Kabir's Sunday

Hey you lovely humans! 👋

If you are here from my Instagram or Facebook profile, you already know I recently did a fun little experiment where I asked you guys to throw some random words at me, and I promised I’d turn them into a poem 😊

And oh boy… y’all did not hold back 😅

The words were so random, I genuinely questioned my life choices for a bit. But well, as I said earlier... I’ll cook something up. I can’t promise it’ll taste good, but the dish will be served! 😬

So here it is... my little poetic chaos turned into something (hopefully) readable...

I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed confusing myself while writing it 😂😂

If it makes you smile, or even blink twice in confusion... share it with your friends and family...Let them know you were a part of it and tell me in the comments below which words you suggested...  

Thank you for being a part of my weird creative experiment... You’re the best! 💛

P.S. All the words in capitals are the words that y'all gave me! Take care!

                                 Kabir's Sunday 

KABIR took a SOLO TRIP to the RIVER,

no plans, no deadlines,

just the BREEZE,

and a TEA that kept losing its warmth too soon.

He DOODLED DREAMS on paper napkins,

tiny sketches of thoughts he’d never say out loud.

Someone might’ve called it ART,

He called it DIVINE ENERGY on a low battery.

A ROSE bush swayed across the RIVER,

half-dried but still BEAUTIFUL.

A reminder that LOVE

Rarely arrives in perfect condition.

His SOCKS, as usual, didn’t match,

One blue and the other suspiciously green.

He laughed, thinking,

“Maybe PEACE looks like this,

a messy, quiet kind of BEAUTIFUL.”

And that was his SUNDAY,

a slow ripple of peace,

a page of DOODLE DREAMS,

and SOCKS that never tried to match,

Yet somehow, everything did.

Tell me the words y'all suggested and how you liked the poem in the comments below. Thank you for reading ☺️ 🙏🏻

The Lamps We Carry

The Lamps We Carry

A story of love, memory, and the rituals that keep us alive.

This story took me a long time to finish... 10 months exactly! Life happened... health issues, big changes, days when everything felt too heavy. I left it halfway, thinking I might never return. But at my lowest, I found my biggest spark - writing. That’s how this little story found it's voice again.

If you’re here reading this, I hope you find something in it to hold close. Wishing you warmth, strength and lots of love. Hope you enjoy it. ✨

In a small forgotten village at the foot of a steep hill, where paddy fields occupied more land than the houses, and a huge ocean-like river bent gently along the land, lived an old and dainty woman named Kamla. She moved quietly through her days, tending to the little chores of her home, her footsteps soft and light as though she feared disturbing the silence around her. Once she completed her chores for the day she would sit by the doorway with red mud from her backyard, her petite fingers quietly shaping the red mud into small clay lamps. She did this every day. And when the evening turned to dusk, when the sky softened into violet and orange tones, and the shadows spread over the fields, she would release these small clay lamps upon the river. Their flames - gentle, fragile and bright.

The villagers watched from the riverbank and their houses. Children whispered that the lamps were tiny stars that had fallen into the water. The elders said they were prayers. Some claimed they were messages to the spirits. Nobody asked Kamla the truth.

Long ago, before her hair turned silver, the river had taken her Raghav. He was a fisherman, strong in his arms and gentle in his laughter, the kind of man who whistled when he worked and carried the smell of salt and wet earth like the first rains wherever he went. Every morning, he woke up before the sun to go catch fish. Kamla always made sure to rise before him and hand him a lovingly made cup of chai. One morning, as he rose before dawn as always, Kamla handed him the cup, flickering her eyelashes with a soft smile. She held the edge of her saree pallu over her face, biting it shyly, a quiet goodbye. He would always wink at her before leaving, whistling the tune of his favourite song. His figure slowly disappeared down the muddy path, the fishing net slung over his shoulder, while dark clouds gathered over the hills. By the time the storm broke, he was already gone. And by the time it cleared, he never returned.

The river had claimed him, and Kamla was left with silence. That year, she found she was carrying his child. It was both her sorrow and her salvation, a living piece of him that kept her standing. When her son was born, she pressed his tiny palms to her face and whispered, “You have his eyes. His smile too.”

