At a time when we have access to so much information about people, it makes me wonder: is that the same as really knowing someone?

Before meeting someone for the first time, you might know where they grew up, where they went on their last vacation, their political beliefs, or the kind of music they listen to when they want the internet to know they have good taste. You might even know a little something about the darkest period of their life, and the names of their best friends, or that they have an illustrated portrait of their pet hanging in their bedroom.

By the time they sit across from you, you are already familiar with the many versions of them from their past. Social media has made it hard to meet people without already having constructed an idea of them in your head. When you meet them for the first time, you rarely meet them for the first time.

But let’s not forget: having access to information on someone isn’t the same as building intimacy with them.

You might know someone loves travelling, but you don’t know whether they are patient or irritated when a flight is delayed. You might know where they stand on the political spectrum, but you don’t know how they treat someone who disagrees with them. You can know they love spending time with their friends, but you won’t know how they make people feel in their presence.

Perhaps one of life’s greatest pleasures is in the slow discovery of someone. It is a quiet and exciting experience: getting to know someone, and discovering who you become in the process. Because I believe it is an experience that does not simply reveal the other person, but also acts as a mirror to you. There is joy in the uncertainty of not knowing what you might discover about them—and yourself.

Because you learn somebody with intent. And that requires time.

It demands paying attention, time, effort, planning, calling, checking in—rather than choosing to be a passive observer of someone’s life from the other end of a screen, and deciding whether or not they are interesting enough for you.

Human beings are always more complicated, twisted, and yet surprisingly beautiful than the stories you hear about them or the versions of themselves they project online.

Being familiar with their toughest battles because they posted about it online isn’t the same as witnessing how their voice shivers, or how their eyes carry both tender wisdom and pain when they sit across from you and talk about it. Seeing their happy moments online isn’t the same as having the privilege of witnessing that joy radiate through their eyes.

I guess it isn’t about whether we know too much about someone before we give them the chance to reveal themselves to us. Perhaps we are forgetting what it’s like to actually sit across from someone and pay attention to them. How their eyes turn a bright gold when the sunlight falls on them, how the curve of their thumb rests around the edges of a pen, or how they break into unexpected laughter at a terrible joke.

The internet can confuse access with intimacy. But some things can only be known in real time.

Some things can only be experienced by being there.

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There was a time when you could do nothing without announcing it. You could sip your hot cup of chai, read a novel, or just admire the sunlight falling onto your windowsill without turning it into a ‘slow-living moment’. And then digital culture happened, and the ordinary turned into content.

Now reading a book means you have intellect and personality. Travelling the world means you have free will and a zest for life. A basic three-step night routine means you have your life together. Going for a walk has become a ‘reset’. Even doing nothing and simply existing has, in itself, become an aesthetic moment worth documenting.

There is something undeniably performative about the way we live online now.

And, your honour, I plead guilty.

I too have been an active participant in this culture. And in many ways, aren’t we all? We share the things we love, we curate our lives to fit a mood board, and eventually find ourselves exhausted. So we occasionally take a step back, only to watch everybody else perform instead. Even when you choose not to perform, you are observing. And when you are not observing, you are still passively consuming.

But hear me out. Somewhere between trying to fight the irony of it, and wanting to share the things I love with the world, I have come to realise something deeper.

Yes, a lot of the internet has become performative, but that doesn’t automatically make the feeling behind it fake. We love to romanticise life, and the real question isn’t why we love to romanticise everything.

It is who the romanticising is for.

It isn’t always about convincing other people that your life is beautiful. Sometimes, it is about asking yourself to look close enough and accept that it is.

I know, ‘romanticising life’ has become ridiculously overused. But I think there is a lot of power in choosing to pay attention. A solo date, your office commute, putting on wired earphones and pretending you are the main character as the music fades the world outside, dancing in the rain, journalling; celebrating ordinary moments and turning them into something grand. These are just ways of believing that an otherwise unremarkable Tuesday can feel just as good.

I say, romanticise your life and do it with passion. Romanticise your growth, the way lovers love, or the echoes of the words left unsaid, how sunsets excite you, how your mother’s iconic recipe tastes on your tongue, the quiet moments shared between a prolonged hug, the way your bangles rustle everytime you flip your hair, the runner’s high you feel as it releases every tension in your body, buying flowers for yourself, hell, romanticise doing nothing and turn it into an art of stillness, if you must, but don’t stop noticing. Don’t let the performative nature of online culture make you suspicious of every small pleasure.

Share the moment if you want to, or don’t if you believe there is something sacred in enjoying a moment nobody else knows happened. Because there is no right or wrong way to experience life.

The internet can be exhausting because sometimes even authenticity feels curated, but maybe, it has also allowed us to create magic where it doesn’t exist: to make meaning out of the ordinary.

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The regular fifteen minutes spent doom-scrolling on Instagram look like this: a series of unhinged reels—AI-generated dog couples fighting, the vegetable community having interpersonal affairs, Erling Haaland, BookTok, GRWM videos, Japan travelogues, more Haaland, paid influencers selling you a product or an experience, and then, the small ‘content creators’ simply creating.

Often, you can’t help but think: “Every second person is doing the same thing.” True. But every person is also trying to create something in their own distinctive voice and style just because they can.

The point is, if every second person you scroll past is creating something, it isn’t always a sign of performance. It is the evidence of democratisation of art. And here’s why you should celebrate it rather than dismissing it—because the internet has become a global stage for a world that has finally decided that its interests, hobbies, perspectives, and growth, are worth documenting—and for that reason alone, we should stop rolling our eyes and simply let them.

