A year and three months ago, I sent this Advisory: Fasten Your Seat Belt. And we thought things would change, right?

But no.

In August 2026, the Air India pilots took the passengers literally for a ride, injuring about 20 out of 145 on board. Well, the flight was from Phuket to Delhi, and naturally, the marijuana effect was suspected.

The Pilot, slept for 30 to 35 minutes, ignoring warning messages, when the altitude dropped to 300 ft. Somehow, the flight got steadied and landed safely.

Though he failed drug tests twice, sleep deprivation was another reason given.

Well, when most nations are on ‘auto-pilot’ mode, why should the flights not be?

The question remains: Should we stop flying? Na Na Nah. It is still, slightly, safe when we see roads & highways caving in, bridges falling, and heavy trucks getting stuck in potholes; we don’t know what fuel we are getting for our vehicles.

Until then, Ram Bharose!

But yes, there is no risk in subscribing to Ashnomics and commenting on this post. So go for it.

Riha

समझ

सोच को कुछ सोचकर तू सोच से कर दे रिहा…

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a month ago · 14 likes · 5 comments · Riha

You know there are no boundaries in creativity, and though I have no voice or talent in music except reading poems, lyrics, listening and humming [secretly], with Riha’s consent, I made this maiden attempt to sing her song and am audacious enough to post it here 🫣

If you like it, follow give her your best.

Reserve your critique exclusively for me. For this, you need to subscribe Ashnomics or follow on the App.

Ashok

Yet, early this month – thirteen years after his passing, as if my feet remembered the turns, the landmarks, the distance, and occasionally glancing over Google Maps, I walked [with my wife] from the temple to his then home.

It was as if that final walk had been quietly preserved, waiting to be retraced. That fascinates me.

The temple had stood there for centuries, witnessing countless arrivals and departures. It stood there when I walked with Satish. It stood there when I walked 13 years after his passing. Memory was not replaying an event. It was accompanying me.

And then, at his earlier dwelling home, reality returned with its quiet certainty: Satish was no longer there. Inside, only memory was alive.

But I felt his presence accompanying me –

· To his room, the hall in which he would sit, meditate and guide many;

· On the staircase walking up and down to the kitchen;

· In the kitchen where he would cook his own food, churn buttermilk for butter and then Ghee;

· At the dining table where we would share a meal, joke and talk endlessly until our hands turned dry.

That day, the absence spoke.

In my book “Corn on the Cob & Stories [Portraits of Life] at page 20 (Available on Amazon), I had wished for “one more day” with Satish.

But what I got was:

One more walk. One more conversation carried on memory. One more chance to say, without words.

My walk from the temple to his room completed the circle from the Eternal to the eternal truth of life.

The temple represented what endures beyond us.

Walking from one to the other was not merely a repetition of the route. It was a traverse of the distance between philosophy and experience, between the timeless and the mortal.

The temple teaches that life is transient. Satish taught me how to live it.

And on that walk, those two truths met: Not one more day. One more journey.

And on that journey, I discovered that some relationships do not end at a hospital, a farewell, or a passing. They continue as pathways within us, patiently waiting until we are ready to walk them again.

Some memories ask to be written.

Ashok

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He was like a Rock for all of us. A few lines as a remembrance:

“Anna was the sort of older brother every folklore quietly aspires to include, and he was for his family. A tall, dark complexion from years spent wrestling life outdoors, and handsome in that unbothered, bow-moustached way. He was forged not in gyms or libraries, but in sun, sweat, and street. Smart. If you were family, you knew this:

Anna would never hesitate to raise a hand—not in anger, but in protection. And if you were a threat? May the Gods help you, because Anna certainly would not.

Once, as a young lad, in a school party, he taught a lesson that no chalkboard ever held: when a teacher misbehaved with his friend, a girl too dignified to retaliate, Anna stepped in and thrashed the man. Not for glory. But because honour was muscle memory for him.

He told me this story decades later, not as a boast, but with a faraway smile. The kind of smile you wear when you have lived a life you do not regret, bruises included. “

“Anna was a giver. He used to shower unabashed love, affection, wisdom and including dry fruits, fresh fruits, or his time—he shared them all with neighbours and near-strangers. He relished yoghurt, cream, and cheese with the kind of joy children save for mischief.

Anna knew everything about automobiles and the business of manufacturing and marketing of spare parts. He gave his life for the business venture he co-founded with his friend. He was the go-to person in crisis, be it men or materials at the factory. He never believed anyone would cheat him. But alas! He was wrong. His friend did that. He lost everything, leaving a big blow on his health, denting his confidence when his children were yet to gather their feet.