Grief nearly swallowed her in those first years, but the ritual of the lamps gave her a way to breathe. Each one was a prayer, a memory, a sign of love she could send into the current which took him. She believed if she kept the lights alive, the river could never forget him.

Seasons turned, and the boy grew. He built a life of his own, but he always returned, bringing his little daughter by the hand. The girl’s eyes were curious, full of questions.

“Aaji,” she asked one evening, tugging Kamla’s sari as the lamps floated away, “why do you light these every night? Do they really find Aajoba?”

Kamla placed a weathered hand on her granddaughter’s hair and smiled faintly. “Maybe they do, maybe they don’t. But the river remembers him. And when we light them, so do we.”

The girl’s eyebrows furrowed with thought. “Then teach me. I want to remember Aajoba too.”

Kamla laughed softly, though her eyes glistened. “One day, these lamps will be yours to light.”

It was not only her granddaughter who asked. Another child in the village, Priya, would often linger near the riverbank, watching the small flames vanish into the dark. One evening, unable to hold back, she whispered, “Aaji, can I help too?”

From then on, Priya came every evening. The three of them would first sit together, pressing their fingers into the soft clay, shaping little lamps with quiet care. Later, they would kneel by the water, their faces touched by the glow of the flames and set afloat the tiny lamps. Kamla would often speak about Raghav then, her voice hushed and tender...

“Your Ajoba laughed at the rain,” she told them once, her eyes lost in memory. “He said storms were just the river’s way of singing. I hated him for saying that, but now I think maybe he was right. Perhaps he is a part of that song now.”

Priya’s small voice trembled as she asked, “Do you still miss him, Aaji?”

Kamla’s lips curved into a sad smile. “Every breath. But missing him keeps him alive in me.”

Years passed this way, the little lamps moulding the three lives together. Kamla grew weaker, her back bending with age, her hair silver like the river’s foam. Yet each evening, she still made her way to the bank, holding the hands of the girls she loved, as if they were her anchors.

One twilight, as the sun bled into the horizon, Kamla sat with Priya and her granddaughter beside her. The lamps flickered in their palms, waiting to be released. She took their hands into her own.

“You are my light now,” she whispered, her voice thin but steady. “Raghav gave me love. The river gave me grief. And both of you gave me hope. Promise me… promise me you will keep lighting these lamps. For Aajoba. For me.”

The girls nodded through tears. “We promise, Aaji,” they said together.

That night, Kamla slipped away peacefully in her sleep, her final breath quiet as a flame vanishing into the darkness.

The girls mourned her gently. They did not believe she was gone forever, but that she had returned to Raghav, their Aajoba, carried by the same current that had taken him years ago.

At the riverbank, her son stood silently as his daughter and Priya knelt by the water. They lit the lamps together, their small hands trembling but determined.

“Aaji wanted us to do this together,” Kamla’s granddaughter whispered.

Priya squeezed her hand. “Yes. For Aaji and Aajoba". 

Kamla's Granddaughter hooked her tiny pinky finger around Priya's and said softly, "And for us too."

The lamps floated away, two tiny flames drifting into the endless night. They were finally together. Everyone watched in silence, their hearts aching, their eyes glistening with tears. The river glowed with memory.

And in that moment, the girls understood. This was no longer just Kamla’s ritual. It was theirs now. It was a way of keeping love alive, even against the cruellest silences. The river would carry the light, but they would carry Aaji.

The flames swayed with the current, vanishing into the distance, yet leaving behind something no water could wash away - an unbroken promise! And the quiet truth that love, once kindled, never dies.

In Memory of Flight AI171

On June 12, 2025, Air India Flight AI171 crashed shortly after takeoff from Ahmedabad. Over 240 lives were lost. Entire families, children, students, crew members. People who had plans for the evening, Birthdays coming up, Vacations, Family gatherings, office meetings, everything just GONE!

There’s no sugarcoating this. It’s devastating. And while words will never be enough, I still want to say... I’m so sorry, To the families, to the friends, to anyone who’s sitting in silence, not knowing how to move forward. You are seen.

But grief doesn’t end there. Yesterday, Today, on Twitter (Now X), Instagram, wherever I went...What I saw online was almost as disturbing.

