Who Said People Don’t Care?

They say the world has changed.

That kindness is outdated. That empathy is on leave. That everyone is in it for themselves.

And some days, it’s hard to argue.

We see it in the sharp glances of strangers, the hurried silence of elevators, the cold efficiency of meetings, and even the unexpected distance of familiar faces.
Yes - some days it does feel like we’re all just passing each other, eyes down, hearts armored.

But is that the whole truth?

I’ve wrestled with this thought for a while. It’s not a clean yes or no.
Because I’ve also known eccentric behavior that bruised, and gentle gestures that healed.
There’s a strange paradox we live in - we crave connection, yet fear judgment; we want to give, but are wary of being taken for granted.

We hesitate to help those we know - because with familiarity comes expectation.
We run mental spreadsheets - 
What if they ask again?
What if they never stop?
Will I look weak for saying yes?
Or heartless for saying no?

But help a stranger? Oddly easier.
There’s no past as reference. No transaction to balance. No emotional invoice. 
Just a moment of pure, anonymous humanity.
No fear of being judged. No pressure to impress.
Just two people meeting briefly under the same sky.

And that brings me to Basavaraj.

It was a regular Sunday morning. I had ordered breakfast for my parents. Their home is little tricky to find on google maps like solving a riddle, so I called the Zomato delivery partner to guide him.
His name was Basavaraj.

He stayed patiently on the call, politely confirming each turn like a human GPS with empathy mode switched on.
I mentioned it was my parents’ place, and he carefully navigated through until he reached the gate and delivered the food.

Now, this wasn’t a life-changing event.

It was such a simple interaction - but something about the calm in his voice, the respect in his tone, and his unhurried patience in the middle of a rush hour truly moved me.
It’s gestures like these that deserve to be noticed.

After the delivery, I messaged him: “Thank you so much.”

His reply?

“For any help or any kind of emergency, call me, ma’am.”

I blinked at the screen. He didn’t know me. I didn’t know him. I probably wouldn’t even recognize him if he stood right in front of me. And yet, that message - short, sincere, and selfless - moved me more than many formal gestures ever have. 

In that moment, I realized something.
The world hasn’t lost kindness. We’ve just stopped noticing where it quietly lives.

It doesn’t always wear a cape.
Sometimes, it rides a scooter and delivers idli at 11am.

So, No! - People do care.
Not everyone. Not all the time. But enough.
Enough to remind you, on an otherwise unremarkable Sunday, that decency is still out there doing quiet work.

And maybe, that’s the point.

If strangers can show up with warmth and no strings attached, what’s stopping us - the ones with all the strings, the context, and the calendar invites?

Look, I know I tend to get all reflective about these things.
Life throws these moments at me, and before I know it, I’m philosophizing like a chai-sipping Socrates.

Sometimes I wish I could just move on, be that “Oh well, life happens” person.
But No! - Few minor incidents becomes a major internal TED Talk.
And suddenly, I’m narrating morals in my head like a part-time monk with a playlist.

Because truly - everyone carries a story.
And some of them hand you a line from it without even knowing.

So here’s my not-so-grand revolution:

Let’s not underestimate the ripple of a kind word.
Let’s not wait for the world to get its act together before we soften ours.
Let’s not dismiss the power of small acts - because they often echo louder than we think.

Kindness isn’t outdated.
It’s just underrated.

And maybe - just maybe - the world doesn’t need a million Basavaraj's.
It just needs you and me, showing up a little softer, a little less distracted, and a little more human than we were yesterday.

That’s how the world changes.
Not with spotlights.
But with small, unclaimed moments of kindness.

One idli delivery at a time.

The Days We Count!

 

When was the last time you counted the days?

Not in a calendar sense, not with red circles or reminders on your phone - but truly counted the days. Day one. Day two. Day three. Waiting. Watching. Wanting something to begin… or something to end.

I recently asked a friend recovering from surgery the same question.
He paused and said, “I don’t even remember.”

So, I asked myself:
When was the last time I counted the days?

It was as if two parts of my mind were summoned into a quiet conference. One - the emotional, the heart - that stores life’s moments like pressed flowers in a diary. And the other - the rational, the analyst - that dissects and categorizes life like a spreadsheet.

Both answered. 

My emotional self took the lead. It didn’t hesitate. The memory arrived like a wave that doesn’t knock - it floods.
It was June 2022.

I remember counting down not for something to arrive, but for something to be over.
My mother had just suffered a stroke. The world didn’t just shift - it collapsed inward. That moment is etched into me like a scar you don’t see, but always feel.
I remember freezing. I remember wanting out of that reality. Each day that followed felt like climbing a staircase with no end. Six days of swirling fear, helpless prayers, and the piercing  silence of hospital corridors amidst of total chaos. 

I counted those days like someone drowning counts for air.

And yet, in that fog of uncertainty, hands reached out to hold mine.
Voices whispered, “I’m here.” People I didn’t expect showed up.
Some who I thought would - didn’t.
They say crisis reveals character. It also reveals company.

Even now, I’m grateful to the unseen power that heard my cries in the silence. And to the people who stood beside me - not with grand gestures, but with quiet presence. I learned, in those six days, what truly matters.

Then, my rational mind chimed in again.

It reminded me, we also count days when something beautiful is on the horizon.