Once all was safe and the children started earning, he returned to his normal self. Apart from the yoghurt and cheese, a bottle or two of a fine whisky always found its way to him, whenever I came home on leave during my stint with CRPF [Central Reserve Police Force]—not as bribes, but as tributes to a life well poured.

He was a giver. A protector. A bow-moustached angel in slippers.

And if heaven has challenges, whisky, and his favourite things, he’s right there—raising a toast, offering a dry fruit, and smiling at us from above. My personal anchor, my father.

He left behind a message: Overcoming obstacles helps you to develop the mental and emotional toughness and resilience needed to handle future setbacks, if you want to succeed in life.”

Ashok

I know, if you like this you will:

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Evincepub: https://evincepub.com/product/corn-on-the-cob-stories/

Amazon: https://www.amazon.in/dp/9373354256

Flipkart: https://www.flipkart.com/product/p/itme?pid=9789373354255

Ebook Channel-

Instamojo: https://evincepub.myinstamojo.com/product/corn-on-the-cob-stories-ebook

Soon it will also be available on Kindle.

Please give it a read and if you liked it, please write online review.

Ashok

(Image Courtesy: Saanya - my daughter, from Tadoba Tiger Resort)

दहकता मौसम, सावन अभी दूर है,
ऐसे में तेरा रूठना यह कैसा मंज़र है।

रूठना तेरी अदा है, मै इसके आदी 
तेरे मेरे दरमियान यह कैसी खामोशी।

कभी दिल दुखा हो कभी दर्द दिया हो
समय की धारा में उमर बह जानी है।

मुंह फेरे रहना माना अदा है तेरी 
मुड़ के देख इस तरफ, इल्तज़ा है मेरी।

न चाहो देखना मेरी सूरत ही सही
अपनी तो देख सुन्दरता इस पानी में सही।

अगर मगर कि बात नहीं दिल की सच्चाई है
समय की धारा है, उमर बीत जानी है।

चलो भुल जाते है सारे गिले शिकवे 
एक साथ अपने को देखते है
इस नहर में
झूमने फिर 
मदहोश।
.............

अशोक 

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My first book is getting released soooon…

Continue to extend your love as you have always been.

Ashok

1,2,3 and 4….

One is today. Watch this space, guys.

Ashok

Ignoring all of this, focusing on your inner peace and walking is as challenging as skating on the main road, dodging vehicles and people…

Suddenly, I saw this beauty. Not just scared of crows but also of humans who were either throwing stones at her or cursing her for crossing their path. Or even, for just being visible, thinking it would bring them bad luck. That was disturbing.

But why? Because it is black and a cat? Certainly, because it was black.

I went near her, taking out my phone camera, mid-growl perhaps, or mid-question. Eyes lit like two small lamps that refuse to go unnoticed—not posing. Not curated. Just… present. Instantly,

I felt she was talking to me. Animals read and understand your gestures and whispering. I am told even plants, too! If vibes are positive, they reciprocate.

It seemed to ask me something uncomfortable.

Why me?

Not in anger. Not even in fear. But in that quiet, piercing way, truth sometimes arrives—uninvited, unedited.

Everyone has a story to tell, their woes, their worries, issues, if you have an ear and heart to listen. And an eye to see that.

"You thought I was growling. No. I am asking, what exactly is wrong with you? Just because you think I am a bad omen." She said.

"You scroll past sunsets as they owe you money. You double-tap strangers’ lives as if approval is not needed. You click photos of clouds and coffee even when they are black.

You humans go to temples, pray before the image of God, which is generally cast in absolute black stone, but chastise a black cat, even near the temple.

You wear black, thinking it's power dressing.

But me?"

Tongue-tied I was, perhaps seeing me caring, she gestured for me to sit and allowed me to pat her. Her fur was as smooth as silk, and she blinked at me in approval.

Continuing, she said, " If misfortune had a face, would it really sit this still?

Look at me properly, not through folklore.

My eyes don’t glow to haunt you. They glow because I have learned to see in your darkness. My fur isn’t a warning. It is a mirror. I carry the night you are afraid to enter.

You fear me crossing your path. But I cross roads every day — dodging wheels, hunger, indifference, stones and curses. And somehow… I am still here.

You guys lie, cheat, ignore, scroll past suffering, yet blame a cat.

How efficient is that?"