Footage of burning wreckage was uploaded before official confirmations. People crowded around the crash site, not to help, but to film. Close-ups of luggage and wreckage. A passport flapping in the wind. Headlines spun into viral posts, and Some turned it into clickbait blaming the Prime minister(Why is it these days we pin everything on Modi). Others slapped on trending audio and called it “awareness.” And yes, there were memes too. Apparently, nothing is off-limits anymore. And yes, I know I shouldn't have taken his name, but that is what I saw happening! Everything is either turned against him even if the matter is about human decency or civic sense or disasters... Natural or man-made. Logic is Dead to us humans and humanity we never possessed! It's so hypocritical of humans to name something so pure after ourselves but never truly comprehend its true definition. We are IDIOTS! And inhumane!

Anyway, This is the world we’ve created. Where tragedy isn’t mourned, it’s consumed. Where being first to post is more important than being human.

Let that sink in.

This isn’t just a question of ethics. It’s a question of identity. Who are we becoming, if our first instinct in the face of death is to document it, stylise it, and turn it into views?

We talk about AI safety, politics, political and international relations, cooperation and summits and shit. GREAT!. Let’s also talk about decency and humanity. Let’s talk about digital empathy. About choosing not to post every damn thing we see. About respecting the dead even if they’re strangers.

Let’s choose to be better. Not just online, but offline, too, obviously!

To everyone we lost on AI171... May you rest in peace.

To everyone reading... May this be your wake-up call to humanity!

Repo Rate Cut - स्वागत है भारत के महान बैंकिंग सन्नाटे में – जहाँ बैंक आपको वो बातें नहीं बताएंगे जो आपको जाननी चाहिए।

नमस्ते सभी को, स्वागत है भारत के महान बैंकिंग सन्नाटे में – जहाँ बैंक आपको वो बातें नहीं बताएंगे जो आपको जाननी चाहिए।

रेपो रेट कट:

हाल ही में, आपने रेपो रेट कट के बारे में सुना होगा। लेकिन सबसे पहले, ये रेपो रेट होता क्या है?

सीधी भाषा में कहें तो, रेपो रेट वह ब्याज दर है जिस पर RBI बैंकों को पैसा उधार देता है। जब RBI इस दर को कम करता है, तो बैंकों को सस्ता लोन मिलता है। आदर्श रूप से, इसका मतलब होना चाहिए कि आपके लोन की ब्याज दर भी घटेगी और EMI कम होगी।

लेकिन कई बार EMI घटाने के बजाय, बैंक लोन की अवधि छोटी कर देते हैं, जो फिर भी स्वीकार्य है। लेकिन असली खेल यहाँ शुरू होता है, कई बैंक इन बदलावों की जानकारी ग्राहकों को नहीं देते और चुपचाप ग्राहकों की अनभिज्ञता का फायदा उठाते हैं। नतीजा? रेपो रेट कट के बावजूद, आप उतनी ही EMI भरते रहते हैं।

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अंकल vs. बैंक

सबसे पहले, मैं ये सब क्यों लिख रही हूँ? क्योंकि कुछ दिन पहले मेरे दोस्त ने ICICI बैंक में एक छोटी-सी क्रांति देखी।

एक 60-70 साल के अंकल बैंक अधिकारी से गरमागरम बहस कर रहे थे कि रेपो रेट कट के बाद भी उनके लोन की ब्याज दर क्यों नहीं घटी।

अब, मेरा दोस्त आमतौर पर ऐसे मामलों में नहीं पड़ता, लेकिन यह मामला दिलचस्प लगा। इसलिए उसने बैंक के बाहर रुककर अंकल से नतीजे के बारे में पूछने का फैसला किया।

40 मिनट तक इंतजार करने के बाद, अंकल आखिरकार बाहर निकले और तभी उन्होंने एक बड़ा खुलासा किया।

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दोस्त और अंकल के बीच हुई बातचीत

अंकल: "कोई भी बैंक अपने आप रेपो रेट कट का फायदा ग्राहकों को नहीं दे रहा हैं। RBI की आधिकारिक घोषणा के बाद भी, ग्राहकों को खुद बैंक जाकर ब्याज दर घटाने की माँग करनी पड़ रही है। अगर आप नहीं करेंगे, तो बैंक बिना कुछ बताए आपकी वही EMI वसूलता रहेगा।"

(तथ्य: बैंक को ब्याज दरें अपने आप अपडेट करनी चाहिए, लेकिन अधिकतर ऐसा नहीं करते। वे ग्राहकों की अनजानियों का फायदा उठाते हैं।)

दोस्त: "तो, आपका काम हो गया?"

