Twenty-five years ago, we got engaged today.

We had known each other for six days.

Yes. SIX. 😅

Those were simpler times.

There were no red flags and green flags to analyse.
There was no Social Media University teaching us compatibility, attachment theories or telling us, “If he does these five things… RUN!” 😂

Thank God. At this rate, I might still have been analysing.

Instead, like they show in cartoons, a bulb lit over his head… and I just knew — this is the one. 💡

No research.
No reviews.
No trial period.

Just instinct… followed by a lifetime subscription with no cancellation policy. 😂

And just like that, Anita and Manoj began.

Then life took over.

I chose to stay back, build our home and raise our children.
He took on the responsibility of providing for us.

Different roles.
Same team.

There was never a scorecard of who did more, because while he kept one part of our world running, I kept another part running.

And between us, we somehow kept the entire show going.

Somewhere along the way, Anita and Manoj became Mamma and Papa.

Our two-member partnership became a full-fledged family organisation…

No fixed working hours.
No weekends.
No resignation policy.
And unfortunately, no HR department to complain to about each other. 😂

We built homes, raised children, handled families, finances, school, responsibilities, celebrations, festivals, decisions, emergencies… and approximately seventeen thousand conversations beginning with:

“But I thought YOU were doing it!” 😂

And then came the tides we never expected.

Losses that changed us.
Uncertainty that tested us.
Responsibilities that sometimes felt heavier than we were prepared for.
Plans that collapsed and had to be rebuilt.

Sometimes I carried him.
Sometimes he carried me.

Sometimes we carried each other beautifully.

And sometimes we had a proper argument first and then remembered we were actually on the same team. 😅

Because when the real battles came, there was never really your problem or my problem.

It was ours.

We may have fought with each other plenty 😂, but whenever life fought against us, we knew exactly which side we were on.

Ours.

Maybe that’s what 25 years have taught me.

Marriage isn’t two people living happily ever after.

It’s two people repeatedly looking at the latest situation life has dumped in their laps and saying:

“Okay. How are WE getting out of this one?”

And somehow… we always did.

We chose US when life was beautiful.

More importantly, we chose US when it wasn’t.

Today, Mamma and Papa sit discussing our children’s dreams, choices and futures.

And sometimes I wonder —

When did those two people who barely knew each other become this team that has handled an entire life together?

Twenty-five years.
So many versions of us.
So many tides crossed.
So many battles fought.
So much life lived.

And the show is still running. ❤️

Happy 25th Engagement Anniversary to us, Manoj.

And to that girl who saw an imaginary bulb over his head after six days and thought, “He’s the one”…

Your research methodology was terrible, Anita. 😂
But 25 years later, I’d say your instincts deserve a five-star review. 💡❤️

I have written about so many people.

People I love.
People I miss.
People who stayed.
People who left.
People who became stories.

Funny, isn’t it?

For someone who writes so much, I have rarely written about me.

Maybe because I have always been busy being something to someone.

A daughter. A wife. A mother. A friend.

And quite often, the person people call when life gets messy.

I have listened patiently to heartbreaks, fears, anger and agony — sometimes on repeat. 😄

I have kept secrets, dried tears, given shoulders, offered advice and, when there were simply no words, just stayed.

I have said “I’m here” more times than I can remember.

And I meant it every single time.

But somewhere in all that showing up, I forgot to show up for one person.

Me.

Even my prayers had a waiting list.

My children first.
My husband.
My mother.
My family.
My friends.

I would stand before God carrying everyone’s names…

except my own.

Until recently.

These days, I have started slipping my name into my prayers too.

Keep me healthy.
Keep me peaceful.
Keep me happy.
Let me become the best version of myself.

It felt strange at first.

Almost selfish.

And then I wondered—

Why should loving myself be the only kind of love I need to feel guilty about?

So this birthday, I don’t want anything that can be wrapped.

I want me.

