Life

Breathlessness, Doubts, and the Unexpected Joys of Trekking

When I head out for a trek, I'm usually buzzing with excitement, backpack strapped snugly and optimism dialed to maximum. I'm already imagining the stunning photos and crisp mountain air that Instagram doesn’t capture fully. But the mountains have a wicked sense of humor, and they’re quick to show me who's boss. Minutes into my climb, enthusiasm gives way to reality: each step feels heavier, as if the mountain has suddenly tilted upward just to mock my earlier confidence. My lungs protest louder than a toddler denied candy, and my heart …

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The Day the Universe Slipped Inside Her

No one else saw it happen.Not the barista who handed her a lukewarm oat milk latte. Not the man at the crosswalk arguing with his phone. Not even the friend who texted her something vaguely supportive and signed off with a sunflower emoji. But inside her chest—quietly, completely—everything ruptured. It didn’t arrive with drama. No meltdown. No thunderclap. Just a shift. The kind that moves in silence and doesn’t ask permission. She called it the quiet rupture. It was like the lining of her life had torn open from the inside, gently …

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Your Org Is a Product. Design It Like One.

I still remember that tiny startup office—the hum of one server, the click of keyboards, the aroma of strong coffee, and the creaking of the wooden floorboards as we all squeezed around a single table. We all knew exactly what was happening. A quick word across the desk solved problems instantly. It was magic. Then came growth. We went from 12 people to 50 in six months. Suddenly, no one knew who was supposed to fix that bug or handle that angry customer email. I remember the founder, eyes red from late nights, saying, “I can’t keep all of …

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Peace Over Happiness: What I Tell Myself When My Brain Won’t Shut Up

There’s a difference between being happy and being at peace. I didn’t always get that. I confused the two, like most people. I'd post a smiling selfie from a trek and get heart emojis, but deep down I’d be spiraling because I hadn’t worked out in two weeks, had eaten junk for three days straight, and spent the whole morning doomscrolling on Instagram comparing myself to people who looked fitter, more consistent, more in control. It’s a cycle I know well. Chase a high. - Hit a wall. - Blame yourself. - Repeat. And I’m not even talking about …

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The Quiet Turn of August

Aditya Rao had always been the kind of man who hit his marks. By thirty‑three he’d stitched together an enviable resume: IIT gold medal, Stanford MBA, fast‑tracked director at a global tech firm, and a condo perched on the thirty‑eighth floor of Mumbai’s newest glass tower. The newspapers called him a wunderkind. His mother framed the clippings. Recruiters filled his inbox with seven‑figure offers. Most evenings he arrived home after midnight, tie loosened, brain buzzing, fingers still tapping phantom keys. He would step onto the balcony, …

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The Woman Who Couldn’t Leave

The first time Mira thought about leaving Raj, she was washing spinach. The leaves were muddy, stubborn. She scrubbed each one as if dirt could be reasoned with. Raj was asleep in the other room, snoring softly with the TV still murmuring—one of those historical docuseries he insisted on watching but never finished. She wasn’t angry. Not really. Not the kind of fight where you slam doors or throw pans. It was quieter than that. Like the kind of silence you find in attics. Still, a little stale. A place where time has settled like dust on old …

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The Helping Hand That Held Me Down

Aria spotted the old man from halfway down the block. White kurta, too-thin legs, translucent skin that looked like creased paper. He stood at the foot of the stairs outside the ration shop, gripping a plastic bag so orange it looked radioactive. She slowed down. He didn’t ask for help. Just stood there, swaying slightly, like someone caught between decision and defeat. The bag was too heavy. That much was clear. Aria had two choices. Keep walking like she didn’t see him—or stop and carry someone else’s weight for a while. She …

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Dear Friend,

You look fine. That’s the part that annoys me most. You show up, smile politely, throw in a joke to deflect, and everyone thinks you’ve got it together. But I know you’re running on fumes. Not just physically. The kind of tired that makes your bones feel like concrete and your thoughts like traffic. You keep trying to out-hustle your own sadness, like maybe if you stay busy enough, the ache won’t catch up. But it always does. You’ve been dragging the weight of things that should’ve been released a long time ago. Old guilt, broken …

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