A meaningful conversation you've been waiting to have
The relief of completing something you once thought challenging enough!
The peace of stepping away from chaos into calm
That quiet moment when your efforts finally feel seen
Or simply, a day that doesn’t begin with dread

Those are the countdowns of joy—we anticipate them with giddy excitement. We don’t want to “get through” those days, we want to race toward them. We lean into them like sunflowers chasing sunlight.

And then, it hit me.

There are two kinds of countdowns in life:

• The ones we want to escape.

• And the ones we can’t wait to embrace.

One is born from pain. The other from purpose.
One is survival. The other - celebration.

But both remind us of one powerful truth:
We are alive.
We are feeling.
We are in motion.

So what if…!

What if we could fill our lives with more “I can’t wait for it!” moments?
What if, instead of just surviving some days, we deliberately designed days we could savor in anticipation?

What if we built a life where the emotional and rational parts of us both smiled at the calendar - not with dread, but with delight?

Because when we look back, life won’t be measured by the years we lived, but by the days we counted.

So here’s to creating more countdowns worth the wait.

Not just ones we wish to end, but ones we wake up for - with wide eyes and a racing heart.

What are you counting down to today?

More importantly - 
Are you running away from it, or running towards it?

The Khali Dose Moment - A Journey Back in Time!

 

Picture this…

It was 1985.
Bangalore wasn’t yet drowning in chaotic traffic and blaring horns. The air smelled of earth, the mornings were quieter, and the sun didn’t rush to rise - it painted the sky slowly.  I was a little girl just stepping into the world of schoolbooks and satchels, wide-eyed and quietly watching the grown-up world whirl around me.

Mom and Dad were working parents - striving, strong, and selfless. We had just moved into a modest home on the then-outskirts of Bangalore, far from the city’s pulsing heart where my mother worked. She served at Sheshadripuram College, which started at 7:30 am sharp. Getting there from Banashankari was no easy feat—buses were sparse, long waits at dusty stops were the norm, and the city was still learning how to hustle.

But what I remember isn’t the struggle.

I remember the ritual.

Each morning, bathed in the golden hush of dawn, my mother would gently wake me up and get me ready - her fingers weaving love into every button of my uniform. My father would chip in with morning chores, and together, on our beloved old Priya scooter, we’d set off. I’d stand in front, hugging the handlebar, the wind kissing my cheeks. Mom would sit behind, holding her handbag and maybe a bit tensed. 

We would glide through near-empty roads lined with whispering trees, the sky above wrapped in gentle hues of orange and pink. The city yawned in silence, almost blessing our journey with stillness.

We’d drop mom at Ramakrishna Ashram, where she’d board bus #14. And then, with time still on our side before school began, my father and I had our moment.

He would steer the scooter toward a quaint little spot - Dwarka Hotel, at Bull Temple Road. A haven of hot steel tumblers, aromas of filter coffee, and the unmistakable charm of Khali Dose. We’d park the scooter, walk in hand-in-hand, and he’d order one single dose just for me—soft, warm, humble. He would often just sip a coffee, his eyes watching me eat like it was a celebration.
No noise. No phones. Just love, on a steel plate.    

That one year - before my school timings changed—those quiet, mundane mornings stitched themselves deep into the fabric of my memory.

And then… time happened.
Years passed. The city grew noisier, and so did life. I grew up. My parents grew older. The scooter is now a car. The routes changed, our routines altered. But some things - like taste, like love, like memories - never really leave you. They just wait.

Fast forward to June 2025.

I am now a grown daughter with a career, responsibilities, and a heart full of gratitude. My mother fills her days with non-stop chores, devotional singing and spiritual retreats; my father, with cheerful service and friendships that have lasted decades.

This week, my mom had a spiritual group singing ritual at NR Colony. I offered to drop her every day, just like she used to get me ready each morning back then. Yesterday, as we stepped out, I turned to my dad and said -

"Why don’t we drop Mom and then go to Dwarka… for a Khali Dose? Just like those days?"

He looked at me, his eyes twinkling, a smile rising from somewhere deep: “Let’s go,” he said.

So, we did.    

Same Dwarka.
Same Khali Dose.
Same father and daughter.

Only this time, I was driving.
This time, I paid the bill.
And this time, I had a smartphone to click a photo of our hot, brimming plates.

And somewhere between the softness of the dose and the spice of the chutney, I felt it - 
Time had folded onto itself.
The past and the present held hands.
We were no longer chasing memories; we were living them again.

Life has a beautiful rhythm - a quiet, cosmic beat that brings us back to what we cherish, if only we’re listening.

In a world obsessed with upgrades, sometimes it’s the old things that nourish us the most.

I’ve passed that hotel a thousand times.
I’ve eaten dose's(dosa's) at countless places.
But Dwarka is different.
It holds a chapter of my childhood.
And yesterday, I turned that page once more.

We often think joy comes in grand gestures, luxurious escapes, or lavish gifts.
But the soul knows better.
Joy is a khali dose shared with your father in a modest old hotel.
Joy is returning to a memory and realizing - you’ve come full circle.

As you read this, pause.
What’s that one memory from your childhood that still warms your heart?
What if you could relive it - not as a repetition, but as a reflection?

Sit on the other side of the table.
Be the one who pays.
Drive the one who once drove you.
Order that one thing you loved as a child.
Because nostalgia isn’t about going back - 
It’s about carrying love forward.

If you ask me,
This - this ability to relive small joys - is life’s greatest luxury.
It doesn’t cost much. But it gives you everything.

So go ahead… taste your khali dose moment.
You’ll be surprised how full it leaves your heart.