These words hit me. Who she must have been in her last life - one of those proverbial nine lives? I wondered.

I understood where she was coming from and where she was leading. I offered her a few kibbles I was carrying.

She was unstoppable.

"You sit in silence when judges speak.

You rise when they enter. You lower your voice, your gaze, your ego.

And Lawyers?

Ah… crafty, you say. Word-weavers. Reality-benders.

They all wear black. You respect them too… cautiously, like handling a smiling knife.

But push me out even from there, which you call the Temple of Justice."

"So my questions disturb you. True?

Tell me, human —

When I look at you like this,

Is it because I judge you…

Or because you finally feel judged?

You respect those who officially decide right and wrong. "

"Rarely right but mostly wrong," I said.

She purred in approval, probably, but her eyes didn't look away.

"And that unsettles you more than any verdict.

You throw stones at me, but bow before people who throw words sharper than rocks.

At least I hiss before I strike. Can they say the same?"

The cat paused here… not for effect, but because it knows something deliciously ironic.

She was in full flow.

"Look again.

Not at my colour… but at the craft.

The way my eyes gather light from the dark.

The way my body moves like a question mark — curved, cautious, complete.

The way I survive without applause, without shelter, without your approval. At times, without food."

"If there is a creator you believe in, then I am not an error in its design.

So why punish the paint? And ignore the painter?

You speak of good and bad as if you authored both.

I wasn't created to carry your conclusions.

I was created… just as you were.

To exist.

To move.

To mean something beyond fear.

Respect that.

Not just in me…

But in everything that breathes without your permission.

Ignore the colour. Respect the creation.

Trust that if something exists, it was allowed to exist for a reason.

And if you must despise something…

let it be the part of you that needed a victim to feel safe."

"This is not about me. You do the same with fellow humans who have dark skin. When will you learn to respect them, their creator, and their contribution to society? "

Lastly, "Fear the Judgement."

The cat said nothing after this.

It doesn’t need to. It simply looked at us humans and me.

And for once, you don’t reach for a stone.

Give your 🤍 to this Beauty. Your comments will gladden her heart.

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In modern workplaces, Millennials and Zoomers [Gen Z], in particular, have no appetite for that old-school noise. They want to grow. They want to be heard. They want to lead, not be herded. They want someone who treats them as human beings, not worker-bots.

Today, you need a completely different kind of leadership - the kind that doesn’t shout. Doesn’t intimidate.

Let’s understand Carlo Ancelotti. A man who has managed Real Madrid, AC Milan, Chelsea, and Bayern. A man who commanded dressing rooms full of egos the size of small planets—a man who has won trophies without ever raising his voice enough to disturb a houseplant.

Carlo Ancelotti’s “Quiet Leadership” is basically a playbook for leaders who don’t need to roar to run an empire. For that matter, even a classroom.

Carlo starts with this simple truth: players are human beings first and footballers second. For him, respect is not a tactic. It is the culture.

Through the book, he takes us behind the velvet curtain of football’s biggest stages. Milanello. Valdebebas. Munich. London. Locker rooms where superstars orbit like asteroids. And instead of wrestling egos, he listens, observes, and understands. He reads people like seasoned sailors read the winds.

Zlatan. Pirlo. Cristiano. Beckham. These aren’t just names. They’re cathedrals of confidence. Yet with Carlo, they softened, trusted, and followed.

Not because he imposed his will, but because he built relationships where talent could breathe.

Carlo walks the touchline with the serenity of a man listening to jazz in his head.

Calm in chaos. Stillness in the storm. And that quietness? That’s where his strength lives.

He teaches leaders something most corporate bosses, not just corporate but every workplace, forget:

• Composure is contagious.

• Empathy is rocket fuel.

• And understanding people is how you achieve extraordinary performance in ordinary moments.

I think not just in modern workplaces but also in educational institutions, the empathy, clarity and humility - the essence of Quiet Leadership is equally applicable.

His personal journey is full of turning points that shaped this philosophy. Early failures taught him humility. Early successes taught him restraint. And iconic teams that taught him the power of collective belief.

When he says leadership is about building trust, nurturing culture, and knowing your people as individuals, he isn’t giving motivational-poster advice. He is describing the architecture of his success.

After leaving Real Madrid at 66, he is now coaching Brazil for the 2026 World Cup.

His playbook is for anyone leading a team, running a project, mentoring talent, or creating an environment where even a bright intern feels comfortable.

It forces you to re-evaluate your style.

• Do you listen before you act?

• Do you make space for your team to thrive?