अंकल (गहरी साँस लेते हुए): "उन्होंने कहा कि कल आना पड़ेगा।"

अगले दिन, मेरा दोस्त फिर बैंक गया लेकिन अंकल कहीं नजर नहीं आए। क्या उनकी समस्या हल हो गई या अभी भी लड़ाई जारी है? कोई नहीं जानता।

लेकिन अगर अंकल की बात सही है, तो यह एक बहुत बड़ा घोटाला है।

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समझिए इस खेल को

✔ RBI रेपो रेट घटाता है → बैंक को आपके लोन की ब्याज दर कम करनी चाहिए।
✖ लेकिन बैंक आपको नहीं बताएंगे → आप अनजाने में ज्यादा EMI भरते रहेंगे।
⚠ अगर आप खुद बैंक जाकर कम ब्याज दर की माँग नहीं करेंगे, तो आप ओवरपे करते रहेंगे।
💰 और बैंक इसी अनजानियों पर निर्भर रहते हैं और चुपचाप करोड़ों का फायदा उठाते हैं।

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अब आप क्या कर सकते हैं?

आज ही अपने बैंक को कॉल करें। पूछें कि, क्या आपकी ब्याज दर रेपो रेट कट के अनुसार अपडेट हुई है?

अगर बैंक बहाने बनाए, तो शाखा में जाएँ और अधिकारपूर्वक माँग करें।

ज्यादातर लोग यह महसूस ही नहीं करते कि वे महीनों या सालों तक अनावश्यक रूप से ज्यादा EMI चुका रहे हैं। बैंक आपको नहीं बताएंगे क्योंकि जितने दिन आप अनजान रहेंगे, उतना उनका फायदा होगा।

अपने माता-पिता, दोस्तों, और किसी भी लोनधारी को यह जानकारी दें।

क्योंकि बैंक तब तक चुप रहेंगे जब तक आप आवाज़ नहीं उठाएँगे।

Repo Rate Cut - The Great Indian Banking Silence, Where Banks Won’t Tell You What You Should Know

 Hello everyone, Welcome to the great Indian banking silence, where banks won’t tell you what you should know.

Repo Rate Cut:

So, recently you all must've heard about the Repo rate cut. Now, first of all, what is this Repo rate? In simple terms, the repo rate is the interest rate at which RBI lends money to banks. When RBI reduces this rate, banks get loans at a cheaper rate. Ideally, this should mean that your loan interest rates also go down, lowering your EMI. Sometimes, instead of reducing the EMI, banks shorten the loan tenure, which is still acceptable. However, many banks don’t inform their customers about these changes and silently take advantage of the customers' innocence or unawareness and keep taking the same amount of EMI even after the repo rate has been reduced. 

Uncle vs. The Bank:

So, first things first, Why am I writing this? It's because a couple of days ago, A friend of mine witnessed a mini-revolution inside an ICICI Bank branch. An uncle in his 60s or 70s was in a heated argument with a bank official, questioning why his loan’s interest rate hadn’t been reduced after the recent repo rate cut. Now, my friend isn’t the type to get involved in such matters, but this caught his attention. So, he decided to wait outside the bank to ask the uncle about the outcome. He waited for 40 minutes before the uncle finally walked out and that’s when he dropped a truth bomb.

Below is the interaction summary between My friend and that Uncle:

Uncle: "No bank is automatically passing on the repo rate cut. Even after the RBI’s official announcement, customers have to personally visit the bank and demand a lower interest rate. If you don’t, the bank will simply continue charging you the same EMI." (Banks are supposed to update interest rates automatically, but many don’t. They take advantage of customers not knowing their rights.)

Friend: "So, did you get it done?"

Uncle (sighing): "They told me to come back tomorrow."

The next day, my friend went back to check, but the uncle was nowhere to be seen. Did he get his issue resolved, or is he still fighting? No idea.

But if what he said is true, this is a major scam. 

