failed to provide education to his daughters, and prominently someone who kicked his wife in the stomach over domestic quarrels—these memories cannot stop a young boy in his 90s from judging his grandfather.

Anna never bought anything for his grandchildren for a simple reason: that he never had money. Whenever he had it, he got a hole in his pocket from draining the money on the gambling table or at the cash counter of the bar. I remember my mother probing him once on why he never got anything for his grandchildren. That day he bought us a dozen bananas—the only thing I could remember he got for me.

Anna never mingled out or played with me. I remember when I tried to play hide-and-seek with him at our Mumbai home. I could easily fit inside the steel water tank; I remember it as my favourite hiding place. The water tank had a lid, and I was almost unsearchable when I hid myself in it.

Anna knew about it.

One day, while he realised that I was hiding inside the tank, he thought of having some fun with me. Anna having fun with me? This was unusual, unexpected, uninvited, and was soon turning to be unnatural. I realised that Anna sat on the lid, making the water tank inside a dark trap filled with vacuum—no oxygen and no exit.

I stayed hitting the lid from inside with my tender hands, relying on the mercy of Anna’s whim. He laughed and kept laughing while hearing the punches from the empty water tank. A few moments of wait passed by as I started to feel unconscious. I do not remember when I had the feeling of becoming unconscious; that day, I neared it. Dark moments of wait expanded, making each passing second feel like hours.

Anna got up, and I rushed out my nose, longing for a lungful of air. I regained myself. I watched Anna throwing the betel nut smile at me. This time, I wasn’t judging him. It was sheer hate.

That day, I decided never to play with grandfathers.

Ever since she came into my life, she has harbored a simple, ordinary dream: to have a house of her own. Ironically, in the Indian context, it is often said that a woman never truly has her own home. While staying with her father, she is considered a temporary part of a family, destined for an unforeseen future elsewhere. Later, at her husband’s place, she is often reminded that she hails from a different family.

We recently completed a year here, watching numerous sunsets, airplanes landing and taking off on the horizon, and the clouds changing shapes by the moment. The beauty of our balcony is that it offers views of both sunrise and sunset, making us feel connected with nature and the Almighty every single day.

Living in a skyscraper at such a height has its own unique charm. During our initial days here, however, she was terrified to look at the people passing by far below.

“I am too scared to stand near the railing,” she would often say when I invited her to join me for some peaceful time watching the skies.

“Relax! Don’t worry," I would pacify her. "You should stop looking down and start looking up at the clouds.”

Weeks passed, and so did a few months. Today, she has stopped looking down at the things that once scared her and held her back from enjoying the amazing views. She has learned to adore the heaven that hides between the clouds and has stopped worrying about everything that lies below her feet. It’s only when you stop looking down that you realize there are much more beautiful things above.

Our new house in Pune has truly become a place where we enlighten ourselves to the higher purpose of our lives. For the rest of the world, this is just our new house—but for her, this is finally a place she calls her home. Our home.

My son sometimes dislikes my authoritative remarks to him when he truly loses his mind over petty behavioral aspects. Remarks such as, "Do not keep your feet on the sofa!" OR "Do not shout when someone is speaking on a phone call!" OR "Do not walk on the wet floor when someone is mopping!"—and the list goes on.

Sarthak, our ten-year-old son, watched him profoundly. And then, he watched me. He watched my ignorance. My smile—which did not suit me in such a situation, Sarthak kept thinking.

The fun continued until the rendezvous ended with a delicious ice cream party. Finally, the guests were gone. Minutes later, we heard Sarthak speak.

"I did not like the way their son behaved. Why didn't you say anything to him?" Sarthak asked me in dismay.

"If it was me, you would have thrashed me by now," he continued, reading my face while waiting for an explanation.

"We were their hosts, son! It would have been rude to scold someone who came to visit us," I said, trying to control the situation.

"Were we the hosts? Because he was behaving like a parasite!" Sarthak burst out laughing, and his elder sister joined right in.

I was flabbergasted, utterly unable to speak further.

I am scribbling this story at 4:17 AM in the morning after a dream broke my sleep. The dreams that one sees at this time of the hour are hard to remember once one wakes up. But when I woke up a while back, I was determined that I would not let this one wipe away. A better way of remembering it for a long time would be to pen it down on the iPad. So here goes the dream.