• Do you lead with wisdom, humility, and passion instead of fossilised philosophies from the Jurassic era of management?

Breathing down your colleagues’ necks… bullying… micromanaging… all of that has the same result: people leave, creativity dies, and progress sinks faster than a phone in a swimming pool.

Today, the world doesn’t need louder leaders.

It needs quieter ones who can be the most powerful in offices, classrooms, teams, and families, and in communities.

Not louder leaders. Just wiser ones. Yes. Just quiet and wiser ones.

If you want to understand real leadership — the kind that wins loyalty, trust, and results, I would recommend “Quiet Leadership.”

And maybe… just maybe… it can help you adopt a bit of that quiet strength.

Cheers to that!

Ashok

And before you go:

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“बेइश्क़ आदमी की ज़रा भी शान नहीं

जिसको न होवे इश्क़ वो आदमी ही नहीं।”

हम भी उन दिनों इसके मरीज़ थे और कभी कभार कलम कागज़ के ज़रिए, आप ही की तरह, कुछ लिखा करते थे जो आज अचानक से हमारे हाथ लगे। १९७६ में अंग्रेज़ी में लिखा था जिसका तर्जुमा हिन्दी में पेश है ।

This was the very first poem I had written in 1976. I thought I had lost that paper but, just like memories, it has suddenly surfaced. Also, there are three others. Both English and its Hindi translation is up for your scrutiny.

Amisha and These guys write so well.

पढ़ कर लाईक और अपने कॉमेंट्स दर्ज नहीं करोगे?

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Breezing past dim streetlights and distant dog barks, after having crossed Powai, we were about to enter the road through Aarey forest. It was well past midnight and the driver was grumbling to take that road.

“Sir…” the driver said, voice low almost choking, “last chance to take diversion.”

I glanced at him. “You’ve said that twice now. What’s here?”

“Stories that don’t end well.”

We drove in anyway. The road narrowed, swallowed by trees that leaned inward like conspirators. After a cluster of houses, few closed shops except cigarette kiosk, some guys chatting up in the darkness over beers, we passed through film studios; gates appeared rusted and chained. Some Row Houses stood scattered that generally are rented for loud nights and forgotten mornings.

“This place…” the driver muttered, “people come for parties. Some never go back the same.”

“Or don’t go back at all?” I asked.He didn’t answer.

Then, as if summoned by that unfinished sentence…She appeared. Walking slowly from the opposite side. Not frantic. Not lost.

But waiting.

“Sir, don’t stop,” the driver said sharply.

But something in me refused. May be pity for she must have lost her way or stranded.

“Stop the car.” I said.

She approached. The headlights revealed fragments first. Bare feet touching gravel. Torn fabric brushing against her knees. Hair disheveled, yet strangely composed.

I gestured her to get in.

She opened the door and sat next to me as the car moved.

“Thank you,” she said. Her voice… didn’t match her appearance.

It was steady. Refined. Almost… rehearsed.

Offering her water, “Where can I drop you?” I asked.

"Home." She gave an address. Neel Ratna building, 8th Road, Gopaldas Hall, Malad West.

Despite AC, it wasn't cold but felt heavier.

“You shouldn’t be here,” the driver muttered under his breath.

She smiled faintly. “Neither should you.”

“What happened?” I asked.

She took a moment. As if choosing which version of her story deserved to be told.

“I went to meet someone,” she began. “Someone who said he loved me. It was a party in a nearby row house. Loud music. Too many people. Too many eyes.”

Horror was gathering in driver's eyes and sweat on his temple as I could see in the mirror.

“I wanted to leave,” she continued. “But he didn’t.” Her voice thinned. “He said love means staying.”

“And you didn’t agree?” I asked.

She turned slightly. For a moment, her face caught the light. There was no fear in it. Only memory.

“I tried to leave.”

As the car passed over a rough patch the lights flickered. When they steadied…her dress looked more torn than before.

Or maybe I hadn’t seen it properly earlier.

“They locked the door,” she said quietly. “Music was loud. No one heard me.”

The driver’s breathing had become more audible.

“What happened then?” I asked, though something inside me begged not to.

She didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, she looked at her hands again as her fingers moved absently over the seat. I noticed them.

“These nails…” she said softly, almost fondly, “I painted them that evening. They dried while I was waiting.”

“For what?” I asked.

She looked at me.

“For someone to help.”

Silence pressed in.

Outside, the forest thickened. The road seemed longer than it should be.

“I got out,” she said suddenly. “I ran.”