Let’s Break It Down

➛ RBI reduces the repo rate → Banks should lower your loan interest rate.
➛ But banks won’t inform you → You keep paying a higher EMI.
➛ If you don’t personally visit and demand a lower rate, you’ll keep overpaying.
➛ And guess what? Banks rely on this ignorance to silently pocket crores.

What Can You Do?

If you have a loan, call your bank today. Ask them if your interest rate has been updated after the repo rate cut. If they dodge the question, visit the branch and demand it.

Most people don’t even realize they’re overpaying EMIs for months, sometimes years. Banks won’t tell you because jitne din tum unaware rahoge, utna unka fayda hai.

Tell your parents. Tell your friends. Share this with anyone who has a loan.

Because banks will stay silent - until you speak up.

Through Their Eyes... A Story Told Twice

This blog is my little world. A quiet space where I can write freely, away from the chaos. My escape when the world gets too noisy. It’s a place I come to when life feels toooooo much of a burden to handle. Honestly, not many people read this blog, and I kind of, in a weird way love that. It feels personal, like a secret journal or a diary. But I won’t lie, I do enjoy those compliments that pop up from time to time, so feel free to keep them coming!

Today, I’m trying something new: writing the same story from two perspectives. I’ve never done this before, and honestly, I don't know how successful this experiment will be. This story may feel completely out of place, or maybe it will appeal to the audience. The feeling is both exciting and a bit nerve-wracking. But that’s what this blog is for - experimenting, playing around with ideas, and just writing for the joy of it.

If you’ve found your way here, Thank you! I hope you enjoy the story below. Let me know what you think in the comments below, and if you feel like sharing the story, it would mean a lot to me. 😊

                           ⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻


                                                                           Aditi


It was a humid evening in Mumbai. The sky was soft and left a hazy greyish-silver cast over the city. Aditi found herself at Dadar station, trying to find her way out among the rushing crowd like a tiny pebble rolling in one place in the ever-moving tide. She hadn’t set foot in this city for years, not since she left for college in Hyderabad, She had dreamt of seeing the world and living in a place less chaotic, less noisy. And yet, here she was, drawn back to this city that held her by some unseen force, gently pulling at her heart.

Aditi closed her eyes and took a deep breath, letting the familiar scents of fried pakoras, salty sea air, and the mixed smell of sweat and fish fill her senses. It was a strange feeling, to return after so long. In college, her life had spun around endless classes, silent libraries, and the pressure of lectures and exams. And of course, there had been him - Arjun, the boy with dreams too big for any city, who talked of travelling the world, places to see - Tokyo, Seychelles, Istanbul, and building a life in Cities like - New York, Melbourne and London. He had spoken of Mumbai as if, it was a place to flee for a while, a starting point maybe, not a destination and definitely not home. And Aditi, young, shy and eager, believed him. She imagined herself with him, by his side, in faraway lands.

The ride to Marine Drive was filled with memories. She sat in the back of a Taxi, watching the streets fly by, the already blurred shops and buildings softened by the humid evening air. The Taxi cut through the streets, honking and dodging the crowd. Sometimes, the driver shouted at the people in his Bambaiya dialect to get aside, the driver’s hands going left to right and vice versa, manoeuvring through the maze of Mumbai’s streets with a skill only locals seemed to possess. As they neared the sea, a warm breeze swept through, carrying the saltiness of the ocean with it. She tilted her head up and out the window, letting the salty wind gently push back her hair as if welcoming her home.

Finally, she was here. The Queen’s Necklace stretched before her, each light along Marine Drive glowing like a golden bead on a delicate necklace, casting a soft, welcoming light on the water. She could hear the low murmur of waves meeting the shore, a sound as constant and reassuring as a heartbeat. For a moment, she simply stood there under the streetlights of Marine Drive; she felt the pull of the city; the sounds and smells of the city washed over her.

The sea was just as she remembered, its dark waters glistening under the city lights, the waves rolling forward and back, tireless but gentle. She thought back to her childhood, to evenings spent here with her mother, eating roasted corn while the rain danced on the pavement. She remembered the taste of the salty breeze, How her mother would tell her stories about the people they saw, imagining lives for them with a smile that made Aditi feel safe and connected. 

And now, Here she was, standing at the edge of that same sea, looking at what she had left behind. She kicked off her sandals and walked down to the water’s edge, ignoring the looks of people, Aditi stepped down, letting the cool water overlap her toes and the warm breeze sweep her hair back. It was as if the city, with all its wild beauty and its untamed spirit, was reaching out to welcome her back, whispering that it had waited, just as she had.

