Some thoughts are like little sticky notes — quick, fleeting, easy to toss. But then there are those rare ones that really stick, leaving a lasting mark. Today’s blog is about a few of those.
I’ve had this long-standing habit of writing a to-do list almost every day — weekdays are for work-related tasks, while weekends are more about errands and small chores. Along the way, I scribble thoughts onto sticky notes and pin them to the softboard behind my system. It’s a bit of a ritual — pen, paper, and a sense of order.
On March 29th, the calendar quietly flipped, and with it, a significant phase in my life came to a close. According to astrology, I wrapped up the final day of "Sade Sati" — a 7.5-year period governed by Saturn. Saturn is known as the strict teacher; this phase is often marked by delays, emotional stress, life-altering lessons, and a heavy sense of discipline. But there's a flip side — it’s also said to bring growth, help you shed karmic weight, and teach you resilience.
Did I experience all of that? Definitely. But in a more grounded way, I finally got around to cleaning up my old hard disks.
During that spring cleaning, I stumbled upon a handful of sticky notes I’d written and forgotten — quiet little reflections that had somehow survived the chaos. And these? These are the ones that stuck.
Right Becomes Wrong. Wrong Becomes Right. And It’s All Right.
This sticky note is from 2017. Back then, I was still working at Dell, and most days I’d take an auto rickshaw to the office and back. It helped me dodge the madness of Bangalore traffic, and more importantly, spared me the daily gladiator match for parking.
One evening—January, I think—I got into an auto around 9 PM. As usual, I popped in my earphones, ready to tune out. A few minutes into the ride, the driver asked, “Had your dinner yet?” I told him no. He gently replied, “You should eat on time,” then added that he hadn’t eaten all day either.
Curious, I asked if he was fasting or if it was some religious observance. “No,” he said, “I just need to earn one last ₹200, and then I’ll go to the hospital. My wife’s admitted there.”
That made me take off my earphones.
He must’ve been in his late 50s or early 60s. As we rode through the city, I asked him about his wife, his children. It became clear he was her sole caregiver. By the time we reached Sony World Signal, he broke down. Fully. He cried like a child. And honestly, whatever the world says, watching someone cry, anyone, is hard. For me, it’s like a dull, blunt dagger to the heart. Doesn’t matter if it’s a man, woman, or child.
I asked him if I could help. He didn’t exactly ask, but hinted at an amount. We stopped at an ATM, I withdrew the cash, and gave it to him. Then, at his request, we stopped so he could buy some biryani. I bought him two servings.
The rest of the ride was quiet, filled with his gratitude. I remember thinking I’d done the right thing.
And maybe I had. But years later, someone casually mentioned this is a common scam in Bangalore. I don’t know if that’s true. Maybe it is. But I still believe—even if I got fooled, I’d do the same thing again. I acted with empathy. If that’s a weakness, I haven’t found the cure for it yet.
People have told me I talk too much. I trust strangers too easily. That I wear my heart too openly. They’re probably right. But that night, I came home, had dinner, and went to bed feeling grateful I met that man.
Yes, it may have been a scam. Yes, I may have been taken for a ride. But does that automatically make it wrong?
How many times have we done something believing it’s right, only to find out later that it wasn’t? For me, it’s happened often enough that I’ve made peace with the fact that I can be fooled.
But here’s the twist: sometimes, I get more credit than I deserve, too. During the COVID era, I hired a couple of team members who recently sent me heartfelt messages of gratitude. They credited me with changing their lives, when all I did was something I would’ve done anyway. That’s when I reflect again on this whole right-versus-wrong puzzle.
Remember back in school, those math problems where you had to prove LHS = RHS? The satisfaction of balancing an equation?
Life isn’t like that. Life doesn’t always balance.
As a kid, whenever a pooja or havan ended at home, the priest would chant:
“Dharam kee jai ho” – Victory to righteousness.
“Adharam ka naash ho” – Destruction of unrighteousness.”
Let the right win at all costs, they’d say.