Her voice carried a strange pride now.

“My dress tore. I fell. I got up again.”

I could almost see it. The darkness. The panic. The desperate sprint toward nothing.

“I was thirsty,” she added. “I wanted to go home.”

Her lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Cars passed.”

My throat tightened. “And?”

“They slowed.” After a pause, she said, “Then they sped away. No one offered water or to help reach me home."

I offered her water again. During those pauses, I couldn't see her face any more, just a silhouette. I didn't know what made me courageous and not in panic.

“I reached the road,” she continued. “I waved. I begged.”

Her voice softened into something fragile.

“No one stopped.”

“Because they were afraid?” I asked.

She nodded. “They thought I would kill them.”

A faint laugh escaped her. Dry. Hollow.

“Funny… isn’t it?”

"I have been on this road for many years now, searching for him, for spiking my drink, spoiling my life and hurting and leaving me here for dead. I just did him in. I am free now." She said.

Suddenly, her hands reappeared on the seat explaining the mud on her nails. "Some are not lucky, still finding their way home." She said.

Untouched by the chaos she described, her perfect painted nails with some red stains and mud explained everything.

The street lights ahead began to grow stronger.

We were leaving the stretch.

And then—

For the first time, I saw her completely.

Her dress was indeed torn. Her feet were bruised. There was dried dirt along her arms and fingers.

But her face…

Untouched. Calm.Almost peaceful.

Like someone who had stopped needing help.

After a while, we reached the building she mentioned. It stood quiet, like it had secrets sealed in concrete.

The car stopped.

I turned slightly. “You’re home.”

She smiled. “Finally.”

And for the first time… I saw her clearly.

Completely. She was… perfect.

Not a scratch. Not a tear in her clothes. Not a strand of hair out of place.

But her eyes—

They held something unfinished.

She nodded.

“Thank you… for listening, and dropping me home which I never reached,” she whispered.

The words slipped into the car like cold wave.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

She turned to me. Eyes steady.

“I am still trying. What's remaining there or in life now? Perhaps a closure."

The door opened.

I heard it. Clearly.

But I didn’t see her leave.

The seat was empty, though.

The driver let out a sound that was half-breath, half-prayer as we heard the door shut.

The driver quickly turned the car. Faster this time but without missing a beat, he said " Sir, look at those posters on the walls about this girl gone missing."

A beautiful, serene face of a young girl with details.

And somewhere in the city’s sleepless veins, if some one like her walks.

Not to haunt.

Not to harm.

But to ask a question that no one wants to answer at 2 a.m.

If you stop… she would reach home, earlier than never?

Think about it. Or just driving past.

Ashok

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Times are such that discussions about cafes and over coffee, hot or cold, are better than the politics. Discussion about politicians and those relating to their gas, garbage and gossip deserves not even a cutting chai from a street vendor.

Coffee intoxicated that I am, I don’t remember on which Wednesday of the last few weeks, I was on cafe trail and had the hilarious experience. Hold your cup tight.

These days Cafe guys in the true spirit of “ What’s in a Name?” are christening their venture with names like Nandan, Cavin, Yadav, and imaginatively Modi’s Cafe, somewhere in Mumbai. I am not sure if it is still working. Then some with Sky, Earth, Jungle, Garden, Mountain, Black River, Goat, Camel. But Cafe Chameleon? Are these guys kidding? Is the last one dedicated to any politico? You bet.

Then absurdity goes wild, as it always: There are cafes with names such as Yellow, Pink, Green but there is one that takes the Oscar - inspired by Twitter(X), Cafe Blue Tick depicting Twitter’s blue tick, at a place in Rural Maharashtra.

And they all seem to be doing good business.

Move aside Starbucks and Barista. Your time is up unless you hire a new creative team.

Where was I? Bear with my coffee intoxication please.

Yes. We were visiting Borivali so thought of walking into a newly opened, celebrity owned (Shankar Mahadevan) Cafe Malgudi. I was ‘breathless’.

Barking on the reputation of Malgudi Days by RK Narayan, this cafe looked nice but service not perfected yet - our order was delivered to some other table but coffee which was to be served, after the food, arrived first. At our table. (That joy of having filter coffee before and after food is only at Cafe Madras in Matunga). About the quality? Well, the mouth freshner was unique and excellent!!

Returning back, we heard there was this Cafe Blondie, somewhere in the bylanes of Bandra. Calling ‘bylanes’ to roads in Bandra is kind of blasphemy, you know. Btw Blondie was a famous comic character in the 19th century which keeps appearing now and then.