Aditi looked around, watching the couples sitting on the low stone wall, sharing quiet laughs, children running around with ice cream cones in hand, their faces glowing with joy. The air felt thick with nostalgia, memories blending with the present in a way that made her chest feel warm. She thought of Arjun then, how he had always told her that life was meant to be a grand adventure, that one day they would leave this city behind for places that felt like freedom. But somehow, standing there, with her feet wet and the city’s lights reflecting in her eyes, she felt that maybe freedom wasn’t a place. Perhaps it is a feeling, a quiet, steady assurance that you belong right where you are. 

She closed her eyes and let the sound of the waves fill her. Mumbai, in all its chaos, its noise, its relentless energy, had a way of knowing her better than she knew herself. This was the city where she had grown up, where she had loved, where she had learned to dream and to lose, and to dream again. A gentle smile curled on her lips and a lightness settled in her heart. 

As she opened her eyes, Aditi realized she didn’t need distant dreams or foreign cities to feel whole. What she needed was here, the rhythm of the waves, the warmth of the sea breeze, the steady hum of Mumbai’s heartbeat that felt so perfectly in tune with her own and the mixture of noise and silence that only Mumbai seemed to understand? Aditi realized she didn’t have to choose between worlds. Mumbai, with all its chaos, was still hers. As she turned to leave, she knew, with a smile lingering on her face, that next time, When she would return to this city, it would not be as a visitor, but as someone who knew that true love never left - it simply waited!

                              ⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻


                                                                             Arjun

It was a humid evening in Mumbai, The sky was soft and left a hazy greyish-silver cast over the city. Arjun found himself at Dadar station, trying to find his way out among the rushing crowd like a tiny pebble rolling in one place in the ever-moving tide. The city, her city, had drawn him back, its unseen pull stronger than the ache in his chest.

Years had passed, and Arjun had wandered far. He had roamed the world in search of something he couldn’t name. From the vibrant streets of Tokyo to the serene beaches of Seychelles and Istanbul's vibrant bazaars. But none of them had felt like home. The home, a feeling he had buried here, in this city where the air was thick with salt, sweat, blood and memories. 

He took a long breath as he stepped out of the station, and just as she had described, the scents of fried pakoras and the salty sea breeze mixed with the chaos of Mumbai embraced him. Each breath felt like a piece of her, wrapping around him, anchoring him in a way no other place ever did. The streets buzzed with life, and the humid air clung to his skin, but it was comforting like a familiar hand lightly brushing his skin.

The taxi ride to Marine Drive felt surreal, the city blurring past him as he stared out the window. He wanted to see Mumbai as she had, to find the beauty she had described so vividly, to honour her by soaking in every detail. With effortless skill, the driver cut through the maze of streets filled with crowds, at times shouting at them with his sharp Bambaiya dialect. As they neared the sea, a warm breeze swept through the taxi, carrying the saltiness of the ocean, and for a fleeting moment, he could almost hear her giggle and laugh.

When Arjun stepped onto Marine Drive, it was almost dark, and the Queen’s Necklace sparkled, its golden lights reflecting on the waves below. Arjun walked slowly, his footsteps unhurried, as if time itself had paused to allow him this moment to reflect. The soft glow of the streetlights reflected off the water, shimmering like the fragments of his memories. He stood there silently, letting the sounds of the city, the waves, the distant hum of traffic, and the laughter of strangers wrap around him like an embrace.

The sea looked just as she had described it to him, dark and vast, yet familiar and warm. He slipped off his shoes and walked to the water's edge, letting the cool waves lap against his feet. For a moment, he closed his eyes and imagined her standing beside him, the wind catching her hair as she smiled at the horizon. 

Looking around, he saw the familiar scene she had once painted with words, couples leaning on the stone wall, children chasing dreams under streetlights, and strangers lost in thought. He smiled reluctantly, and with it, the weight in his chest slowly shifted. This was the city she had loved so deeply, not for its chaos, but for the moments of stillness it held within its noise. He remembered her words about freedom, She had said once with a thoughtful twinkle in her eyes, "Ajju! Freedom is not a place, it is a feeling." Aditi had found hers here, in the city’s rhythm, in the wild beauty of its imperfections. And now, standing at the same edge of the world she had once loved, Arjun began to understand.  