The digital age has provided us with the ability to exist as more than consumers. You get to be a storyteller, a curator, a dancer, a traveller, an artist, among other things, but more importantly, you get to be you and you get to find people who love you for being you.

We must stop viewing content creation solely through the lens of ‘influencing’ and performance. When you move past the obsession with metrics, you will find something much more interesting than the content itself: thousands of people reclaiming their right to self-expression. Not everybody on the internet is chasing numbers (although admittedly, validation always makes one feel good), some people can truly find purpose in the act of creating and sharing the sake of the act itself.

It isn’t cringe but courage when someone chooses to put something they love doing into the world despite the risk of indifference. Every digital diary entry, weekend vlog, cleaning routine, book review, slow living, fast living, and monthly dumps help add a layer to the human experience. So when we prioritise passion over performance, we make the internet feel warmer and more human.

With all its facets, the internet has always been a medium for human connection. When we reduce every post to its performance value, we turn it into a saturating culture of buying and selling. But sometimes it is just a regular person trying to say, “I was here. I felt something. I enjoyed this, and I want to share that joy.”

Not everything you see online is intended to break the internet. Some things are merely there to connect hearts. Maybe a ‘Quotes I Read Recently’ carousel had something you needed to hear today. Maybe a ‘book recommendation’ that randomly popped into your feed helped you plan a gift for your book lover friend. Maybe somebody’s oversharing healed something in you they didn’t break. Maybe somebody’s music cover brought you solace. Maybe somebody’s honest ordinary morning routine made you believe your life is no less meaningful just because you don’t have a happening weekend marked on your calendar.

People on the internet can make you feel like you are falling behind. But people on the internet can also make you feel like you aren’t the only one. They remind us that there is always someone who has had the same experience as you—grief, heartbreak, existential crisis, or this feeling you can’t name or explain—reminding us that in this vast world, there is a corner for everyone to fit in and feel like they belong. That’s because the internet is big enough for everyone—so let the creators create.

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I look at my parents and try to imagine the children they once were. The little boy who loved flying kites and climbing trees. The little girl who loved fruit as much as the feeling of the breeze brushing past her hair while she cycled—the versions of them I will never know, but ones that are frozen in a time that continues to exist as memories and anecdotes.

When I watch any dog sleep, I can’t help but marvel at how peaceful they look. How their small paws twitch every few seconds, probably because they are galloping on all fours, dreaming of seeing their human at the far end of a field, clapping, cheering for them as they fetch the ball. Or perhaps they are chasing a cat. Whatever the dream, they look so peaceful that I’m certain if peace were a tangible thing, it would look like this.

When I watch children playing, with their gap-toothed smiles and wide-eyed wonder, an epiphany hits: one day, I woke up and I was 27. Maybe I’m exactly where I hoped to be or maybe there’s still a long way ahead. But it doesn’t matter, because for a moment I ache to be ten again, back when I had the privilege of not knowing how cruel the world could be. Or 16, when my teenage rebellion and angst became the fuel for my ambition. Or 22, when I got my first taste of independence and it felt so exciting.

Now, I’m old enough to laugh at the paradox of life: We spend our youth desperate to grow up, and our adulthood longing to be young again.

When I walk into a bookstore, the bright, beautiful covers with their large, bold titles draw me to them. There is a whole world of knowledge and imagination waiting to be uncovered beneath those covers.

But then I think, perhaps the beauty of bookstores isn’t just in their quiet charm and whimsy; it is in the fact that bookstores don’t discriminate—words born from the minds of individuals across every religion, caste, nationality, and gender, share the same room where no one person is greater or smaller, they are all humans with stories.

When my co-worker and I have the mandatory tea breaks (pun intended), I already know they will take black coffee, no sugar, because they like their coffee strong. I find beauty in the way people reveal themselves without even realising it. There is a trace of someone’s being in every tiny ritual they cling to.

Sometimes I get to watch strangers help each other on the street, and I am reminded that somewhere in the quiet gestures, in this loud and scary world, kindness still has a place.

I write these reflections to better understand the world around me. What is the one small, quiet moment that caught your attention today?

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Every once in a while it is necessary to take a digital detox and step out of the online world albeit for a few days or a few hours. But disconnecting from social media isn’t for the weak. Not being online means that at some point during the day (or worse, the night), you are forced to sit alone with your thoughts. And we all know it’s not always pretty in there. (Caution: Especially if it’s past 12 am)

As entertaining, validating, informative and educational as social media is, it can also be exhausting, and at times even triggering. I often get tired of seeing the same content—the desperation, the pretentiousness, the hatred, the stupidity, the pressure of being abreast with a trend, or the constant texting and the obligation to respond—but most of all, people’s picture perfect lives.

I whole heartedly believe that everyone deserves to be happy, healthy, in love, and abundant in life, and that nothing worthwhile comes easily. But here’s the thing: it isn’t the curated moments that bother me—it’s the questions they trigger; it’s the desire for the things I don’t have yet; the love I haven’t received; the milestones I haven’t achieved. I know there are no fixed timelines and that everything in life is transient but, I’m no monk living on a mountain. I’m just a human who sometimes lies awake at night and can’t escape the daunting thought: am I falling behind?

And when it’s not about the things that haven’t happened yet, it’s about the things that did. I should’ve probably taken the job offer that paid me less but aligned with my passion. I should’ve walked out of the relationship the moment it started to feel unequal. I should have spent more time with the people I couldn’t say a proper goodbye to. I should’ve handled a certain situation differently. I should’ve been kinder to myself. I should’ve known better. I should’ve done better.

