We are all different.
We are brought up differently — by different parents, in different homes, surrounded by different experiences.
And because of that, we are all wired differently.

Each of us carries our own little quirks — habits that may seem small but shape how we connect, how we react, how we show up in the world.

One such quirk of mine is that I don’t handle surprises very well.
I get overwhelmed, embarrassed, and often turn shy when someone surprises me.
It’s not that I don’t appreciate the gesture — I do — but in that moment, emotions take over and I don’t know how to react.

Ironically, I love giving surprises.
I love watching that sparkle in someone’s eyes, that burst of joy, the smile that can’t be faked.
There’s something magical about witnessing genuine happiness unfold in front of you.

Then there’s another part of me — I get anxious meeting new people.
So before meeting someone for the first time, I quietly do a bit of homework.
I try to learn a little about their work, their interests, or something they care about.
Not much, just enough to strike the right chord.
And if I sense there’s a topic that might make them uncomfortable, I make sure to stay away from it.
Because for me, a conversation should make someone feel lighter, not burdened.

Over the years, I’ve realized something else about myself —
I have very little curiosity.
I don’t ask too many questions, nor do I nudge people to reply if I sense they aren’t comfortable.
I can change the topic at the drop of a hat, even if the conversation wasn’t directed at me, just to save someone from feeling exposed.
Reading faces and gestures comes naturally to me — a slight shift in tone, a pause, or an uneasy smile, and I know it’s time to steer things elsewhere.
It’s almost like my heart reads the room before my mind does.

I genuinely love people. I love conversations that have depth, that make you feel seen.
I’ve realized that the way a conversation begins often decides how the bond unfolds.
When the chord strikes right, it’s effortless — it flows naturally.
And sometimes, a simple first meeting turns into a lifelong friendship.

Relationships mean the world to me.
They are what keep me grounded and whole.

There’s another side to me — one that doesn’t surface often, but when it does, it is unwavering.I stand firmly for my integrity, my family, and my closest friends.Anyone who tries to cross that line quickly realizes that I don’t tolerate disrespect.In those moments, I don’t think about who is in front of me — what matters is that respect is never compromised.There is a quiet, unmistakable shift in me when someone challenges my self-respect or oversteps boundaries.It’s not anger for its own sake, but a clear reminder that dignity and love are non-negotiable.

There are also times when I’ve been caught off guard, moments when I couldn’t pull it off as gracefully as I would have liked.
I may have smiled through it all, but once home, I need to clear my system.
Talking about it helps me breathe again.

It’s something that began in childhood.
My father was the first person I would talk to about everything — every small joy, every awkward moment, every silly fear.
He never judged. He just listened.
And that made all the difference.

After he passed away, that habit stayed with me.
Now, it’s my mother or my partner who hears me out.
Sometimes they understand, sometimes they don’t — but the need to talk, to express, to release, always remains.

Because that’s me — someone who feels deeply, who stands tall for what matters, and who believes that every person we meet adds a small story to our life.

We all have our ways of connecting.
Some do it with ease, some take their time.
Some express with words, others through silence.
And maybe that’s what makes each of us beautifully unique — our wiring, our little ways of feeling and expressing love.

So, if you ever find yourself reacting differently than others — don’t be too harsh on yourself.
Maybe that’s just your wiring.
And maybe, that’s exactly what makes you you.

In many homes, there’s one who shines — the confident, charming, ever-energetic partner who lights up every room. The one everyone admires, praises, and turns to when something good happens. “Oh, this must be their doing,” they say.

And then there’s the other one — the quiet constant.
The one who plans, nurtures, manages, and holds it all together, not for applause, but because it needs to be done. They’re the backbone no one sees — the calm beneath the chaos, the invisible thread that keeps everything from falling apart.

But after a while, invisibility begins to hurt.
Not being seen, not being thanked, not being remembered… it chips away at your sense of worth. You start to wonder if your presence matters beyond the roles you play — if anyone notices the countless things you do, or the weight you quietly carry so someone else can shine.Not out of a desire for attention, but because being unseen for too long can feel lonely.

