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.

Baba (Sai) and I share a bond that began in my early teens, and with every passing year, my love, faith, and trust in Him have only grown stronger.

The moment my feet touch Shirdi, I feel an energy that words can never fully explain. It feels like I have come home… a place where my soul instantly finds peace.

For almost three decades, I have been visiting Shirdi, yet every single visit feels just as divine as the first. The connection remains unchanged — pure, sacred, and deeply personal. The moment I stand before His shrine, tears roll down my eyes without even realizing… as if my heart recognizes His presence before my mind does.

And every single time, Baba leaves me with a miracle — sometimes small, sometimes life-changing — but always enough to strengthen my belief even more than before. I have had friends and family accompany me, and many of them have witnessed these unexplainable moments themselves.

After every darshan, I return feeling lighter, stronger, and spiritually empowered. It is as though Baba clears the noise around me and sharpens my intuition — helping me recognize who truly belongs in my life and who does not.

His blessings are not always loud; sometimes they arrive as peace, clarity, protection, strength, or silent guidance exactly when needed most.

For me, Shirdi is not just a destination… it is an emotion, a surrender, and a reminder that no matter where life takes me, Baba’s hand is always above me.

Sai doesn’t just live in Shirdi for me… He lives within my faith, my journey, and every heartbeat filled with gratitude.

॥ ॐ साईं राम ॥

We often wait for the right moment to do something meaningful.
A time when we have more… more money, more time, more certainty.

But what if life isn’t asking for something big?
What if it is quietly waiting for something small… and consistent?

Pick a person.
Or pick a family.

Not to change their world overnight,
but to simply stand beside them—softly, steadily.

---

The other day, I found myself thinking about delivery riders.
The ones who rush past us every day, carrying our comforts in neatly packed bags.

They are paid per delivery.
Every minute they pause is a minute they don’t earn.

So they keep going.

Skipping meals.
Delaying rest.
Choosing duty over hunger.

The next time you order food,
pause for a second before you click “confirm.”

Ask yourself—
can this order carry one more act of kindness?

What if, once in a while,
we added one more meal… not for us, but for them?
Or even just a drink on a hot day.

A small pause in their day.
A reminder that someone saw them.

---

Look around your building.
Your office.
Your community.

The security guard who opens the gate without fail.
The cleaner who quietly resets your space every morning.

Most of them live far from home.
Far from warm meals.
Far from familiar voices.

What if one family, or even one person,
chose a day to take care of their meals?

Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner.

Not as charity.
But as shared humanity.

Sometimes, it is as simple as noticing
the housekeeping staff eating alone in a corner…
and asking them to sit at the table, just for that day.

Not because they need permission—
but because dignity often hides in small invitations.

In many communities, your turn may come just once a year…
or maybe once in two.

But for that one day—
you become a reason someone sleeps with a full heart.

---

Not all help needs money.

Sometimes, it is sitting with a child who struggles with schoolwork,
while you teach your own.

Just one more child.
Or two.

No announcements.
No labels.

A child in your building may be struggling silently with schoolwork,
not because they are incapable,
but because no one has had the time to sit beside them.

One hour of your week
could change how they see themselves forever.

And somewhere, without even realizing it,
you change the direction of a life.

---

If you are in a position to do more,
pick a family.

Not to “support” in the traditional sense,
but to walk alongside them.

It may not always be money.

Sometimes it is guidance.
Sometimes it is helping them find the right opportunity.
Sometimes it is just listening—without judgement.

Sometimes the greatest help
is not stepping in with solutions,
but showing someone the path
and trusting them to walk it.

Two families can come together to support one.
Light doesn’t diminish when shared.
It multiplies.

---

We often throw away things we no longer need—
clothes, books, even gadgets.

But what if, before discarding them,
we paused to ask…
who could still find value in this?

---

There are restaurants that quietly set aside a part of their tips
to feed those in need.