Crowd was mixed, age-wise, but equally boisterous and thoroughly enjoying. Good vibes and smart staff. New age cafe but also serves Idli, Dosa and Vada (Well, Shilpa Shetty has a considerable stake in it. So, what else you can expect?). They also serve Benne Dosa - the high cholesterol, dripping with butter or ghee. This is a new craze, fav food of this generation and their predecessors. Elderly were digging into it hiding from their ‘control freak’ children. Cardiac surgeons, jokingly I must say, would soon require currency notes counting machines.

The real Blondie must be RoFL.

And then came a Wednesday. We trooped in ‘Cafe Chicory’ in the island city. This is basically a South Indian restaurant in the garb of a Cafe. They go fifty shades ahead of Blondie, serving vegetarian thali. More than two persons were eager to take our order. And about the coffee? They churn the froth separately and top it on the coffee. Now hold your breath - the milk that they add is full of cream (pieces of Malai). Well. They don't have tasty mouth freshner like Cafe Malgudi. Very bad.

For a good coffee, step into a restaurant few shops away called Poornima Restaurant. A strong coffee and you will start humming ‘Bhool gaya sub kuchh….’

As I am turning sober from coffee intoxication, I think I should seek refuge at Veronica’s in Bandra. Veronica - a character from Archies comic. But then, Veronica was a character in Marvel movie, there was a mystery and horror movie with that name. I don't know about a Band with that name. Do you?

Do you see the image above? The entrance wall is painted with words ‘Hey Saint. Please. Help me. Lost. And some huge pipes which probably are to eject (mild substitute to ‘throw’) people out if they complain about the coffee. Hope not. Pray.

Until my next report, Ciao.

Won't you

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I assure you a coffee at Veronica's.

Not one who can be harnessed, the CA hit further hard, “Being honest is usually described as a virtue.” I offered a chair to the Head of Accounts to sit and a glass of fruit juice to chill. My Vice with Virtue.

True. Honesty is a personal trait, a kind of character of a person. Some thing like a moral badge pinned neatly on the chest unlike that Medal one Country Head gives to the other. Hahaha.

But the moment honesty steps out of the soul and into the world of work, it quietly changes its avatar. It becomes a service.

Isn't it when you execute a project with honesty, deliver a service with honesty, or run a business with honesty, honesty is no longer just a character trait. It becomes a product. A service. Something that is consumed, evaluated, complained about, and sometimes returned.

And the uncomfortable truth is: Every product and every service needs maintenance. For instance, honesty, like an automobile, faces wear and tear.

Deadlines create pressure. Clients test patience. Traffic jams the temperament. Emails pile up to respond.

And then, chaos follow - you loose cool. Temper flares. Tone slips. Intent remains honest, but delivery develops dents and scratches.

At that moment, honesty hasn’t vanished. It just needs servicing. But are there any service providers for this? Mumbai has quiet geniuses.

“ Sar jo tera chakaraye, ya dil duba jaye, aaja pyare pas hamare, kahe ghabaraye, kahe….” Exactly.

They understand something we rarely articulate: Honesty is not a permanent state. It is a working condition. It needs updates. Occasional repairs. Periodic cooling.

Walk through the city and you’ll find service providers who have industrialised honesty itself:

Honesty Plumbing Services

Do they attend when honesty is leaking. Drip by drip, and then say, “Minor issue, sir. Seal loose?”

Honesty Cooling Services

For moments when honesty overheats. Too much friction. Needs gas refill and emotional ventilation.

Honesty Repair Services

Any thing for cracked promises, loose commitments, and worn-out assurances? Original spare parts not guaranteed, but functionality restored.

Honesty Gas Services

Because sometimes honesty runs out unexpectedly, right in the middle of execution.

And of course, there is something called - Honesty Trading Corporation

I don't know if they buy, sell, or exchange - old honesty with new. Slightly used honesty negotiable and bulk honesty available for corporate orders🤔 Plenty of options.

Before you start calling them up…They may not be actually servicing honesty but the names make us laugh, and the insight behind them is profound. Right?

Here are my two cents (That damned US $ is very expensive): The truly dangerous honesty is not the one that admits it needs service. It’s the one that claims lifetime warranty.

In the real world, the most reliable honesty is not pristine. It’s maintained. And perhaps that’s why this city doesn’t worship honesty. It services it.

Regularly. Pragmatically. Honestly.

Until the next inspiration, bye guys!

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Lots of love!