A healthier me.
A happier me.
A peaceful me.
A me who still loves fiercely, but doesn’t disappear while doing it.

I will still answer the calls.

Still offer the shoulder.

Still worry after saying, “Don’t worry.”

Still pray for everyone I love.

That’s who I am.

But there is one small difference now.

My name stays on the list.

And sometimes, it will even come first.

Not because I love anyone less.

But because I finally understand that I cannot endlessly pour from myself and expect never to run dry.

I need to be filled with love to pour love.

So today, without guilt and without apology…

I choose myself.
Sometimes even over others.
And that isn’t selfish.

It is self-love.

It is self-preservation.

Perhaps, it is finally growing up.

Because I have spent years becoming the person so many others could lean on.

Now I want to become someone I can lean on too.

And if there is one gift I want from this birthday, it is this—

to meet, love and live the best version of me.

For once, this Abstract isn’t about anyone else.

This one has my name on it.

And today, I say something I usually wait for everyone else to say to me…

Happy Birthday to me. ❤️

May this be the year I love the woman I have become as fiercely as she has always loved everyone else.

Sometimes loneliness isn’t about having no one around you.

It is about being surrounded by people and still wondering where your people are.

Every time a family moves to a new city or country, everyone starts again—but not everyone starts with the same opportunities.

A spouse joins a new workplace. From the very first day there are colleagues, meetings, lunch breaks and everyday conversations. Slowly, familiar faces become acquaintances and sometimes friends.

Children enter a new school. They sit beside someone in class, join a sports team, attend an activity, share a lunch table—and before you know it, names start appearing in their conversations at home.

But for the homemaker, there is no first day somewhere.

No desk next to someone.
No lunch break with colleagues.
No classroom or playground that brings the same people together every day.

Her ecosystem has to be created from scratch.

Yes, there are building WhatsApp groups, community circles and parents of the children’s friends and your husbands friends.But exchanging messages or living in the same building doesn’t automatically create friendship.

You make an effort to meet.

Sometimes you connect. Sometimes you don’t.

Because we come from different parts of the country, different cultures and very different ways of living.

Some comfortably outsource much of the everyday running of a home. Some of us are still a little old-school—we like being personally involved in our children’s studies, their food, activities, routines and the little details of home.

Neither way is better.

But when your family is your first priority, your day is often planned around their lives. So when someone says, “You need to step out more and make friends,” you know it comes from a good place—but friendship isn’t an appointment you can simply put into the calendar.

And somewhere along the way, you may even get judged.

Too involved with the children.
Too particular about home.
Not social enough.
Not making enough effort.

Perhaps what we need is not judgement, advice or sympathy.

Just an understanding that different people build different lives.

A homemaker may take longer to find her circle—not because she doesn’t want one, but because unlike the rest of the family, her new life doesn’t arrive with a ready-made place to belong.

And as we grow older, we aren’t looking for a room full of people anyway.

Meeting people is easy.
Finding common ground takes time that is finding your people is rare.

Sometimes we are simply trying to find our own little ecosystem in a life where everyone else already seems to have one.

And then when you find a few with whom you can truly be yourself—
It is not socializing.
But a sense of belonging.

A childhood best friend is a mirror.

Not the kind that shows you only what you want to see, but the one that reflects everything — your strengths, your flaws, your moods, your silences and sometimes even the things you are trying to hide from yourself.

There are no filters between us.

When a friendship has travelled almost four decades, care takes on a different meaning. We become fiercely sensitive and protective of each other. Somewhere along the way, without ever saying it aloud, we began to consider each other our responsibility.

We don’t think twice before giving an opinion, even an uncomfortable one, because we know it comes from a place of genuine concern. We worry about each other. We check. We question. We advise. And sometimes we irritate each other doing it!

But both of us know where it comes from.

Care. Pure, genuine care.