When you’ve spent time on a hospital bed, fighting for your life, there comes a point eventually when you realise that the fact that you’re still here means that it wasn’t for nothing. You are still here because so many beautiful things, so many ‘canon events’, and so many milestones still await you.

Maybe there is peace in death but there’s beauty in the chaos that comes with being alive. Even if it means you sometimes spend your most isolating moments questioning your self worth and your purpose. But everything will make sense if you allow it to.

Maybe your battle wasn’t on a hospital bed. Maybe it was a heartbreak that made you feel your days have lost all their meaning. Or maybe it was the loss of a parent that made you believe life lost all its purpose to exist. Maybe it was a panic attack all alone in a different part of the world with no one to hold you and make you feel safe. Maybe it was when you lost your dream job and almost believed that you’re not good enough. Or perhaps it’s the way Imposter Syndrome pays its uninvited visit and you can’t help but second guess your calling. And yet, somehow, magically, you still made it through. And you always will.

Both things can exist at the same time. You can be resentful but still choose to forgive. You can want someone and still let them go. You can be scared to give your heart again but still allow people the chance to give you the love you deserve. You can be insecure of your body and still choose to work on it. You can fear failure and still refuse to give up. You can carry grief in every space you enter and yet still find a reason to breathe. You can feel like you are falling behind and still hold the belief that you are exactly where you’re supposed to be.

There is no rush. There’s only ever the fleeting thought that no matter what, you are destined for better, and that it will arrive when you choose to be happy—not for the present you that’s spiralling, but for the future version of you that will revisit this exact moment and be grateful you fought your way through.

It takes just one bad thought to spiral. But it also takes just one positive thought to break the cycle. It’s like a spark; if you act on it, it will ignite and light up the room. I hope you find your spark. And when you can’t, I hope you find your way back to these words that remind you that you are part of a conversation so many of us have with ourselves. Don’t rush to get ahead, just stay here.

This is where your life is happening.

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There are so many things in life to become great at. Countless options, and yet somehow, people don’t talk enough about wanting to be good at the one thing that really matters—love. I want to be good, no, great at love. And when I’m gone, I want to be remembered for the love I left behind—the kind where the flame never stops burning, the river keeps flowing, the flowers keep blooming, and the sun keeps shining. If immortality exists, it will exist in the love I offered.

I want to be great at love. I want to look into the mirror and admire myself like I’m the most beautiful art. Because what a miracle it is that in a world that has the sun, the moon, the stars, and so many wonders, it has one of me. What a miracle it is that I’m the product of one in a trillion possibilities to be here; that it took the right time, the right second, the right moment for a seed to sprout—and that seed is me. What a miracle it is to exist.

I want to be great at love. I want to speak the language of love—the unspoken one. I want my family to know that even when I am my most imperfect self, even when I don’t listen, don’t show, don’t say, or don’t act, I am never not grateful for them. I am never not in love with them. I have the most beautiful home; I live in my family’s heart—one that is pure like a saint, deep like infinite space, large enough that even oceans can’t fill it, and magnificent and marvellous like the universe.

They are my universe. I could build a life in any part of the world and yet, they will always be the brightest star in my sky.

I want to be great at love. I want to hold my lover in my gentle hands and look at them like they’re the best thing to ever happen to me. That if the world were ending in the next moment, they’d be the last thing I would want my eyes to see.

I want to be great at love. For the things I am passionate about—writing. I never want to never stop writing. I want to write when I am sick and when I am healthy; when I love the world and it loves me back, or when I hate the world and it still loves me back. I want to write for the people I know and the strangers I don’t, for recognition if I get it, but even if I don’t and I am my only audience. Perhaps I was meant for it, like it is my calling. I don’t know what I would do if I wasn’t writing; maybe I would step out into the world and observe all the wonder like an awestruck child at a candy store.

But then again, I would come home and write about it all.

I want to be great at love. Some people bring flowers, but I want to bring my friends the unshakable trust that when they are at their best and when they are at their worst, when they fall short of hope or belief in themselves, when they want to aim for the stars or when they come crashing to the ground—I will be there to cushion their fall and to celebrate their highs. I want to bring them this sense of trust and belonging.

That and, oh, some flowers too.

I want to be great at love. I want to love life like there is no bigger gift to receive than a breath. And to think, I am gifted this not once, not twice, but every day. I want to love life when it’s moving too fast, when it’s too slow, when it’s cruising at the right speed, and even when time ceases to exist.

Sometimes I can count ten reasons on my fingers to not want to love it, but I only ever need one reason to love it: that I am alive. That for better or for worse, I get to witness this world change. I get to think, dream, imagine, and more importantly, I also get to experience a life that exists outside my head. There is no bigger magic than this.

I want to be great at love because maybe, just maybe, there is no bigger purpose in life than to love and be loved.

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One of my favourite things to do is going through photo albums. Obviously it’s not something that happens on a regular basis, but on the rare occasions when the opportunity to take out the old, rusted iron suitcase out of the storage, arises, my heart does a happy dance.

I love going through this treasured collection of memories that my mother has so neatly organised and maintained. I love the idea that while flipping through the yellow stained pages and the glossy, laminated sheets, I can see time sitting still—it is neither moving forward or backward, yet it isn’t lost.

As if on some mystical plane this time still exists because I can see my parents instantly get transported back to the moment from the photographs, their eyes glimmering with a spark and their face filled with a soothing joy.