As the night deepened, Arjun closed his eyes. The waves seemed to whisper, their rhythm echoing her presence everywhere - in the salt, in the air, the warmth of the breeze, and the steady heartbeat of Mumbai itself. Mumbai was hers, and now, in some unspoken way, it had become his too. It wasn’t just a city, it was a memory, a promise, a heartbeat that matched his own. For the first time in years, Arjun felt a quiet calm settle over him as if the waves crashing on the shore were themselves whispering, "She never left. She’s here, in the sea, in the breeze, in you."

As he turned to leave,  the truth hit him - Aditi was gone... She would never return to these shores, never feel the sea breeze against her skin again. But in this city, she lived on, in every corner, every wave, and every breath of the salty air. For Arjun, she wasn’t just a memory, she was the soul of Mumbai, and in honouring her, he had found a way to keep her alive in his heart forever...

Messy, Beautiful, Chaotic Now!

 ...And..

So here I am, pouring out my chaos onto this blank space, trying to make sense of the storm in my mind, or maybe just trying to survive it... It feels strange, doesn’t it? How something as simple as words can feel both like a release and a weight, all at once. I often wonder if everyone feels this way, I wonder if we’re all walking around carrying invisible storms, pretending like the sky isn’t falling apart inside us, keeping our masks so firmly in place that we’ve forgotten what it’s like to let them slip.

When I started this blog, I thought writing would bring clarity, a way to declutter the mess in my head. I thought talking about mental health might help someone else feel less alone, and maybe it has, but here’s the truth: there are days when I can’t even figure out if I’ve helped myself. Sharing my thoughts, my fears, my anxieties, sometimes it feels brave, but other times, it feels like I’m peeling back layers I didn’t even know I had, leaving myself bare. Vulnerability is a strange thing, it’s terrifying and freeing at the same time.

But you know what’s even stranger? Silence. The kind of silence that sneaks in when you’re surrounded by people who think they know you but don’t. The kind of silence that fills a room when you’re screaming inside but can’t bring yourself to say a word. I used to think that silence was my safe space. Now, I’m not so sure. Writing has become my bridge, my way of breaking that silence, even if it’s just with myself.

There’s something poetic, almost tragic, about how I can write pages upon pages when my mind is a tangled mess, but when I’m happy, truly happy, the words just vanish. Does that mean happiness makes us complacent? Or does it mean chaos is what drives us to create, to express, to make sense of it all? Maybe that’s why I’m writing this now, because my thoughts are so tangled and loud that the only way to quiet them is to pour them out here, in front of you, in front of whoever happens to stumble upon this.

But I really have to ask: why are you still reading this? What is it that brought you here or kept you gripped to these words, to this space where I’m baring pieces of myself that even I don’t fully understand? Is it curiosity? Empathy? Or is it that you see a bit of yourself in this mess? Maybe you’ve felt the same storm I’m talking about. Maybe you’ve carried it, hidden it, fought it, and lost to it more times than you can count.

The thing is, I don’t have answers for you. I don’t have a neat little lesson to tie up this post with a pretty bow. All I have are questions, questions for myself, for you, for anyone who’s ever felt like their mind was running too fast for their heart to catch up. When was the last time you stopped to acknowledge the chaos inside you? Not to fix it or suppress it, but to truly listen to it? When was the last time you let yourself feel everything without guilt or shame, without trying to convince yourself that you’re “fine”?

Because here’s what I’m learning, sometimes, it’s not about fixing the chaos. Sometimes, it’s about making space for it, about letting it sit beside you and whisper its truths. And sometimes, it’s about sharing it, even when it scares you, even when you don’t know where the words will take you.

So, I’ll leave you with this thought, what if the storm isn’t something to fear but something to understand? What if the chaos in your mind is just a reflection of the parts of you that need the most attention, the most care? And if that’s true, when will you stop running from it and start listening to it?

Because if you’re waiting for the perfect moment to face yourself, to face your thoughts, here’s a little secret, there’s no such thing as a perfect moment. There’s only now, this moment, this messy, beautiful, chaotic now. The question is, what will you do with it?