We are each other’s safest secret keepers. We know each other’s likes and dislikes at the back of our hands. We know what makes the other happy and exactly what can irritate her.

Sometimes we already know the answer, yet we still ask the question.

And our telepathy? After all these years, even we are amazed by it. One look, one word, sometimes just a pause — and we know.

Now, in middle age, I realise how rare this is.

Of course we can make new friends. But can we recreate something that has taken almost four decades to build?

Probably not.

Because friendships like ours require something that cannot be hurried — time.

Years of patience, understanding, adjusting, accepting and simply being there. We have watched each other grow through different versions of ourselves. Life changed. We changed. Our worlds became bigger.

But we remained us.

Four decades also means our friendship has passed through its own little tests. We have upset each other at times, but never enough to forget what we mean to one another. Whenever something felt bigger in that moment, it didn’t take long for both of us to realise that nothing was bigger than everything we had built together.

And ours has never been a friendship known only to the two of us.

Our families and friends have been witnesses to this beautiful bond through the years. They have seen us grow from little girls into the women we are today. They have watched our friendship travel through different stages of life, and in some way, they too have become part of its story.

Some have known us from the very beginning. Others came into our lives much later. But they all know one thing — Lochana and Anita come with a history.

A history that doesn’t need explaining.

There is also an invisible circle of loyalty around our friendship.

People may know either of us. They may have their opinions. But neither of us needs to know the other through somebody else’s version.

You don’t need to tell me about her. I know her.

And I know she feels exactly the same about me.

That protectiveness comes from knowing how many years, memories, secrets, tears, laughter and pieces of life sit between two people.

Almost four decades.

And today, on your birthday, Lochu, I realise that I am not merely wishing my best friend.

I am celebrating someone who holds almost an entire lifetime of me.

You knew the little girl I was.
You know the woman I have become.
And somewhere between those two, you have been there through it all.

And today I also want to say something I perhaps don’t say enough.

Thank you for choosing me.

Thank you for choosing me as your friend all those years ago, and for continuing to choose our friendship through every changing season of our lives.

I also know that in recent times, I may not always have been as visible or as present as I could have been. But perhaps birthdays are beautiful reminders not just to look back, but also to look ahead.

So here’s my little promise to you.

I will make the effort to be around more.

Not because almost four decades need proving, but because the years ahead deserve our time too. There are still conversations to be had, laughter to be shared, memories to be created and so much life left for us to witness in each other.

May life always be gentle with you. May you be blessed with health, peace and happiness, and may this beautiful, unspoken bond between us remain exactly what it has always been — protective, honest, unfiltered and ours.

Almost four decades behind us, and somewhere inside us are still those two little girls who chose each other as friends without ever knowing how much of life they would eventually share.

And if life gave me the chance to go back and choose my childhood all over again,

I would still choose you to grow up with.

Thank you for choosing me then.
Thank you for choosing me through all these years.

And my promise is to keep choosing you — and us — in all the years still waiting for us.

Happy birthday, my dearest Lochu. ❤️

Some of the most powerful lessons in life arrive without saying a single word.

A black-and-white photograph is one such lesson.

The moment colour disappears, so do many of the labels we unconsciously attach to people. There is no fair or dark, no race to identify, no complexion to compare. What remains are faces, emotions, stories, and souls.

It quietly reminds us that the essence of a person was never their colour. It was always their smile, their kindness, the warmth in their eyes, and the love they carried.

Perhaps that is why monochrome images feel timeless.
They don’t erase our differences—they simply stop giving them importance.

Imagine if we looked at people the way a black-and-white photograph does.
The world would still be wonderfully diverse, but far less divided.

Because equality doesn’t begin when everyone looks the same. It begins when we choose to see every human being with the same respect.

The world becomes more beautiful not when colours disappear, but when prejudice does.

There is something beautiful about growing up in a family that treasures its culture.