 It was soon to be sunset on the seashore. The sky was lit in orange, with sparse dark clouds adding to its beauty. A father duck and his little baby duck were waiting by the seashore, soaking their fear over the wet sand of the beach. The father duck seemed weak, tired, and wounded. He seemed hurt from a recent fight with a predator which he had managed to escape, a few of his feathers worn out. He had managed to hide his little duckling from the predator. The little duckling was too naive, just learning to walk and swim. The father duck seemed worried for the little one. He looked at its tiny feet that had just started to toddle around him.

“You must be strong, lad, and start finding your own food,” the father duck said.

“Huh huh,” said the little duckling, looking at its father and nodding back. It looked so innocent, unaware of the worldly challenges it could come across when he said so.

“Look, dear, I want you to concentrate and listen to me. I want you to know that your mother and I were fighters. Together we overcame several challenges in our lives. I want you to remember this for the rest of your life. You must keep fighting,” the wounded father kept talking.

The little duckling stopped playing with the waves and gave its father a grave look. It had started to realize that what its father was sharing was serious.

“I wish I could have taught you more life skills. But my time is over and I can no longer serve you, lad. You are on your own from now on,” said the father duck, as he looked at the setting sun on the horizon. He was sure that if he stayed with his little duckling, he would be a burden—unable to find prey on his own. He kept watching the little duckling, which now meant the world to him. It was the only living memory of his partner who had left the family. The father duck had a heavy heart. He was weeping deep inside, yet unable to cry. He did not want to show weakness to his kid. He wanted it to believe that its father was a hero, and that it was the offspring of a heroic duck.

It was a situation he had never been in before. He just wanted the little duckling to leave and fight its own battle. But he kept worrying for its safety—something he had no control over now.

Time had paused. The wind stopped blowing that moment, and the little duckling said, “I’ll go away, Pa! But where are you going?”

“I am going into the sea, lad. Everyone has to go there one day,” said the father duck, seeming to cover the situation.

“Can I come along?” asked the little one.

The father duck had no answer. The waves had calmed down and he knew that they would soon cover the beach. He just wanted his kid to leave the seashore before it was dark. He was unsure of its future after he left, but for the moment he knew the beach would no longer be a safe place for the little one.

I woke up disturbed. It was a dream. A dream for sure. I looked at my hands. I had no wings. Those were my hands. I woke up and walked towards the other room. The kids were asleep with their mother. I stood there for a while wanting to hug them. I did not want to disturb them.

There it sits—one of the rarest photos of my father, lovingly referred to as Papa. Taken in our family home in Navi Mumbai during the 1990s, it shows us both—him smiling, me as a 10th-grader sitting beside him. If you know me, you might barely recognize the face staring back, but the lean frame, the posture—a legacy lived. When Papa was young, his teachers marveled at his frail build and even predicted he might not survive for more than a couple of years. Yet here he stands, strong in his humility and resilience. I, too, inherited that frail build, carrying his old jeans and, along with them, his indomitable spirit.

3 Generations in a Frame

Now, I find myself walking the same gentle path. My son, Sarthak—just nine—shares our slender physique and even our picky food habits. But that isn’t where the resemblance ends. He mirrors more than our frames—he mirrors our love, our values, and our silent admiration for our patriarch. Whether it’s the way he speaks, the little hand gestures he mimics, or the way he holds himself at the dinner table—everything reflects my own youthful echo of Papa’s quiet dignity. In our family, respect for the father figure is woven tightly, unspoken yet deeply felt.

Papa, on this 75th birthday, we celebrate more than your years—we honor the quiet legacy you bestowed on two generations of lean frames, picky eaters, and deeply devoted sons. Your strength lies not in words, but in the lives you've shaped. Sarthak, watching you today, learns not only through what you say, but by the silent example you set. And I—carrying your jeans and your memory—I am grateful beyond words.

To Papa, our silent hero: thank you for the legacy you live in us. Happy 75th birthday.

A rare picture with Papa - 1995

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

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

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

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

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

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

With her in 2023

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the tradition continued

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The 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

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.

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.

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.

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.