I can also see how time has gracefully paid its visit to them. Aside from the first signs of wrinkles now settling near their eyes and the wisdom reflecting in their silver hair, their faces still carry the same softness and warmth as the versions of them in the photos. It’s as if so much has changed, and yet, nothing has.

Looking at my younger version, it always baffles me that somehow this little girl’s brain was smart enough to use theatrical antics to get her family’s attention but not developed enough to hold on to these memories.

My parents efforts for capturing these days thus serve as my external memory, like a proof of a childhood well spent—that I was always surrounded with warmth, love, care and affection.

In the digital age of cloud storages and google drive, I wonder if the generations to come will ever get to taste this tangible experience of spreading a rug, sitting together and reminiscing the past.

Sure, they might curl up on a couch and look at a slideshow of their past stretched across large screens. But can it ever replicate the feeling of holding a moment in your hands? There is a sacred weight to a physical photograph; it’s a fragment of a life you can actually touch.

I’m as guilty as anyone. My phone is a digital universe of over a thousand pictures, and ‘storage full’ alerts. But it’s just pixels and data. It lacks the pulse and the texture of touching a moment.

To my fellow Gen Z-ers and the generations following: My plea to us is simple: Give your memories a place where they can grow old gracefully.

Let’s not let the physical photo album become a lost art. Print your cherished moments. Tape them into a book. Give your future self something they can actually touch.

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5 things being an ‘Army brat’ taught me about life:

The art of starting over

To a lot of people outside the military circle, this might seem like instability; having to rebuild your life and identity in a new place all over again, to find your people and to have to leave them behind, and to have to do this on repeat.

But here’s the truth: every place opened the door to new possibilities, opportunities and chances. It gave me a chance to become something new. And in that, the biggest lesson it taught me was to become adaptive to new situations. It taught me to be comfortable with change.

The cost of privilege

As an ‘army brat’ I’ve always had the privilege of having access to multiple facilities and services that have helped enhance my personality and quality of life. People think we have it easy or that we get it for free. But very early on I learned that this privileged life comes at a huge cost and with supreme sacrifices. This truth has instilled in me a deep sense of gratitude and respect for the big and small things in life, a quality which has carried me through the toughest challenges.

Importance of community

It’s common for kids in military families to grow up with one parent often away on duty. But in their absence, the unit becomes our extended family. While it always made the moments where the whole family was together even more special, it also revealed the true value of having a tight knit community to me. I didn’t just live in a quarter but a safety net of people who truly understood the assignment.

A ‘baddie’ who never gives up

Whether it’s a war on the battlefield or the one inside your head, ‘giving up’ does not exist in our vocabulary. Growing up in an environment that fosters resilience, tenacity and courage, I have learnt to face life’s challenges as a fighter and not a quitter. I grew up to the echos of ‘keep going’ and this mental strength has helped me overcome life’s many challenges with grace and grit.

Home isn’t a place but a feeling

Having changed multiple houses throughout my childhood, I have witnessed each new house turn into a home, one that has always been filled with the same love, warmth and laughter. Not growing up in one permanent address taught me that home isn’t a place but it’s a feeling.

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Some effort to look put-together, a quick bite, hurried movements, and an Uber several cancellations later, I finally reach the office just on time—a rushed and chaotic scene straight out of my ‘living alone’ diaries. It is difficult to micro-manage so many things when you live all by yourself while working in the bustling Capital. A year ago, this was a regular day for me.

It is hard to have a fixed daily routine when your erratic shift timings change every two weeks. Welcome to the world of journalism—a fast-paced sphere where slowing down is not an option. Yet it was a world I worked hard to be in each day. So, when a medical setback forced me to trade my office chair for a hospital bed, my ambitious career in journalism came to a halt. However, as the sabbatical gave me time to heal, I realised my body wasn’t just healing from an illness—it was also recovering from the chronic stress of capitalism.

Grappling with a serious illness while grieving the loss of my aspiring, independent life was challenging to say the least. Initially, I struggled with the devastating ‘identity loss’ from being a driven, self-reliant woman in her twenties to a ‘patient’ who was dependent for even the most basic tasks. My identity was built on the bylines I achieved, the fancy events I got to attend, and the performance appraisals and pay-checks that followed. When I was no longer on my toes chasing stories and deadlines, but instead restricted to my bed, that reflection of me vanished.

Cut to almost two years into this forced sabbatical, something strange has happened—I have stopped trying to fantasise about that life. The stillness which once terrified me has now become my sanctuary. My nervous system feels regulated, my mind lighter, and my body free of tension. People often talk about the ‘privilege of being tired from the work you once prayed for’—I agree—but we seldom acknowledge the privilege of being able to do nothing and experience the joy of simply existing.

I understand that not everyone can afford to quit their jobs. Yet there is an increasing necessity amongst the youth to not define our self-worth through our designations and pay-checks. Moreover, we owe it to our bodies to take rest. Everyone feels tired but few realise how deep that exhaustion goes until they take a pause. Sometimes the insomnia, fatigue, and constant irritability are the body’s subtle signs that it needs rest. It is important to recognise these signs before your body shuts down.

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Capitalism has made us feel guilty for sitting idle and not having a ‘purpose’ in life that does not involve ‘medals, hefty pay-checks, and productivity’. This idea of productivity is flawed because sometimes the most productive thing you can do for yourself is to do nothing. This intentional stillness is an experience of its own.