No noise.
No attention.

Just intention.

It makes you wonder—
how much goodness exists around us,
that we simply don’t pause enough to notice?

---

We assume people will ask when they need help.
But often,
self-respect keeps them silent.

That is where kindness must learn
to observe, not just respond.

An elderly neighbour may not need financial help at all.
Just a conversation.
A knock on the door.

From my own experience…
my mother lives alone in a different country.
She is old, with her own set of health challenges.

And while distance often brings a quiet worry,
she is fortunate.

She has kind neighbours
and a few of my close friends
who check on her, visit her, sit with her, talk to her.

In those moments,
they become a reminder of me.

Their presence fills a space I cannot.

And that small gesture
closes her day in the most valuable way.

Just be that person.

---

We often look at governments,
at systems,
at organizations…

waiting for change to come from somewhere large.

But maybe change was never meant to be loud.

Maybe it was always meant to be personal.

---

I know…
this may sound like a dreamy world.

But maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

To imagine a world where we don’t walk past need,
but gently respond to it.

Where we don’t wait to be asked,
but choose to notice.

And maybe,
mindful living isn’t about changing the world…

but about refusing to look away
when the world quietly asks for you.

---

We are, after all, created equal in essence.

And maybe… just maybe…
we are meant to share a little of each other’s burdens.

Because doing good
is, in many ways, a form of prayer.

Not the kind spoken aloud,
but the kind felt deeply.

---

Good actions have a quiet way of returning to us.

Not always in visible ways,
but in something far more valuable—
peace.

A kind of peace
that lets you sleep a little better at night.

And today,
isn’t that what so many of us are searching for?

---

You don’t need to do everything.

You don’t need to do something grand.

Just do something… real.

Because your small gesture
may be someone else’s turning point.

---

There are families carrying silent struggles every single day.
Doing everything they can… and still finding it hard to cope.

They don’t stop.
But sometimes, they need someone to hold on for a while.

Be that someone.

Not to fix everything—
but to show them a way forward.

Because sometimes,
what people need isn’t money…

It’s direction.
It’s belief.
It’s someone who reminds them
that they are not alone.

---

And maybe, if enough of us begin this way…

Quietly. Gently. Consistently.

We won’t just change lives around us—
we will change the way we live our own.

---

“What small act of kindness is quietly waiting for you… to say yes?”

Quiet thoughts. Gentle nudges. Meaningful living.

At times of testing, we are bold.
At times, we are guarded.
And through it all, we remind ourselves—
we are safe.

There are nights we sleep peacefully,
and there are nights of broken sleep—
when the sound of alerts wakes us up,
telling us
that something is happening beyond our walls.
Even then, we hold on to one thought—
we are safe.

We are told it’s only a warning.
And the distant bangs that follow
somehow become a strange reassurance
that we are still protected.
In that moment, we tell ourselves again—
we are safe.

Today marks the 40th day of the war.
Days that have changed how we think,
how we sleep,
how we quietly wait.
Yet even now, we pause and say—
we are safe.

Some mornings begin with reassurance
that everything is under control,
yet as the day unfolds,
things may remain calm
or suddenly change.
No matter how the day goes,
we come back to this—
we are safe.

There are challenges.
There is uncertainty.
There are moments of fear.
But through it all, one truth remains—
we are safe.

We are protected.
Our leaders and officers stay alert
every hour of the day and night,
watching over us,
keeping us secure.
Because of them, we can say—
we are safe.

There is a deep sense of gratitude
and pride in my heart
to call this my second home.
In times like these, I truly feel
no other place would have held us
with such care and strength.
And for that, I say again—
we are safe.

Our families reach out every day,
sometimes many times a day—
checking on us,
making sure we are okay.
Their concern travels across distance,
wrapped in prayers and hope.
And in that love, we feel—
we are safe.

To all those who checked on us,
who called, messaged, and cared—
thank you.
It meant more than words can say.
Because in your concern, we felt it—
we are safe.