But what happens when right and wrong switch places? When what feels wrong turns out right, and what seems right becomes wrong?
Maybe the real wisdom is this: Sometimes, right becomes wrong, wrong becomes right… and that's what is to be learnt, what is right for now, for right eternally.
Emotional "Auto Immunity"
I’ve been living with an autoimmune condition since 2006—nearly 19 years now. In all this time, countless doctors have examined, tested, and tried to understand what exactly triggered it. The answer, frustratingly, remains elusive. The term they use for such cases is "idiopathic"—a word that essentially means we don't know why it happens.
Autoimmune diseases are a daily battle. For those who don’t know, it’s when your own immune system—the very system designed to protect you—turns on your body. It begins attacking your organs, tissues, and joints as if they were foreign invaders. In my case, this manifests in ways that range from red, inflamed eyes to relentless joint pain and the grip of rheumatoid arthritis. It’s not a single disease, but a constellation of chronic symptoms that fluctuate, frustrate, and fatigue.
What’s fascinating—and sobering—is the realization that we are not just one individual organism. We are an ecosystem. Billions of bacteria and microorganisms co-exist within us, shaping our health, our moods, and even our resilience. When this internal balance is disturbed—when the body turns against itself—it doesn’t just make you sick physically. It alters how you experience life. And somewhere along this journey, I began to notice something deeper.
There is another kind of autoimmunity, I believe many of us silently suffer from—emotional autoimmunity.
Just like the physical kind, it’s not always triggered by an external force. You might not be hurt by someone else’s words or actions. Instead, it’s your own emotions—memories, thoughts, fears—that quietly turn against you. An old regret, a long-forgotten moment of shame, or a hurtful memory can suddenly flare up and wound you all over again. The mind, like the immune system, begins to attack itself.
Have you ever experienced that? A flash of the past making you wince in the present? A wave of sadness crashing in for no apparent reason? That could be emotional autoimmunity—when your inner emotional defense system, meant to protect your well-being, instead becomes the source of your suffering.
The scars of emotional autoimmunity are invisible, but they are just as real as the physical ones. They sap energy, cloud joy, and disrupt the delicate equilibrium we need to thrive.
Living with physical autoimmunity has taught me many things. But most of all, it’s made me more attuned to the silent battles we all carry—some seen, some unseen. And perhaps, just like with the physical condition, the first step toward healing emotional autoimmunity is to recognize it for what it is.
The "5 Inch Screen" Curse ;
There was a time, not so long ago, when life was lived across a variety of spaces, experiences, and mediums. Every source of information, entertainment, learning, and emotional connection had its own dedicated place in our daily rhythm. The morning newspaper delivered political updates, editorials, and a window into the world beyond our homes. The radio filled our kitchens and living rooms with music, commentary, and the occasional advertisement that, surprisingly, had cultural value. Meeting friends or colleagues wasn’t just social—it was educational and emotional. We shared joys, fears, frustrations, and laughter. We didn’t just “catch up”—we connected. An outing meant going to the movies, a planned event that felt special. Temples and their bhajans offered moments of spiritual reflection. Magazines provided curated glimpses into fashion, travel, technology, or lifestyle. And books—especially textbooks—were seen as gospel truths, shaping the minds and morals of generations. Other books inspired, challenged, and guided us through life’s uncertainties. Every platform had its own pace, purpose, and place in our life.
Then came television. It consolidated many of these sources into one box, but it still retained some separation from us. It was a shared experience in the family room. You sat with people to watch something together. You could walk away from it. But over the past 15 years, something radically different has unfolded.
The world has collapsed into a 5-inch screen. What we now consume is no longer called news, music, stories, or conversations. It’s all content. A blurry, bottomless stream of bytes and pixels that feed into one handheld device: the smartphone. This small rectangle is now our newspaper, our radio, our movie theatre, our classroom, our temple, our diary, our friend circle, and even our mirror. It tells us who we are, who we should be, and how we should feel about it. Every opinion, emotion, and experience is compressed into something that can be scrolled, liked, or shared. We once believed textbooks were sacred, only to now discover that some were more fiction than fact. Many books we revered are being unmasked as glorified opinion pieces dressed up in flowery language. Truth, once pursued across diverse sources, is now algorithmically served, curated not for accuracy but for engagement.