Traditions aren’t taught through lectures. They are quietly absorbed over the years—by watching your mother light the lamp, your grandmother prepare for festivals, your father perform rituals with reverence, and every celebration becoming a lesson in itself.

You don’t carry those traditions because they are imposed on you.

You carry them because they become a part of who you are.

You grow up feeling proud of your roots.

Then one day, marriage introduces you to another family.

Not every marriage is between two people.

Sometimes, it is between two cultures.
Two languages.
Two families.
Two entirely different ways of living.

One person may have grown up in a home where traditions were woven into everyday life—not through instructions, but through years of watching, participating, and belonging.

The rituals became second nature.

Not because they were imposed.

But because they were lived.

Then comes marriage.

A new home.
A new family.
New customs.
New expectations.

The challenge isn’t learning something new.

Most people are willing to learn.

The challenge begins when learning is expected without anyone willing to teach.

Traditions that took an entire childhood to understand cannot be mastered in a few family gatherings. The same is true for everyday living. Every family has its own way of cooking, celebrating, speaking, hosting guests, and doing the simplest of things.

Language often becomes another silent barrier.

The person entering a new family may spend years trying to understand a new language, unfamiliar expressions, and conversations that flow effortlessly around them. Yet, rarely do we pause to ask whether the family has made even the smallest effort to speak in a language that helps the newcomer feel included.

Learning should never be a one-way expectation.

It should be a bridge built from both ends.

Imagine how beautiful it would be if, instead of saying,

“This is not how we do it,”

someone simply asked,

“How does your family do it?”

Imagine recipes being exchanged instead of rejected.

Imagine traditions being shared instead of compared.

After all, no culture loses its identity by learning something new.

It only becomes richer.

The person entering a new family is often the only one who is new.

Everyone else already knows the rhythm, the customs, the language, the conversations, and the unspoken rules.

How can the only newcomer be expected to know a syllabus they have never studied?

Every mistake is not a lack of respect.

Sometimes, it is simply the first page of a lesson no one has taught.

What every new family member truly hopes for is not perfection.

Just one patient hand.

Someone who doesn’t interrupt halfway through an attempt.

Someone who allows questions without judgement.

Someone who lets mistakes happen without making them feel small.

Because acceptance is not measured by how quickly someone adapts.

It is measured by how safe they feel while learning.

When people are corrected with kindness, they participate with confidence.

When they are corrected with sarcasm, they slowly step back—not because they don’t care, but because they become afraid of never being enough.

Perhaps these conversations deserve to happen long before the wedding day.

Not as conditions.

But as understanding.

Not to decide whose traditions will prevail, but to acknowledge that two worlds are about to become one.

Marriage was never meant to erase one family’s way of living for another’s.

It was meant to create a home where both legacies, both languages, and both cultures are welcomed with equal respect.

Because families don’t become one through ceremonies alone.

They become one when someone stops saying,

“This is our way,”

and starts saying,

“Let’s build our way together.”

Every family hopes to preserve its traditions.

The strongest ones are those that know how to pass them on—with patience, not pressure.

Because belonging is never inherited.

It is gently taught, lovingly nurtured, and wholeheartedly accepted.

Yesterday, I met an elderly gentleman, perhaps around the age my father would have been.

Our conversation drifted to something we witness almost every day—people commenting on someone’s colour, height, weight, or appearance. Sometimes in jest. Sometimes without thinking. Sometimes with words that leave scars.

He quietly said,

“When we make fun of someone’s appearance, we are forgetting that every person is God’s creation. If you mock the creation, somewhere you are questioning the Creator.”

His words lingered long after we parted.

We don’t choose the skin we’re born in, the height we grow to, or the features we inherit. Those are gifts from above. What we do choose is our kindness, our humility, and the words we speak.

Perhaps before commenting on how someone looks, we should pause and ask ourselves…

Am I appreciating God’s creation, or am I finding fault with it?

Some conversations don’t end when people walk away.

They become lessons that quietly stay with us forever.