It’s not always anyone’s fault — some people are born to be seen, others to make things happen quietly. But when the balance tilts too much, one becomes the story, while the other becomes a footnote.

And that’s where relationships need tenderness. Because love isn’t about who shines brighter — it’s about how both lights glow together.

✨ Every success has a silent pillar behind it. The world may applaud the one in the spotlight, but it’s the unseen strength that truly holds the home.
In the end, love and respect grow not from visibility, but from acknowledgment — a quiet “I see you,” that means more than a thousand cheers.

To the ones who hold everything together in silence — you may not seek the spotlight, but your light fills the room in ways words never could.

Close your eyes and step back in time.
It’s the 80s or 90s.
You’re that little child again — waking up to the whistle of the cooker, the smell of filter coffee, and your mother’s gentle voice calling out your name.
You can almost hear the radio playing in the background and the soft pages of the newspaper turning.

Morning Then

There’s only one washroom in the house, yet somehow everyone is ready on time.
No shouting, no rushing — just a rhythm that flowed with love.
Father reads the newspaper, mother flips an omelette, and you get ready for school while listening to their chatter.

Everyone knew what was happening in the world — not from a phone, but from the morning paper and word of mouth.
Conversations started at home and continued in buses and trains.
Even strangers spoke with ease.

And when school ended, you waited — that moment when you’d see a familiar face at the gate, ready to walk you home.

Morning Now

Fast forward to today.
You’re the parent now.
Every bedroom has its own bathroom, yet everyone’s running late.
Someone’s on a call, someone’s scrolling, someone’s skipping breakfast.
Even when everyone’s awake, the house feels silent.

You rush through your morning, unaware that your child is quietly watching you — waiting for you to look up, smile, say a few words.
Just like you once waited for your parents to hold your hand and walk beside you.

Evening Then

Evenings had a charm of their own.
The sound of the key turning in the door was the most awaited moment of the day — Papa is home!
You ran to the door, eyes on his shirt pocket.
There it was — a thin Dairy Milk wrapped in lavender foil, half peeking out.

Some days it was peanuts or roasted chana from a train vendor.
If your mother worked, she too came home with a small paper packet — accessories  (earrings ,hair clips) from the vendors who come to sell in the ladies compartment of the Mumbai trains.

That tiny packet carried more joy than any gift today.
It wasn’t about the chocolate or gift — it was about the waiting, the love, and that moment of being seen.

Evening Now

Now, you’re the one walking in after work — with AirPods in your ears or a phone pressed to your face.
Your child waits, hoping for a smile, maybe a story.
You hand over a small gift or leave it on the table — because you’re “still on a call.”
You don’t even pause to see that sparkle in their eyes, that joy you once lived for.

It’s not that today’s parents don’t love or surprise their kids — they do.
But somewhere, we’ve forgotten that the real gift isn’t the toy or chocolate — it’s time.

The same child who once waited for you at the door now learns to wait quietly — for you to get free, for you to look up.
Why aren’t we able to give them the same luxury of time that our parents gave us so effortlessly?

Homework and Home

Back then, parents remembered everything — PTMs, fancy dress days, annual functions, exams.
No reminders, no WhatsApp groups — just love and involvement.
They helped with homework, made costumes, taught us songs, and explained sums patiently.

Now, we have reminders, calendars, and class reps sending ten messages — yet something’s missing.
We outsource everything: food, tuition, hobbies, even affection.
Earlier, our aunts, grandparents, and parents passed down talents — from stitching to singing, from gardening to storytelling.
Today, it’s a paid class, an online course, or an app.

We had less money but more togetherness.
Now we have more convenience, but less connection.

Weekends Then

Sundays were a festival of their own.
A tiffin carrier filled with meethi poori or poori and sukhi aloo sabji , sukhi bhel, and lemon rice or tamarind rice.How can we forget the flask that carried tea (some of those flasks had two lids one smaller than the other both worked as cups).
An old mat,newspaper,a few bottles of water, and a bunch of excited faces ready to go to the beach, park, or zoo.