When our mind and body isn’t overwhelmed with stress, we achieve a new state of awareness—one that helps you notice the beauty and warmth in the ordinary experiences of being a human. For instance, I know what the birds that land on my balcony railing each morning sound like. I know the names of all the plants that add colour to my home. I know peace is a real thing because I feel it each time I lie on the grass, feeling the warmth of the sun on my eyelids, for hours. I know I am surrounded by love because I see how my mother brings me turmeric milk on the nights my body feels sore, without me having to ask. A break allows you to notice these intangible luxuries of life that our hurried days made us oblivious to.

Now, I find myself chasing sunsets, reading books, sleeping well, noticing things, spending time with loved ones, embracing silence, and breathing easy. Living in this light-headedness has also fuelled the creative side of my brain, and given me the opportunity to rekindle my childhood hobbies. It is not to say that one can’t do these things while working a full-time job. But one can’t truly live these moments while being buried under to-do lists and Slack messages.

This indefinitely long sabbatical boosted my healing journey. However, now that I am healthy enough to return to the working force, I find myself facing a new unsettling question: What if I have become too comfortable simply existing?

I want to challenge the idea that doing nothing is ‘wasted time’. But I do accept that I am not a monk living on a mountain, but a young woman who has to navigate her ‘next steps’ in life. After all, peace does not finance material desires and bills. Thus, I find myself living in the space between two lingering truths: the logical truth that I need financial independence, and the spiritual truth that I cannot go back to the version of myself that thrived on stress. This is the sabbatical paradox—I am healthy enough to get back to work, yet I am petrified of the person I will have to become in order to flourish in it.

I no longer want to measure my value by exhaustion. I want to be someone who can exist in the workforce without being consumed by it. The good news is that the world today is finally catching up with a systematic shift that honours harmony over hustle and prioritises quality over quantity. That’s where I wish to be.

I know that eventually, I will have to step outside my bubble. When I do, the world of opportunities will come knocking. But for the first time, I am in no hurry to open the door.

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I fell in love with words at a young age. In school, I would find it tough to answer how long it would take a train travelling at 60km/h to cover a distance of 180km, but if somebody asked me, “How are you?” I always had an answer.

All I have ever had with me were a hundred different feelings and a few words. And then years passed and I got to experience more in life. Now I have a thousand different feelings and more words. In fact, I may not have other necessities at a given time but I will always have feelings and words. It is when I don’t have words, you should be worried.

I am a writer. At least I like to call myself one. And I have a lot of love in me to give and to receive. A writer who is also a lover. Yikes! That’s a dangerous combination. But I want the subject of my writing to be life itself and how I continue to find reasons to fall in love with it each day. On the days it’s beautiful and loves me back but even on the days it’s messy and ugly. Especially when it’s messy and ugly. I want to write about the ordinary, little observations that make the fundamental experience of being a human extraordinary—being able to hope, dream, love, grow and create. Being able to feel and to feel deeply. Feelings, oh man, these feelings. Told you, I always have a lot of feelings and words with me.

Words. These words won’t die. As big as the experience of being human is in nature, it isn’t necessarily vast in numbers. It’s finite and temporary. But words aren’t. Once spoken out into the world, you can’t take them back. You can’t kill them. And so I know my words won’t go anywhere. They will continue to exist long after I am gone. They will silently carry the weight of all my feelings and hold them forever in the spaces between them.

That’s the beauty of words. Feelings may change and get erased over time but words won’t. They stay. They always stay, even when people leave. And so I have always loved words and enjoyed playing with them; weaving them into different sentences like a piece of art. My words are my expression of how I see the world and the people around me: with love and gratitude. And so they are all I have to give back to the world and to the people around me. If you are reading this, I hope you always find reasons to come back to my words.

While these words aren’t mine, I would like to take the creative liberty to end this piece by quoting the ones famously sung, “It’s only words and words are all I have to take your heart away.”

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My favourite thing to do each time I visit my grandmother’s home is to sit in the garden or on the porch. As I sit there and observe time, I soak in the beautiful surroundings. It’s such a great mindful activity to do.

Watching the bright blue sky above me and the thick, lush greenery all around me, gives my heart and soul so much peace. I gaze at the tower-like Ashoka trees that stand tall against the bordering walls. I see the different fruit and vegetable trees: chikoos, cherries, mangoes, litchis, guavas, bananas, tomatoes, pumpkin, corn and more. I watch the many colourful flowers which add a dash of vibrancy through the seasons—roses, hibiscus, marigold, vincas; the delicate butterflies and bees fluttering around; and the birds singing nature’s tender song. My eyes also linger to the soil, where our furry siblings have been laid to rest with grace and dignity. Their presence still feels alive, guarding the house. However, this time the huge mango tree captivated my attention.

The tree is over 50 years old and has been giving us some of the most juiciest mangoes ever. I sat under its shadow, staring back at the watchful eyes of its branches.

I pondered a lot about this tree—how it has been able to withstand the passing of time, the many thunders and storms, the soaring summers, and so much more. The seeds, once sown with love, have today become a huge part of our home, giving us delicious fruits that taste like joy, and a welcoming shelter in return. It has witnessed three generations grow and prosper, welcomed new family members, and watched me learn to walk as a baby and dance to life's melodious tunes as a grown woman.

And it continues to be a part of our home and stands tall with grace and beauty, having witnessed it all.

I want to be like this tree—majestic, magnanimous, strong, grounded and forever blossoming.