Ashok

Up there, the moon keeps his solitude gracious, loyal to his favourite star that may not even know she is missed. Beyond the frame, the distance makes the feeling tender, not tragic. His light is clean because it is undivided.

Down below, the golden glow from street lights and shop signs live differently. They glow while being looked at, brushed past, leaned against, photographed, ignored, loved in fragments. Especially women when they move through their circle, carrying laughter, fatigue, perfume, and purpose.

The small moon-like lights long for none. They participate. They warm whoever passes through without asking to be chosen.

The moon is lonely but faithful.

The lights - surrounded but unattached.

One desires a single star.

The others are content with a thousand glances.

And that is the quiet ache of the scene. Sometimes the loneliest presence is the one most complete in itself, while the most crowded spaces glow because they have learned a gentler truth:

“Intimacy does not always mean exclusivity. Sometimes it simply means being present, visible, and kind to whoever walks by.”

On the streets below, the golden lights glow like shy echoes of him. Little moons practicing warmth. They gather around people, especially women moving through the evening with gentle purpose, their presence turning ordinary streets into something almost ceremonial. Laughter brushes the air. Footsteps become rhythm.

There is no envy between sky and street.

Only harmony.

The moon watches, benevolent and calm, as if blessing these ‘borrowed constellations.’ The lights, in return, mirror him imperfectly, lovingly, saying:

महताब तेरा चेहरा, हर ख़्वाब एक साया

यह मेहनूर तुझ से ही तो पाया..

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Lots of Love

Ashok

This work (नज़्म )was shared by my friend Sami Ahmed Quraishi to which I gave voice on my YouTube channel some time back.

Sami has written these so well I couldn't resist reading them.

I am sure you would also love listening to them, and when you like them please record your likes, comment if you have anything to express. And I would love if you subscribe this newsletter and my YouTube channel.

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On one side: “Is it proper to write about her on Valentine’s Day?”

On the other hand: “Is it possible not to?”

Because this is not gossip. Not trespass. Not sensational recall. This is gratitude.

Forever young, she was born on 14 February 1933, a cosmic mischief of timing! The universe stamped her arrival with a red rose seal. If Valentine’s Day celebrates love, then surely it must also accommodate admiration, nostalgia, and gratitude for the beauty that shaped generations.

A crush in the fifth or sixth grade is not a scandal. It is an initiation. A boy discovering that beauty can glow from a black-and-white screen brighter than any classroom tubelight. Before legal codes. Before moral philosophy. That was also before a librarian named Shagufta began rearranging heartbeats between dusty shelves. (Remember my earlier post on her?)

You were not loving a woman you knew. You were loving an idea. A shimmer. A possibility.

When she smiles in Mughal-e-Azam, time folds politely.

When she appears in Chalti Ka Naam Gaadi, laughter becomes oxygen.

And I thundered. Tell me, Counsellor, what law prohibits remembrance?

Which statute criminalises admiration across decades?

Which section penalises a boy’s harmless thunderbolt moment in a cinema hall or a ‘ generational crush’?

In adolescence and adulthood, Valentine’s Day is about love in all its forms.

Romantic. Nostalgic. Impossible. Cinematic.

Writing about her today is not moral confusion. It is symmetry. She was born on a day now dedicated to love.

Madhubala left the world stage at the age of 36. Her tomb has vanished from the cemetery grounds, but she has a mausoleum built in celluloid and sighs. No bulldozer can level that.

The grave may be gone. The gaze is not.

She remains preserved in frames, in collective memory, and in the quiet corners of hearts that once beat a little faster in cinema halls. In images. In memories.

A tribute, then, is not indulgence. It is continuity.

And perhaps, on this Valentine’s Day, it is simply a gentleman’s way of saying: thank you. 🌹

You are not laying roses on marble.

You are laying words on memory.

And perhaps that is better.

Marble erodes. Earth crumbles. But words linger.

And the Romance Wins!

Happy Valentine’s Day, Madhubala 🌹

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For years, IKEA has been planning special Valentine's Day events worldwide. Its global sales are now reported to have declined by 1% for the last two years. It's huge for it. This time around, it's all boring. Something like-

• Table for Two, five-course dinner with doodle art competition

• Make your dream bouquet. Bouquet?

• Select furniture and assemble... Under a watch of course.

• Sip and Paint

• In-store dates for singles

• Children's party...... really?

Nevertheless, if you were venture into assembling furniture, you might misplace the 'Allen Key'. Remember, that key is for happiness, not for breaking a relationship.