We took two buses, one auto, and walked long stretches — but no one complained.
We shared snacks, laughed loudly, and came home tired but happy.

Weekends Now

Today, before even planning an outing, we ask, “Will there be parking?”
By the time we check reviews, traffic, and crowd, the plan is cancelled.
Our kids wait — not for a new place, but for our company.
But we’re too busy “managing time,” while they’re silently longing for it.

Even a diamond today can’t bring the kind of joy that a five-rupee Dairy Milk once did.

Food and Family

We knew exactly what our mothers made best — that one curry or chutney only she could get right.
We knew our grandmother’s special dish, which aunt’s pickles were famous, and what our father loved to cook on weekends.
There was effort, warmth, and emotion in every meal.

Today, food still comes — but often from a cook, a swiggy, or Talabat.
We’ve stopped stirring love into our pots; we just outsource the flavour of home.

No wonder food fills our stomachs but not our hearts anymore.

Home Then

We never called before visiting friends or relatives.
We just showed up — rang the bell, were welcomed with chai, snacks, and endless talk.
No one asked “Why didn’t you call?” — love didn’t need appointments.

Home Now

Now we check before calling, schedule before meeting, and often postpone altogether.
Our children rarely see relatives except on birthdays or screens.
We’ve built larger houses but smaller worlds.

Health Then vs Now

Our parents didn’t go to gyms.
They walked, carried, climbed, cleaned — and stayed healthy.
They didn’t know about “steps per day,” yet they slept well and laughed more.

Now, blood pressure and diabetes knock early at our doors.
We track everything on smartwatches but can’t track peace of mind.
Maybe health was simpler when happiness came free.

What Really Changed

We were once the kids waiting by the door.
Now, we are the parents our children wait for.
Back then, love was given in time.
Now, it’s wrapped in gifts.

Our parents gave us moments that built memories.
We give our kids things that get replaced.

Maybe it’s not the times that changed — it’s us.
We moved faster, worked harder, earned more — but felt less.
In chasing success, we lost slow sunsets, shared snacks, and silent hugs.

Closing Thought

We are the same children who once waited for that lavender-foil Dairy Milk.
Now we are the parents whose children wait for us to get off our phones.

If only we paused — to look up, to smile, to listen — we could give them the same warmth we once received.
Because the real gift is not what’s in your hand — it’s you.

Happiness hasn’t changed.
It still lives in the same place — inside those moments we choose to share.

✨ Author’s Note — Abstracts by Anita

For the children who once waited at the door, and the parents whose children now do — this one’s for you.
We can’t bring back the 80s or 90s, but we can bring back what made them special — time, presence, and love that didn’t need reminders.

Do share your fond memories of childhood with your parents 💛

For the friends who became home, and the years that shaped our hearts

As we find ourselves in our mid-forties, life feels quieter — not empty, but filled with a gentle awareness that comes from seeing too much, feeling too deeply, and learning what truly matters.
We’ve travelled far from those carefree days, yet sometimes, in the stillness of an evening, a memory drifts in — and for a fleeting moment, we are children again.

Our parents, once the centre of our world, have aged before our eyes.
The same hands that guided us now tremble slightly; the voices that called us home sound softer.
Some of us see them every day, noticing their slow shuffle; some hear them only through memories; and some live with the silence their absence leaves behind.

It’s a tender ache — one that makes us pause.
And in that pause, our hearts travel back to where it all began — to the people who made our growing-up years unforgettable.

We were more than just childhood friends.
We were the companions who walked beside each other through scraped knees, shared lunches, last-bench laughter, and borrowed pencils.
We were an extended family — the family we didn’t choose, but were gifted with.
We grew up in each other’s homes — borrowing books, eating our favourite meals (every home was ours, every mother was ours), and sometimes even getting scolded by each other’s parents.
There was no difference between “your house” and “mine.”
Every door was open, every mother was our mother, every father had a word of advice for us.
Our homes were one big circle of comfort; our parents, interchangeable; our hearts — fearless and open.