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We have all heard of the Monday blues. But the only Monday blues I got to experience last week were the bright, clear blue skies of Uttarakhand. After what seemed like a really, really long time, I got to go on a short getaway to the ‘Queen of Hills’ and the ‘Fairer Princess’, aka Mussoorie and Landour.

I strolled past the narrow streets of the two quaint towns, which seemed to be covered with a thick blanket of mist and charm. Arriving there on a weekday came with an advantage: the streets were relatively less busy yet full of wonder. The mist and chill in the air and the silence on the streets made the experience seem mystical and captivating.

I am no stranger to these two colonial hill stations, having been there several times before. Yet the trip here is always followed with excitement and thrill, and this time was no different. If anything, it was twice as elating and special, as it ended the year-long no-vacation drought for me.

It was like savouring a delicious meal. It had the right mix of ingredients—walking amidst nature, breathing fresh air, and getting to have pahado waali maggie. My favourite moment was when we walked in Landour, surrounded by the majestic Deodar Cedar forest, with its tower-like trees with spikey-like leaves standing tall, stretching high towards the skies. It was so peaceful, serene and quiet.

The silence had never felt more comforting. The only sound I could hear was the symphony of nature—the rustling of the leaves, the chirping of the birds, and the wind murmuring in my ear. There was this strange yet reassuring feeling that I was not alone but rather in the presence of something bigger. I was being held by mother nature itself.

This trip also served as a humble reminder. That patience is like a muscle. The more you practise it, the better you become at it. The more you believe, the more you achieve. Being here after a challenging year felt rewarding.

It reminded me of the seeds of hope that I sowed on a really dark night and how I patiently watched them grow for so, so long. And then here I was, witnessing its fruits. Ripped, small, bright and colourful fruits that tasted like a sweet, sweet gift of joy.

Oh! Life can be so delicious.

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Sometimes we find ourselves in situations where we may not always have the right words. But we can still be kind and empathetic.

Coming from my personal experience, here is a guidebook on what NOT to say to your ailing friends. This post also offers better, more sensitive alternatives.

Hope this guidebook helps! Let’s do better and be better!

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When a significant event takes place in your life—good or bad—it splits your life into two halves: the before and after. For me that defining moment will always be my diagnosis.

On this date, a year ago, as I lay in the ICU, I do remember thinking this is the worst night of my life. I promised myself then that no matter what or how, but a year from now, I’m going to be feeling the complete opposite. Countless breakdowns, innumerable injections, radiation sessions, ten months of intense chemotherapy, multiple side effects, overwhelmed with mental and physical ache, and 365 days later, man I can tell you I feel amazing today.

This illness takes a lot from you; your strength, your muscle, the colour on your face, your hair, your will, the life you once knew, and your time. In return it only gives you one thing: a choice to reclaim your life. I made the choice and fought the hell out of it. Not all alone but with divine blessings of the universe, prayers of loved ones and strangers, through the care of the best doctors, and my family’s infinite love that anchored me through it all.

Looking back at this journey, I hope to never think of it with dread. Yet at the same time, I don’t wish to invalidate the pain we went through. It’s unfortunate that we live in a world where this devil of an illness still exists and so many people and their families have had to endure these silent battles. I send them hope and love. They have my utmost respect for fighting back with all their might.

I wasn’t strong all the time. But I gave myself the space to cry. I stopped looking at the mirror at one point. But then I learned to embrace the body that carried me through it all. I kept falling but I taught myself to find a balance between surrendering to what I can’t change, and fighting for what I can.

I take pride in my fight. And I wish to honour it by remembering that- I fought hard. I fought with grace. And I fought with a damn smile!

As weeks turned into months, I became an observer of time. It was during this time that I realised that sometimes the worst thing to happen to you can teach you the best lessons in life.

So here I am, choosing to honour my fight by remembering the good it taught me.

Here are ten golden truths I learned in this last one year!

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Thank you for being a part of my journey.

Love really is about the little things,
quietly hidden in the ordinary

It’s not just about knowing someone’s
dreams, desires, traumas, fears
or where they see themselves in five years

But it lies in the moments spent in between
in the randomness of days

To know the tiny details of someone’s day
what did the annoying co-worker say this time?
did they skip their meal again?
when you know where they will be at 8 PM
‘Landed’ flashes only on your mobile screen
sent straight from the runway

Love really is hidden
somewhere between the giggles
exchanged over the phone call at the end of the day

Don’t let the world fool you
that it’s complicated
when it really is as simple as the question:

“How was your day?”

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Do you ever wonder what is the most beautiful thing you could gift someone?

Your time.

Life has unexpectedly but generously given me this gift albeit under unpleasant circumstances but I guess sometimes that is what a blessing in disguise means.

Now I have with me what I probably didn’t before. A lot of time.

Time to think, to reflect, to learn something new (okay, let’s be real, I haven’t quite had the energy to do that yet), to rekindle with an old habit (I used to be an avid reader and now I am back at it), to shape and rebuild myself into becoming my best version, and also, time to do something that would bring me a lot of happiness and satisfaction—writing (or savour a feast of all the (junk) food I have been deprived of for the past 10 months but since I cannot do that, let’s stick to writing).

After all, words are to my heart what food is to the stomach.

Since I am on a self transforming journey which involves inculcating self love, it is only fair I dedicate one entire post to myself. So what you are reading is a very random post on some very random facts about me.

• I am a sunshine girl and I love being kissed by the sun.

• I find something so relaxing about watching the empty afternoon streets decked with vibrant flowers and the many shades of greens.