Now, before you fall in love or have already, better test it. That’s right.

You know how people say, “Love just happens”. No. Love doesn’t just happen.

Love is… tested. You have to make it happen. Usually in places nobody puts on Instagram.

Buying roses, chocolates, icecream, is such LS. The expectations are high. Here is what you can do:

Cafe Trips

Not for the coffee but conversation. Caution: know before hand what the other prefers tea or coffee. And to make things worse, there are varieties of coffee - good, bad and ugly.

Once upon a time, in a park, I asked her what she would like to have, and she said coffee. Aghast, I found there were only tea & ice-cream stalls and none catered coffee. I thought I was doomed but that evening the Lady Luck was on the rounds and love didn't desert me.

Coming back, if you can sit for 30 minutes:

• without checking your phone,

• without pretending to be interested,

• without interviewing each other like HR does.

There’s something there.

If one person is talking and the other is scrolling. That’s not a date. That’s a parallel existence.

Shopping & Trial Room Endurance

Now shopping. Specifically… trial rooms. You are also on trial. There are colours, and there are shades with funny names - understand the difference.

If someone is standing outside holding:

• Your purse, not your mobile, though

• five clothes

• three sizes

• One colour both hate

And still says, “Try one more”— Even if he doesn't pay for it.... Hahaha

That’s love. That’s Olympic-level patience.

Retail doesn’t test wallets. It tests character.

Experimenting with a Live-in?

Live-in relationships expose truths no poetry can hide. Even if it is for a day. It's like Bathroom Truth Serum. Forget toothpaste.

Let’s talk bathrooms.

• Wet floors

• Towels on beds; clothes on floors, tampers flare

• Hair in places hair shouldn’t be

• Empty toilet paper rolls were placed back like a prank

If you survive shared bathrooms without “passive-aggressive” silence, you’re ready for commitment with the hope or resolve that it can change for the better.

This is where romance meets reality.

Men: The washing machine doesn't pick up your clothes from the floor or take soap, and start automatically.

Of course, GenZ is forcing the manufacturers to introduce that feature. There is hope. Thank them later.

Travel: Personality Under Pressure

Better avoid it. You will most likely miss the flight and lose her bag (an important asset). Instead of actually going to Miami, you would land in the Miami housing society in Panvel.

Driving to a place? Avoid blindly following Google Maps. You might land on a bridge, in the middle of nowhere or on a bridge passing through a building or that infamous ‘4 to ka 2’ [lanes] bridge.

She expects a fine-dining experience, not your favourite roadside stall in Kalamboli for Vada Pav.

Travel doesn’t change people. It can bring them together, provided you follow this advice.

Cooking Together?

Good choice! One becomes a head chef. But be careful. It isn't as easy as boiling water, if you know how to, man.

Don't try to "help" and meddle. Just do it.

Please follow her cooking instructions - one inch Ginger means perfect one inch, understand the difference between a tea spoon, a table spoon and a soup spoon.

Slurp tea, soup or eat Dosa with a fork and knife at your risk.

The pressure cooker is tricky. However, you may be good at counting ten, but counting the number of whistles will trip you when the instructions are to turn the gas on sim after three whistles.

When cooking dinner, don’t burn the dinner or the relationship to earn the rating as “compatible.”

Better order food. Na tera na mera. Blame it on Rio... Sorry Zomato.

Love is also about survival. You know.

Coming to Conversation.

Conversation means plain conversation. Just because you are either studying law or already a lawyer doesn't mean you have a fundamental right to argue. Keep that Constitution book in your pocket. And for a change, don't follow the principles from that book “Thank You for Arguing.”

If your love survives that, cross your heart.

Men, even if your lady-love likes flowers, that doesn't mean you should present a bouquet of 1000 roses, however expensive they are on Valentine's Day, and expect her to make Gulkand and gift you the next day. Don’t be a Braveheart.

And one last thing: don't narrate to her what you wrote or intend to write on Substack.

Enjoy your day, but don’t legalise love too early. St.Valentine cautions:

"Marriage isn't a competition with your friends, and when you rush into marriage, you are likely to rush out with injuries"

That prompts me to hum a song from Jagate Raho-

“Te ki main jhooth bolya, koi na

Te ki main kufar tolya, koi na

Te ki main zehar gholya

koi na, bhai koi na, bhai koi na…

Balle balle balle balle”

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An artist's work on discarded postcards, displayed at Mumbai ‘s Kala Ghoda Festival found a place.

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