Family & Relationship

If you’re reading this, I hope you’ll join me in seeking shade—not just from the summer heat, but from the divisiveness that threatens to burn us all. Let’s water the roots of compassion, together, and wait for cooler, kinder days.

But rivers, even the calmest ones, sometimes meet stones. My wife shared news that stirred the waters: her parents were coming to visit ..

Why wait for the rain when you can make your own?” he’d said with a grin. That was him: tireless, forward-thinking, a man who didn’t rest.

I didn’t take offense. Instead, I saw the rhythm of life unfolding—a cycle as old as the earth itself. My son’s plea was nature’s own demand, a reminder that just as the seasons shift, so must we. Spring blossoms fade to summer’s verdant embrace, then yield to autumn’s fiery hues before winter’s quiet renewal.

By 11:00 AM, mid-meeting on the 11th floor, she rang again, roaring, “Shilpa’ll hang herself! Your parents will answer for it!”

My dog became a mirror for the poor, the voiceless, the ones who eat what’s shoveled onto their plates because they have no choice. My wife, unwittingly, played the role of authority—well-intentioned perhaps, but blind to the cost of her actions. And as I sat with this thought, I couldn’t help but see parallels in the world around us, especially in places like India and beyond, where inequality tightens its grip and forces the vulnerable to swallow more than they can bear.

Prashanth grinned. “AI’s like Sadhus—mixed wisdom, untested. ‘I’ is real, felt knowledge.”

This is our family—imperfect, raw, and real. I feel bad for myself, for all of us, because I couldn’t hold us together today. But I know one thing: we’re not broken. Not yet. Tomorrow, I’ll try again—to listen, to heal, to remind Vikas he’s enough, to show Shilpa she’s understood, to make Vivek’s stories come alive once more. Because family isn’t just the sunny moments; it’s the courage to face the storms and find our way back to each other.

I stood guard with a .303 rifle slung over my shoulder, boots polished, posture rigid, watching over officers’ quarters, the stadium, even a burial ground.

Growing up Brahmin, purity was a silent rule—holy water, sacred spaces. Dumping gutter fish into our washing tank? That was heresy, unintentional but real. Yet my parents’ reactions—Mom’s fury, Dad’s calm—taught me that religion isn’t just rituals; it’s the humanity beneath them. Mom cared more about my safety than caste taboos, and Dad saw innocence over impurity.

The airport blurred into a watercolor of motion. Cabs glided by, patient drivers waiting as I crossed the road in a daze, my steps heavy

When he retired in 1997, the classroom—his battlefield—fell silent. Teaching wasn’t just his job; it was his purpose, his way of shaping young minds. Losing that left a void no pension could fill. He didn’t crave status, but the quiet ache of feeling “less than” gnawed at him. Yet, even now, the government’s pension fuels his generosity. Milk, curd, newspapers, fruits, snacks for the kids, cooking gas, medicines, travel, rent—his money still holds the family together.