Today, life looks different.
We are spread across cities and countries, leading our own lives, caught in our own storms.
We have phones full of contacts, yet fewer voices we truly lean on.
Technology has brought us closer — WhatsApp, the modern telegram, keeps us just a ping away,
and social media lets us peek into each other’s lives from afar.
But the warmth of those unspoken moments — the touch on the shoulder, the laughter echoing down the street, the comfort of someone who just understood — that’s something no app can ever replace.

Sometimes I feel an urge so strong — to gather them all again.
To plan a trip, once a year maybe.
To sit together, barefoot on the sands of memory, talking about everything and nothing,
sharing stories, tears, and laughter that time couldn’t steal.
To tell them that their pain isn’t theirs alone — it’s mine too.
When they lost a parent, a part of my childhood left too.
Their heartbreaks ache within me, because what was once theirs was always ours.

And maybe, when we meet, we’ll hold hands like before — not because we need to,
but because that’s what love feels like after all these years — quiet, wordless, and deeply understood.

Friendship like ours doesn’t fade.
It simply changes form — waiting, watching, remembering.
And when life feels too heavy, all it takes is one familiar voice, one shared memory, to remind us that time has not taken everything.

The truth is — we never really moved on.
We just grew up, carrying each other in different ways.
And someday, when we sit together again, it will feel as though the years folded back softly —
and nothing, absolutely nothing, ever changed.

Some bonds don’t belong to time — they belong to the heart,
and that’s where they will live forever, whispering our laughter into every quiet corner of our lives,
long after we have left.

🌸 The 80s – When Life Was Simple and Hearts Were Fuller

In the 80s, life was uncomplicated — slow, steady, and beautifully predictable.
When the light went off, we didn’t sigh — we played word-building.
No Wi-Fi, no gadgets — just imagination and laughter echoing through dark rooms.
We proudly called it constructive play long before that became a fancy phrase.

Our school tiffins were filled with poha or upma, warm and fragrant inside steel boxes that held more love than food.
Mothers always packed a little extra — “for your friends.”
Because friendship wasn’t about selfies or posts; it was about sharing your tiffin.

Combined studies were the best kind of group projects — at someone’s home or on the common terrace under dim tube lights.
We’d bet on which questions would appear in the exam.
Some guesses hit, some didn’t, but the snacks never disappointed.

Birthdays were community events.
We’d all chip in coins to buy one greeting card that proudly said “From All of Us.”
The gifts were small but chosen with heart — often that one thing the birthday kid had secretly been wishing for.

We had fights, of course.
But reconciliation was easy.
We didn’t know the word ego — we only knew letting go.

Evenings were noisy in the best way — calling out each other’s names till someone shouted back.
We made our own games, our own rules, our own fun.
Those were the innocent days — when the world was smaller, but hearts were so much bigger.

📺 The 90s – When Change Slowly Slipped In

Then came the 90s.
Cable TV arrived, and suddenly, life had more colours — and a few more comparisons.
Some families became more comfortable, some stayed the same.
Where once every home looked and felt alike, small differences began to show.

The group that once played together started forming smaller circles.
Conversations changed; priorities shifted.
Yet, deep down, the bond was still there — just buried under teenage pride and growing awareness.

There were more channels, more shows, and fewer common topics.
The innocence began to fade quietly — like the sound of the Doordarshan signature tune disappearing into static.

💻 The 2000s – The Millennial Drift

Then came the millennium — the great scatter.
We finished studies, took up jobs, and moved to different cities.
Some got married early, some later — each walking their own path, building their own lives.

Drifting wasn’t intentional; it just happened.
Careers took over, responsibilities grew, and time flew faster than we could catch it.

WhatsApp groups replaced street calls.
“Happy Birthday” messages arrived with confetti emojis.
Once-a-year meetups became our new version of togetherness.
And yet, every reunion carried that same old warmth — one hug, one laugh, and we were kids again.