And to those who didn’t—
it’s okay.
Days like these quietly show us
who we should hold close
and who we can gently let be.
Even in that realization, we understand—
we are safe.

There are challenges,
there is fear at times,
but there is also faith growing within us.
And above everything,
there is hope.
Hope that holds us steady, reminding us—
we are safe.

And we hold on to hope—
that peace will find its way back,
that silence will replace the sounds we’ve learnt to live with,
and that one day,
these days will only be stories
of strength, resilience,
and how deeply we learnt to value life.
And as we hold on to this hope—
we are safe.

And through it all,
between fear and faith,
we are held by hope.
And we are safe.

She says, “Can you just try being romantic… just once?”

He nods. Very seriously.

“Noted,” he says.
“In fact, thanks for bringing this up. I’ve actually been meaning to discuss this with you.”

Twenty-five years of marriage…
and this is where they are.

“I have identified key areas of emotional growth,” he continues.
“We can start with Phase 1: increased verbal appreciation.”

She walks away mid-presentation.

And then comes the worst part…

“Just look at your friends… see how romantic they are!”

He freezes.

After 25 years, suddenly there are benchmarks?
Comparisons? External audits??

He nods slowly, slightly shaken,
mentally adding:
“Urgent: Benchmark against peers.”

But honestly… he is trying.

She makes something new in the kitchen.

He takes a bite, thinks deeply, and says,
“Nice… this is very good,” he says, like he’s giving performance feedback.

She just stares at him.

He meant: I could eat this every day of my life.

He watches her manage the house, the timing, everything so effortlessly—
all the endless little things.

In his head, it’s a full standing ovation.
Out loud, it comes out as,
“You manage well.”

(25-year performance review.)

He tells her, “You should take a break. Go to the salon.”

She comes back, looking beautiful.

He looks up, smiles and says,
“Nice… very nice. This suits you. Good decision.”

She waits.

That’s it.

After 25 years… still waiting.

But in his mind, that sentence carried
compliment + admiration + love + pride + everything.

And she knows…

Her writings are like a flowing river of romance, full of warmth, stories, and feelings.
His “romance” is more like a corporate memo—short, awkward, and punctuated with bullet points.
She writes chapters, he writes slides.
She decorates, he optimizes.
She dreams in color, he schedules in Excel.

And yet… somehow, for 25 years,
her poetry in words and his presentations of love
have built a life that is perfectly, hilariously, beautifully theirs ❤️

It has been one month now,
Life is not the same somehow.
But we are safe and holding on,
Getting through each day till it’s gone.

Children are not going to school,
But they are learning in their own way too.
They laugh, they play, they try each day,
Finding a new kind of way.

Every sound makes us look at the sky,
Wondering what is passing by.
But slowly we have come to know,
Which sounds are fast and which are slow.

The news is sometimes hard to understand,
Not always clear or planned.
But it also helps us stay calm,
Like a quiet, steady, caring arm.

There is fear inside our hearts,
A feeling that never fully departs.
But our friends are always near,
Just one call away to hear.

We think about what lies ahead,
And worry about things not yet said.
But deep inside we also pray,
That those hard days stay far away.

People still go to work each day,
Just like before in every way.
But now they stop and take some time,
To check on friends, to be kind.

This war has changed how we see,
It has brought us closer, you and me.
It has taught us, day by day,
To live with what comes our way.

Once lived in the curl of tiny fingers
that wrapped around mine without fear,
in footsteps that followed me blindly,
trusting I would always know the way.

It was in sleepless nights and soft lullabies,
in being their shelter
before they even knew what storms were.

I was their strength then—
their balance,
their quiet reassurance in a world too big for them.

I cooked for them,
measured love in little plates,
watched them grow
bite by bite, day by day.