And in this chaos of constant consumption, we’ve handed over our freedom. The 5-inch screen isn’t just a tool—it’s a leash. And most of us have unknowingly become the dog. It tugs at us with notifications. It distracts us mid-conversation. It defines our sense of urgency, importance, and even self-worth. We don’t even realize how conditioned we’ve become to respond, to obey, to depend. But the leash can be unhooked.
You can choose to unplug. To re-enter the analog world. To read a physical book. To hear music in real time, from an instrument or a voice in the air. To walk without directions, to speak without emojis, to feel without filters. Travel—not just through geography but through time—back to a life where not everything came through glass.
The world outside the screen is still there. Real, messy, beautiful, and uncurated. All you have to do is put the phone down.
Closed for Renovation
I’ve always had a deep fondness for train journeys—especially the long ones. There’s something uniquely grounding about an overnight train. The rhythmic clatter of the tracks, the slow fading of cities behind you, and the quiet anticipation of arriving somewhere new. But if you’ve ever spent more than 24 hours on a train, especially in a cabin or a coupe, you know that something else happens too: the space starts to feel like your own. Your compartment becomes a temporary home. You begin to arrange your things just so, find comfort in the limited familiarity, and strike up conversations with strangers who may end up as passing friends. But as your destination nears, there’s a subtle shift. You start packing your belongings, mentally checking the corners for things you might have left behind. There’s a gentle urgency, a knowing that the journey is about to end—and another phase is about to begin.
As I approach my 55th birthday this August, I’ve started to feel that same sense of preparation in life itself. A quiet voice whispers, “Your station is coming up. Start packing. Get ready to deboard.” It’s not morbid—it’s mindful. It’s not about endings, but about transitions. About arriving. For years now, I’ve carried a wish—a persistent desire to write a book. A real one. Not just fleeting thoughts or blog entries (like this one), but something more deliberate. A 50,000-word travelogue. A journey in pages, exploring not just places, but people, reflections, and maybe even redemption. This blog you’re reading now will be the last post here. Not because I’m done sharing, but because I’m moving to a new format, a longer form, a deeper dive. It’s time.
A month ago, I tonsured my head at Tirupati Temple — completely shaved it off. And that moment, strangely enough, taught me something profound. We all live inside a shell of presentation and pretense. We’re scared to reveal the raw, unfiltered version of who we are. In the mirror, for the first few days, I found myself subconsciously counting the remaining black hairs against the greys. It felt like an audit of time.
That night, staring at my reflection, I made another decision. I began deleting every photo of myself from online platforms. Not out of shame or secrecy, but as a symbolic pause. A sign taped on a shopfront: Closed for renovation.
Because that’s what this next phase feels like—not an ending, but a renovation. A clearing out of noise, an internal spring cleaning. The face may change. The voice may deepen. But the story is just beginning.
The train may be slowing, but the journey isn’t over. It’s just a different kind of ride now. See you in the pages.
My Station Is Next": A Goodbye, and a New Beginning -
Kaise Zamane Ae Ghum e Jaana ..tere bahane yaad aaye ! To JaanaJee!
भूली बिसरी चंद उमीदें, चंद फ़साने याद आये, तुम याद आये और तुम्हारे साथ ज़माने याद आये
दिल का नगर शादाब था फिर भी ख़ाक सी उडती रहती थी, कैसे ज़माने ऐ गम -ए -जाना तेरे बहाने याद आये
ठंडी सर्द हवा के झोंके आग लगा कर छोड़ गये, फूल खिले शाखों पे नए और दर्द पुराने याद आये
हंसने वालों से डरते थे छुप छुप कर रो लेते थे, गहरी गहरी सोच में डूबे, दो दीवाने याद आये
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