• I enjoy observing the nature. It feels like it is drawing me in for a warm hug and letting me be a flawed part of its beauty.

• I love warm hugs. I love cuddling. I will latch on to you like an octopus.

• Which reminds me of an inside joke in my family where they teasingly call me an ‘Octopus’ because of my apparent tendency of spreading my tentacles wherever I go.

• And that is probably because I love to leave a piece of me behind as a memory of something beautiful. A handwritten letter, a jewellery, a picture, anything that’s been touched with my existence.

• While writing the previous point I discovered something new about me.

• I think I have a fear of being forgotten.

• I have recently rekindled my love for reading. Oh wait, you know that already.

• Every time I come across a beautifully woven sentence that I wish was written by me, or some interesting fact, I love to highlight it with a colourful sticky note so I can revisit it later.

• I have till date never actually revisited any of the highlighted pages.

• Oh, did I mention I love the sun?

• I love people and dogs ferociously.

• I want to be loved ferociously (especially by every dog on the planet).

• I have decided to love myself ferociously.

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As individuals we are constantly evolving, getting inspired and inspiring. It’s always good to spend some time with yourself and know yourself better. If I asked you to tell me something about you other than your background and profession, what would be the five things that would come up instantly? Those are the small fragments of you that make you whole. Pieces of you that people who love you will always remember. In today’s fast life, it’s easy to not be self aware. Perhaps, gift yourself some time and find an answer? For nobody else but you. After all, self love is a superpower.

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“And if, when all this is over, I am asked what I did with my life, I want to be able to say I offered love.” - Terri St Cloud

Poetry is the magical dance between the mind and the heart; pain and love. On the occasion of World Poetry Day, I am reminded of the aforementioned quote. But when I am asked what I did with my life, I want to be able to say, “I offered love, and my words to the world.”

Words have so much power. I want my words to offer you solace, smile and hope.

To celebrate the day, here’s revisiting some of my favourite poems from my personal poetry collection To Life, With Love

Gratitude

Of the many lessons my father has taught me
he told me to always remember the two golden words in life
'gratitude' and 'contentment'

I did not know what life meant
before I understood the depth of these words
and the magic they create
I am now grateful to this life
and everything that makes it beautiful
the people I call home
and the strangers that are kind

to the sun that shines every day
and the stars that give me hope
to the water that keeps me going
and the legs that keep me running
for having a pair of eyes
that help me see the wonders of this world
to the senses that keep me awakened
the flowers that bloom in different seasons
and the fruits that taste like joy

the many sunsets that remind me
that I'm in awe of nature and its beauty
the silver lining in the clouds
and the animals that walk the earth

every second that I breathe
and every moment that I consume
I am also grateful for the mistakes I make
and the lessons I learned
and for the thought that I have a tomorrow
a chance to see more
of what the universe has to offer
because there's so much to explore

Love Around Me

Love is a universal language
often conveyed best in the absence of words
when mom cooks my favourite dishes on the nights I'm home
or when dad gives those five minutes of sleep on the days I'm sore

in my dog's eyes
as they light upon my return
my brother's wicked laugh
when he teases me a little
and in my best friend's borrowed clothes

when my girlfriends cheer for me from across cities
to the one in town, who always saves me a seat
in my grandmother's voice
when we speak after days

love is also sprinkled
in the special ginger morning tea
or the extra quilt my mother puts on me
in the cold nights when I'm fast asleep

it is etched in the words written
in my slam book from the past
but also in the pictures on my walls
of friendships that will last

I also find love in the reflection
staring back at me
every time I look into the mirror

The Sun and the Moon

When I stop and look around me
I see,
two butterflies chasing each other
the thousand different shades of green
some in leaves, some in trees
some in the bushes next to me
an endless sea of clouds
some scattered, some together
the many patterns they form
colours screaming to me
some red, some pink
flowers blooming
some falling leaves on the ground

I hear,
the rustle of those leaves
the singing of the birds
the cars that pass by with strangers in love
the sound of the wind
as it whispers in my ears

I feel,
the warmth of the sun
as it kisses my skin
and the weight of the breeze
pulling me with it
and for a second I am lost
in the beauty of nature
how lovely it is
a simple afternoon
all by myself
but also the sun and the moon

Colours

I forget how colourful my life is
red, my mother's smile
when she laughs from her heart
her lipstick stains on every tea cup

brown, the colour of my dog's eyes
innocent and pure
just like his soul
always shining so bright
and lighting up my day in the darkest of hours

blue, my brother's coffee cup
placed on the shelf as a souvenir
of all the places he's been to
and the places he's yet to go

grey, my dad's hair
all the wisdom he holds
of the years well lived
the lessons taught
and passed to us kids

pink, my best friend's cheeks
her selfless heart and
stupid decisions
that we make together
among a thousand other memories

I forget how colourful my life is
but one look at the people in it
and their laughter
I'm filled with gratitude and love
for the colours they add to it

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I named this blog ‘Life As I See It,’ as an ode to share how I perceive the world and its many wonders—people, places, things, emotions, and human experiences. The world may be black and white, but I have always looked at it wearing rose-tinted glasses, and I must tell you, it’s truly so breathtaking.

My personal experiences over the last few months have further shaped and grounded this perspective. Straight from my journal, sharing some small discoveries I have come to understand better with regard to myself and this beautiful journey we know of as life.

I asked God, “What is the purpose of my suffering?”

He answered, “Lucky are the ones who get to experience pain up close.”

It is inevitable. But as I learnt to look beyond my pain, I started to see it as an opportunity towards transforming myself and becoming my best version mentally, physically, and spiritually.