And somewhere, gently and unnoticed,
time shifted…

those little hands
have become big and strong—
my son, steady and grounding,
holding me when my steps feel unsure…

and my daughter,
once my little baby,
now stands beside me in the kitchen,
cooking for me at times,
experimenting with love,
serving back pieces of a life I once gave her.

What once leaned on me
now stands beside me,
and sometimes… even in front.

This love has come full circle—
not losing its innocence,
but deepening into something unshakable.

And in this quiet, beautiful exchange,
I realise…

we didn’t just grow up—
we grew with each other.

Wishing one and all a very Happy Mother’s Day in UAE ❤️

The more people I meet these days—friends, acquaintances, people who drift in and out of life—the more a quiet realization settles in.

In the end, it is often your immediate family that truly remains yours.

Not because others are insincere, but because life has evolved this way. Everyone is navigating their own storms, priorities, and journeys. People meet, share moments, walk together for a while, and then life gently pulls them in different directions.

Over time, the layers become transparent. Expectations soften. Illusions quietly fall away.

And strangely, there is peace in that understanding.

I have come to believe that no matter what life brings—its highs, its lows, its moments of strength and vulnerability—true bonds are the ones that continue to hold steady through it all.

Through thick and thin, they find their way back, never allowing the emotional thread that binds them to break. There may be arguments and disagreements, but never a space where hurting each other becomes the outcome.

Perhaps that is what truly holding on means.

Sometimes friendships forget the delicate line that protects a relationship. In difficult moments, when someone is already vulnerable, what they need is a hand that lifts them up—not reminders of their fragile state.

Empathy simply asks us to pause and place ourselves in the other person’s shoes before we speak or act.

Seeing this is not bitterness. It is clarity.

It simply teaches us to hold close what is real, to value the few who remain steady through changing seasons, and to move through the world with lighter expectations and quieter gratitude.

Because sometimes life’s greatest realization is not about how many people walk into our lives, but about understanding who continues to walk beside us when the road becomes long.

In a world of passing connections, the few hands that never let go become our true horizon.

Today, I complete twenty years in the Gulf.

When I arrived in 2006, I wasn’t arriving alone into the unknown — I was joining my husband, who had already spent a year here building the foundation for us. He had taken the first step. I followed with faith.

I came here as a wife.
Soon after, I became a mother.
For most of these years, I was a homemaker.

And I say that with pride.

Because being a homemaker is not “just” anything. It is building the emotional backbone of a family. It is raising children, managing a home, holding stability together quietly and consistently.

This country gave us the ability to take care of our liabilities with dignity. It allowed us to build assets, security, and a future that felt steady. We raised our children here. Our biggest blessings were born here.

But somewhere along the journey, as the children grew, so did a quiet voice inside me.

A voice that said — It’s time.

And when I was ready to take off…
This land gave me the runway.

After years of being a homemaker, when I decided to rise again and build something for myself, the opportunity was here. The ecosystem was here. The encouragement was here.

This country did not question my pause.
It welcomed my restart.

It empowered me once again.

Over twenty years, I have watched this place evolve dramatically.

From the rise of the iconic Burj Khalifa,
to the seamless connectivity of the Dubai Metro,
to landmarks like Atlantis The Palm,

I have seen ambition become architecture.

But beyond the skyline, what has touched me most is the sense of security.

During COVID, when the world felt fragile, I felt protected here. Guided. Supported.

Even today, during uncertain global times, I feel a quiet confidence living here. A trust that things will be handled responsibly. A belief that we are safe.

From 2006 to 2026 — as this nation grew, I grew.

It gave my family stability.
It gave my children a secure upbringing.
It gave me space to pause when I needed to.
And when I was ready — it gave me the courage and opportunity to begin again.

Twenty years ago, I came here following my husband’s dream.

Today, I stand here following my passion.

And for that, I carry nothing but gratitude.

“This land did not just give me a home — it gave me the strength to rise, the space to pause, and the courage to begin again.”
— Anita