Personal Reflection

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.

“The garbage collector hasn’t come in two days,” she explained, “and I needed to keep our house clean.” When I pressed her on why she’d chosen the open ground, her reply cut like a knife: “If everyone else does it, why shouldn’t we? What else can we do?”

Kangana Ranaut, seriously? You open your mouth and out comes this gem: India’s freedom in 1947 was “bheekh” alms, a handout and the “real”

“Little one,” it says, “you scatter your rain too freely. Save your strength for the valleys that need it most. The desert will drink you dry, and the ocean needs no more.” The budding cloud twirls, puzzled. “But raining feels good!” it replies. “Why should I hold back when the world sparkles below?”

These days, it’s a storm of uncertainty—layoffs loom like dark clouds, and the chorus of worry echoes: “What if I lose my job?” The fear is real, but so is the trap of inertia. Instead of preparing, adapting, or exploring new paths, many cling to excuses, frozen like a deer in headlights. Losing a job stings, no doubt, but is it the end?

There’s no way the Manusmriti can be accepted today. It’s outdated, rigid, and honestly, it doesn’t fit with how we operate.

Then there’s the driver I knew. He hung a lemon-chili thread on his car, trusting it to shield him on Mysore’s chaotic roads. I warned him, “No ritual’s saving you if you don’t drive right—rules, focus, caution, that’s what counts.” Days later, he crashed. The thread dangled uselessly; the accident broke his faith. I wasn’t smug—I was sad. Sad that it took a wreck to show him what I’ve always believed: superstition’s a flimsy shield against reality.

Big mistake. Her eyes narrow. “You always dismiss my feelings with your ‘science says’ nonsense!”

“How much do you earn?” one asked. “What if you worked elsewhere?” the other breathed, soft as a secret.

“Vivek,” I began, pulling him closer, “imagine the world as a giant playground. Some kids—like the USA, Japan, and China—have shiny new toys: superfast computers, robots, and spaceships. They’ve been building these for years, spending lots of money and time. India, our home, has toys too, but they’re not as shiny yet. We’re learning to make them, but it takes time.” Vivek’s brows furrowed. “How far behind are we, Papa?”

Each time we utter "faith," it becomes a mirror reflecting a belief tied to our identity. Isn’t that remarkable?

Then, at noon, a sergeant dumped a pile of registries on me—tedious verification work, page by page. My heart sank.

First off, what even is Gurubala? It’s this belief in my community that you need to consult a priest or astrologer to pinpoint the perfect moment for anything important—marriages, housewarmings, you name it. They claim it’s about the planets aligning, the stars whispering, or some cosmic vibe check. But let’s cut through the incense smoke, who decides what’s a “good time” versus a “bad time”? On what basis?

Slap. The sound hit before the pain did. A sharp crack, then a sting blooming across my right cheek. Shock froze me—eyes wide

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.

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.

Here’s the unshakable truth - our future is in our own hands. No one else holds the pen to our story. To believe otherwise is to surrender our power to a lie. Let’s write our own destiny—one bold, thoughtful choice at a time.

After my fifth gulp, I stood up to wash my hands. Big mistake. My back betrayed me, my legs wobbled, and I swayed like a pendulum in a storm. My head spun, not unpleasantly, but like it had just discovered a new dimension. “Is this what being tipsy feels like?” I wondered, half-amused, half-panicked.