Last December, I lost a very dear friend. It was sudden, unexpected, and made even harder by the geographical distance between us. We had always shared little conversations—about sarees, festivals, traditions, and life. Those simple chats were woven so naturally into our friendship that I never imagined they could one day stop.

Only today did I realise there must have been a period when we hadn’t spoken. I hadn’t noticed it then. Life had quietly filled the spaces between us, and now I find myself wondering if I should have. A part of me keeps asking whether I should have reached out one more time, called one more time, checked in one more time.

She had introduced me to one of her closest school friends during our growing-up years. Over time, she became my friend too. Although the three of us never met together again as adults, both of us remained in touch with our dear friend in our own ways.

This time, during my visit to India, I met her. It was a meeting that carried a quiet purpose. We were both missing the same person, grieving the same loss, and trying to make sense of a world that had suddenly become a little emptier.

As we sat on a park bench, we instinctively left a little space between us, almost as if she were sitting there, listening to us, smiling at our stories the way she always did. We spoke about her first—her laughter, her warmth, the memories she had left behind. Slowly, the conversation turned to us, to life, and to everything that had changed.

Before we parted, we made a promise to each other. Every time I come home to India, we will meet. We will keep her alive in our conversations. We will remember her not with only tears, but with stories, laughter, and everything she loved. Though we were never direct friends and our bond existed because of her, we now want to treasure that very bond she so effortlessly wove between us. In a way, she is still bringing people together.

It didn’t take away the pain. It didn’t fill the void.

But it did fill a small corner of my heart that had been waiting for this moment. Sometimes closure doesn’t come through answers. Sometimes it comes from simply remembering together.

The walk back home couldn’t have been more than five or seven minutes, but it felt like the longest walk. There was a heaviness I couldn’t quite explain, as though every step carried the weight of everything left unsaid.

And yet, strangely, my heart felt lighter.

Maybe grief never truly leaves us. Maybe it simply changes shape. It finds comfort in shared memories, in silent tears, and even in the empty spaces we intentionally leave behind for those who will forever remain a part of us.

Some friendships don’t end when life does. They quietly continue—in festivals that remind us of them, in sarees we wish we could show them, in conversations we wish we could still have, in benches where we still make room for them, and in hearts that never stop missing them.

Perhaps that is the greatest legacy of a beautiful soul—not just the memories she leaves behind, but the bonds she created, which continue to grow even in her absence.

My mother’s 70th birthday was the event I had been looking forward to the most this year.

I had booked my tickets to India days in advance and planned a short six-day trip—arriving four days before her birthday and staying a day after the celebrations. It was meant to be a quick break, leaving my husband and children back in Dubai while I spent precious time with my mother.

But as the saying goes, Man proposes, God disposes.

What I had planned turned out to be nothing close to reality.

A day before I reached India, my mother was admitted to the hospital with severe back pain. What initially seemed like a simple complaint turned out to be nerve compression in her spine—something the doctors said was age-related. The pain had become unbearable.

Even then, she believed she would be treated and discharged within a day or two, well before her special day.

I was meeting her after almost a year.

The next day, I landed as scheduled. The only difference was that instead of going home, I went straight to the hospital.

What I saw shook me.

The cheerful, energetic mother I spoke to every day on the phone was nowhere to be seen.

In her place was a pale, fragile woman in deep pain.

Her face was swollen. She looked exhausted, weak, and much older than she had sounded just days before.

But what affected me most was something else.

She showed absolutely no excitement at seeing me.

Under normal circumstances, there would have been a warm hug, endless conversations, and countless questions. Instead, she simply looked at me and turned her face away.

No emotion.

No recognition.

Nothing.

At first, I tried to convince myself she was simply tired. My brother mentioned she had barely slept the previous night. But something didn’t feel right.

I knew my mother.

This wasn’t her.

My brother felt the same.