🕰️ The Present – When Nostalgia Heals

And now… here we are.
The body has started sending reminders of time passing.
Some of us have grown bigger, some older, some stronger — all a little more fragile inside.
Mornings begin with pills instead of plans.
We juggle grown-up kids, demanding jobs, and the quiet ache of memories.

But every now and then, a photo, a name, or the smell of upma brings it all rushing back —
those golden years of friendship.

I wish those days would return — when we could just step out, shout a name, and friends would appear within minutes.
When one person’s problem became everyone’s problem.
When we’d say “Hum sab milke dekh lenge” — and actually mean it.

When nothing was “mine,” but everything was ours.

Those were the friendships that built us — simple, loyal, and pure.
I wish to live that once again — those carefree days without burden on the shoulders or stress in the head.
Back then, we had no pills to take — just hope, laughter, and boundless energy.

Sometimes, I still wish I could call out those names again —
tear my lungs out like before — and hear those familiar voices call back.

This one’s specially dedicated to all my friends.
I won’t take names — because once you read this, you’ll know it’s you.
And maybe, just maybe, you’ll be compelled to write back.

Miss you all. Always. 🥺

Somewhere between growing up and growing apart, we lost the sound of those carefree laughs echoing down familiar lanes.
But on quiet evenings, when life slows down for a moment, I still hear them — faint, warm, and close enough to touch.
Maybe that’s what true friendship is… it never really leaves; it just hides in the corners of time, waiting to be felt again.

Vacation Planning: Desi Mom vs. Gen Z Kid

Planning a vacation with a teenage kid should come with a warning label.
Because trust me — the real adventure starts before the trip even begins!

There’s me — the Desi mom — excited, planning itineraries, making lists, and already picturing those “happy family” photos.
And then there’s my Gen Z kid — half-buried inside the phone, expressionless, as if the word vacation personally offends.

When I say, “Let’s go on a trip!”
The look I get is like I’ve just announced a punishment.

Every time I say, “Let’s plan a family trip,” I get that look — somewhere between confusion and mild horror — like I just asked to uninstall Instagram.

“Hills?” — “Too much walking.”
“Beach?” — “Too sunny.”
“Resort?” — “Wi-Fi speed?”

At this point, I’m convinced the only question running in the head is —
“Do we really need to go on a vacation?” 😑

We’re having a full family discussion about travel plans, and the kid is right there — not listening, not arguing, not even pretending. Just peacefully scrolling.
A good kid, just allergic to enthusiasm.

Loves lazy days and hates being dragged into “fun.”
But still, I plan the vacation — because deep down, I know once we get there, there will be a smile… maybe at the view, or maybe when the hotel Wi-Fi finally connects.

Till then, the Desi mom in me continues the battle — armed with travel brochures, blind optimism, and a silent prayer that someday the child will say,
“Mom, let’s go somewhere!”

I’ll keep planning.
The kid will keep scrolling.
That’s our kind of family bonding. 😉

(Waiting. Still waiting. Loading…)

When it’s time to pack all the golus back, the feeling is very different.
When we unpack them before Navratri, the whole house is filled with excitement. There is so much energy — cleaning, arranging the steps, deciding which dolls go where, and remembering where each one came from. It feels like bringing stories and memories back to life.

For those who may not know, Golu (also called Kolu) is a South Indian tradition during the Navratri festival. Beautiful dolls and figurines are displayed on steps at home. Each step has a meaning — from gods and goddesses to scenes from daily life. It celebrates our culture, storytelling, and the joy of creation.

But when the festival ends, the feeling changes.
The same shelves that looked bright and colourful now start to look empty. Each doll is carefully packed and wrapped in paper and bubble wrap — one by one. It’s a slow and emotional process, as if we are putting away small pieces of happiness until next year. The sound of laughter and music slowly fades, and the house feels calm again.

Every festival brings this moment — when joy slowly turns into silence. There is a small sadness, but also peace.Festivals are like life, they remind us that every ending is only a pause before the next new beginning.