I thought I lost years from my youth, but I was gifted this time to work on myself from scratch and become my most desirable self.

My parents told me I could become anything in life. So I became the hope I needed for myself.

We all need something to live and fight for. For me, it has been the unwavering hope and faith that beautiful things are waiting to happen on the other side of the bridge.

I have never stopped believing in it, and this is what gives me the strength to smile joyfully through the challenges. I think I have unlocked my superpower. You ask me how I do it? This is it.

When I was 22, I got myself inked. It’s a sun that symbolises light, energy, warmth, and life. I want to be like the sun.

I want to be this ball of blasting positive energy that radiates warmth. I want my world to be full of colour and sunshine and I wish to bring this energy and light in the world of every soul I have ever known.

Despite the darkness, just like the sun, you best believe I am going to rise again.

I am always going to rise again.

Patience is like building muscle. It takes every ounce of your mental strength and tests your limits. But you have to show up every day and consistently keep working on it. Eventually the rewards will come to you, and they will taste like joy.

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Sometimes when you least expect it, life throws a huge rock at you. The hit comes as a jolt and you are left alone with fear. And when it happened to me six months ago, I was scared. So, I asked God for answers; all I needed was for him to whisper, “You are safe.”

I am comfortable conversing in English and Hindi, but the language I understand best is that of love. A language that can be spoken through eyes, words, actions, and gestures, and if you can’t offer that, then just leave behind the warmth of your gentle touch.

Holding hands for me has become important in the way I communicate with my loved ones every day. It leaves me with this tangible feeling of comfort and safety that lingers long after they have left the room.

In the last six months since my diagnosis, people around me put in their purest efforts to make me feel normal, happy, invincible, and unstoppable, like a warrior. And I filled all this love and support in a huge jar and gulped it every day like it was my medicine. It truly has been. But every fighter needs a safe space, a place to retire after a long and difficult day of fighting. A safety bunker to take shelter when the weather outside gets rough. I have been lucky enough to find that place in the heart of my family. And all I need is for them to hold my hand.

To the world outside, I am an adult, but my age and wisdom gained over the years will never take away who I am at the very core—a child to my parents. And like any child, the only time I have ever felt truly safe is when they are with me. For someone who spent her early twenties living all by herself in the bustling capital, I have been able to savour every drop of freedom that comes with youth. Yet some moments, I would find myself longing for that familiar touch and sense of comfort that only your family can give you. In the last six months, I have needed that more than anything else. And my family understood the assignment. Whenever I felt low or anxious, I did not need reassuring words; sometimes I just needed one of them to hold my hand.

We speak this language of love in my home every day now. In the morning my father will curl up next to me, my delicate hand enveloped gently against his tough skin before they get busy scrolling through the endless content online. At night, my mother holds me like I am the most precious gem in this world.

This simple act of touch and tenderness has become my anchor. If I could, I would treasure this feeling like a scent in a bottle and wear it through all of life’s adventures, the good, the bad, and the ugly.

I move forward in this journey with the belief that the worst is over. I carry courage but sometimes in the stillness and darkness of night, the fear returns and seeps in through the cracks in my body. The other night I felt the horror of the very first day when I had received the news, crawl up to me, making me twitch with panic and anxiety. My mother sensed it because this time the fear was overpowered by the weight of her hand as she held me. Accompanied by a faint whisper in my ears, “Soja beta araam se. You are safe.”

Only this time I knew God had answered.

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Whether 2024 was good to you or bad to you, amongst our varied experiences, we all have one thing in common: Aren’t we all bidding it goodbye with the hope that the year ahead will be (even) better?

But sometimes the new year arrives and maybe it completely breaks you down.

2024 was the year that broke me in unimaginable ways. I felt everything in extremes. I did not know what fear was until I heard the words “It’s cancer.” I can’t imagine the weight on my mother’s shoulders as she broke the news to me, but I can’t ever forget the weight of the words as they consumed me.

We know life is full of ups and downs. Yet nobody prepares you for how deep the fall would be when you hit rock bottom. This was the year I fell to the bottom. It happened so fast, as if the ground beneath me suddenly swept away. I never got the time to process my fall. But I stood up, battered and bruised. Ironically, this was the year I was at my weakest, yet I met my strongest self. Not in flesh and bones but in spirit and will.

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If I felt extreme pain and fear, this was also the year I felt extreme love. I received the healing power of love from an army of people. With the help of the collective efforts of my family, doctors, friends, healers, well-wishers and strangers who chant for me, I am slowly learning to get back up. I can’t complain to God for giving me this battle to fight. For if he put me here, he also gave me the courage to accept this fight, the strength to endure it, and the will to win it.

2024 will always be a year I wish to never revisit. A chapter I wish I could delete from my story. But if that happened, I would have probably not discovered the remarkable power of the mind, the body, of prayers, and belief. And a simple truth that in your darkest times, when you can’t fight back, don’t give up on the hope that it will get better.

Goodbyes are tough, but I’m both happy and relieved to bid this year farewell. I can’t promise what tomorrow will be like, but I am eagerly waiting to welcome 2025 with open arms because I know something now that I did not before. The last six months really challenged and tested me. You see, even when I could not move, time kept moving forward. It doesn't stop, and neither will I.

And can I let you in on a little secret about time?

It does get better.

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If you are reading this, here’s wishing you a new year filled with love, joy and the warmest of hugs; of travel and discoveries, mountains and beaches; and one full of abundant blessings.