She remained quiet, her eyes closed most of the time, waking only occasionally to use the washroom or attempt a few bites of food. Her nutrition was coming mostly through IV fluids and medication.

On the second morning, I left for Shirdi with my dear friend—my trusted travel companion who, over the years, has accompanied me at the shortest notice and always ensured everything was perfectly arranged for a smooth darshan.

It was a Thursday, and we expected huge crowds. Yet Baba had other plans.

We were blessed with one of the most peaceful and satisfying darshans we had experienced in years.

The entire trip felt effortless.

Within a few hours, we were back and reached Mumbai in time for lunch.

Perhaps the quickest Shirdi trip of my life.

But even while I was there, my thoughts remained with my mother.

My brother kept sending me videos from the hospital.

As I watched them, a strange uneasiness settled inside me.

She wasn’t responding.

She wasn’t recognizing anyone.

I watched the videos repeatedly.

Something was clearly wrong.

The moment I returned to the hospital, I tried speaking to her again. Once more, she turned her face away.

My brother and I exchanged a look.

We stepped outside the room immediately.

By God’s grace, her doctor happened to be doing his rounds.

We stopped him and explained our concerns.

“This is not my mother,” I told him.

“Something is off.”

Initially, he felt it was probably the medication making her drowsy.

But we weren’t convinced.

We continued insisting that further tests be done.

Thankfully, he agreed.

The results explained everything.

Her sodium, potassium, and magnesium levels had all dropped dangerously low.

As if that wasn’t enough, another surprise awaited us.

She had also developed jaundice.

We were completely shaken.

She had been admitted for back pain, and now one complication after another was unfolding before us.

The medical team immediately inserted a central line and began aggressively correcting her electrolyte levels. Additional scans were carried out to assess the extent of the jaundice.

Thankfully, the jaundice wasn’t severe.

The treatment continued.

And then, slowly, things began to change.

The following evening, after several doses of sodium and electrolyte correction, she opened her eyes properly.

She spoke.

She recognized my brother.

And then she recognized me.

Only then did she realize I had flown down from Dubai to be with her for her birthday.

It felt like we had got our mother back.

Gradually, things started falling into place.

Her back pain was being managed. Her blood levels improved. The jaundice remained under control.

Although she was still extremely weak and her appetite hadn’t fully returned, she was finally moving in the right direction.

The doctors later admitted they were glad we had pushed for additional investigations.

Had we ignored those signs, the electrolyte imbalance could have become far more serious.

Somewhere, I truly believe Baba was standing beside us.

He gave us the instinct to trust what we were seeing and the courage to keep asking questions until we found answers.

We desperately wanted her discharged before her birthday.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t possible.

But health comes before celebrations.

So we celebrated differently.

We bought chocolates and distributed them throughout the hospital.

Doctors, nurses, and support staff all joined in making her milestone birthday special.

My aunt and uncle stood firmly by our side throughout those difficult days. Their presence, encouragement, and quiet support meant more than words can express. When life suddenly changes direction, it is these people who become your strength.

This birthday did not unfold the way I had imagined.

There were no decorations, no grand celebration, and no family gathered around a birthday cake.

Instead, there were hospital rooms, medical reports, anxious conversations, and countless silent prayers.

But somewhere along the way, we realized that the celebration was never about the event.

It was about her.

As her health slowly improved and she began recognizing us again, talking to us again, and smiling once more, we received the greatest gift we could have asked for.

Our mother wrapped herself as a gift and came back to us.

Nothing else mattered.

Not the cancelled plans.

Not the missed celebrations.

Not the expectations we had carried for months.

I travelled to India to celebrate my mother’s 70th birthday. Instead, I spent those days holding her hand through illness.

Looking back, I realize Baba didn’t cancel my plans—He simply rewrote them into a memory I will cherish forever.

Because in the end, we couldn’t have asked for more than having her back with us.

And for that, I will remain grateful.

Forever.