Old movies are never just movies. They are time machines. Each time we rewatch them, we are carried back to the moments when we first saw them. The room, the chatter, the laughter, the smell of food, the playful arguments, the people who sat beside us—it all comes alive again. Some of those voices are silent now, some of those faces are no longer with us, but their presence lingers in every familiar scene.

What’s beautiful is that the movie itself never changes, yet the way we watch it always does. With each rewatch, it gathers new meaning. A dialogue that once made us laugh now stirs a quiet ache. A song that once felt romantic now feels like a memory of youth. We find ourselves noticing little things we missed before—an expression, a background sound, a silence ,even catch small things we missed before—a slip in a dialogue, a funny continuity error, an extra peeking into the camera. These little discoveries add a strange comfort, reminding us that even classics carry their own imperfections.

Old movies carry our changing lives within them, layer upon layer, like pressed flowers in the pages of a book.

Rewatching them is not an act of boredom or repetition—it is an act of remembrance. It is a reunion with a younger self, and with those who walked with us for a while. It is joy and longing woven together, a sweetness mixed with ache.

Old movies remind us that time may move on, but memories never truly leave us. They sit quietly, waiting for us to press play.

And sometimes, all it takes is an old movie to remind us how deeply we have lived.

Not every thought finds its way into words.
Not every word finds its way into a message.
And not every message finds the courage to be sent.

We all carry them – unsent messages. Some drafted in haste, some typed with trembling fingers, some written in the silence of our minds. They sit there, quietly in our notes,holding all the emotions we were not ready to release,the anger we softened, love we feared, gratitude we delayed, or closure we postponed.

The weight of these unsent messages is real. They remind us of the versions of ourselves that almost spoke up, almost reached out, almost changed the course of a relationship. They live in that space between what was said and what was felt.

Perhaps their purpose is not always to be delivered. Sometimes, they exist only to teach us something about ourselves what we long for, what we fear, what we are still learning to let go.

Yet, once in a while, sending just one unsent message can free us. It may not change the past, but it can lighten the present.

After all, words unsaid may carry weight but words released, even gently, can carry healing.

“Unsent messages weigh heavy, but the courage to release even one can turn silence into peace.”

Forgiving and forgetting is easier said than done. For some, it’s almost second nature,they can shrug off a hurt, ignore the sting, and move on as if nothing happened. But not all of us have that superpower button of ignorance. I, for one, neither forget easily nor ignore quickly. For people like me, learning the art of forgiveness isn’t just about being kind to others but about finding peace within ourselves.

It feels like learning a new exercise. The first time is awkward, uncomfortable, even painful. You don’t know if you’re doing it right. And yet, the more you practice, the more natural it becomes. Forgiving, too, needs to be practiced daily. Some days you will fail, slip back into old patterns, and carry the weight of resentment. But that’s okay. Being wired differently only means our journey will take its own time and rhythm.

It’s just like metabolism each person’s pace is different. The body takes its own sweet time to process food, and the mind takes its own sweet time to process blocks. Both need patience. Both need consistency.

What makes this art even harder is the world around us. Some people in our lives behave like walking versions of social media constantly broadcasting, judging, or waiting to pour out comments, both wanted and unwanted. If only life gave us a “dislike” button! Sadly, it doesn’t. At best, we have emojis to express what we feel. But in real life, the best filter we can use is silence and detachment.

There’s another side to this, too: we shouldn’t take compliments too seriously either. If we don’t let the bad stick, we shouldn’t let the good overinflate us. No good, no bad just balance. The only compass worth following is our instincts. When we start living this way, no one can make us feel toxic, no one’s words can cut us deeply, and no mean comment can define us.

Forgiveness, then, isn’t about excusing others. It’s about choosing yourself. It’s about learning to let go, one small step at a time, until you realize the weight is no longer yours to carry.

Because in the end, forgiveness is like fitness—nobody can do it for you, it takes practice, patience, and discipline. And just like a strong body, a strong mind is built when you train it daily. The more you forgive, the lighter you live. And the lighter you live, the freer you become.