My Musings – Page 31 – Not your ordinary tales

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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Quitting the Rescue Game (and Learning to Save Myself)

Being needed made me feel like I mattered. Every crisis gave me a role. Every meltdown was an invitation. I was the dependable one. My inbox was a helpline. My calendar, a graveyard of canceled plans. I didn’t say no. I didn’t pause. I was on call for everyone but myself. It’s seductive—this whole saving people thing. You feel important. You feel necessary. You get to be the calm in someone else’s storm. Until you realize you're always standing in the storm, getting soaked, and no one’s offering you an umbrella. Eventually, it stops being …

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Turns Out, Home Isn’t a Place

It’s two in the morning, and Amelia’s pacing her messy apartment, stepping over stacks of books she promised she'd read, coffee mugs half-filled and forgotten, and laundry she swears she’ll fold tomorrow. Moving was second nature to her—boxes taped shut, addresses changed like outfits. But no matter how many cozy apartments or trendy neighborhoods she tried, nothing felt quite like home. Her grandma often said, "You can't hold sunshine in your hands, so stop trying to grab onto everything." Amelia used to roll her eyes, dismissing it as …

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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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