When a Conversation Becomes a Connection!

We, the people, rush.

We rush through our days. We rush through our decisions. We rush past moments that matter.
We overlook the magic hidden in ordinary interactions.
We forget to see - really see - the people we meet.
Even if we do – We just browse through or brush away

I’ve done that too. Afterall, I’m part of “those people.”

But every now and then, life taps you on the shoulder.
And in one such unexpected moment, someone walked in, stayed for just two hours - and stayed in my life forever.

Isn’t that life’s strange paradox?
Some people are in your life for years yet leave no impression.
Others appear for a fleeting moment - and leave a mark that time cannot fade.

A Coffee, a Conversation, and Something More 

It was a bright morning in Bangalore - the kind where the sun filters gently through chaos. I was heading Human Resources at First American, and we were on the lookout for a Head of Learning & Development.

My colleague Toufiq, who led Talent Acquisition and was one of the blue-eyed boys in the team, forwarded me a profile. The resume looked promising. I decided to meet the candidate for an informal chat. No boardroom, no formality - just a conversation.

We chose Café Coffee Day at Wilson Garden. That CCD had a certain charm - tucked in just off a traffic - clogged road, yet oddly calm, like a quiet corner in a crowded mind.

She walked in, poised yet warm. We ordered our coffees, settled in - and dove into a conversation that flowed effortlessly. We spoke of work, leadership, vision, challenges, possibilities… but more than that, we simply connected. It didn’t feel like an interview. It felt like talking to someone you somehow already knew.

I’ve always believed that the best interviews aren’t really interviews.
They’re conversations without agendas. Meetings without masks.

And by the time I exited CCD that morning, I knew. She was the one. I wanted her to be part of our journey.

When Destiny Has Other Plans

But just when everything seemed aligned - resume, conversation, intention - life added its twist. After all, Mr. Destiny needs to play his superiority Right!!

She had to move out of Bangalore due to personal constraints.

And just like that, it ended before it began.

She politely informed us. We wished her well. And that was that.

Now, in most cases, you forget and move on. It’s just “an interview,” right?
But this one lingered. Not in a professional sense, but in a deeply human one.

We never worked together.
But we never lost each other either.

One Coffee. One Connection. One Constant.

A decade has passed. She’s still in Learning & Development. I’m still in the people business.
We live in different cities - Bangalore and Pune. Yet every time we speak, time disappears.

Our conversations have no agendas, no ticking clocks, no filters.

It’s rare, isn’t it? To meet someone who reflects your thoughts without mirroring them, who listens without judgement, who energizes you simply by being herself.

That’s what happened with Sunitha.

One meeting. One spontaneous coffee. And a friendship that outlasted job titles, companies, and cities.

Life’s Quiet Reminders

Sometimes, life doesn’t shout.
It whispers. Through people. Through moments we almost ignore.
It nudges us to slow down, to observe, to feel.
And once in a while, it gives you a gift - wrapped in nothing but conversation.

No fireworks. No declarations. Just two people who met as professionals and left as something far more enduring.

Have you ever met someone like that?
A passing connection that turned into a lifelong friendship?

If yes, maybe it’s time to call them.
And if not—maybe the next coffee you have with a stranger could be the beginning of something beautiful.

Happy Friendship Day!

 

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. 

The Making of Confidence: One Chore at a Time

I was inching my way through the ever-bustling Bangalore traffic, lost in the chaotic rhythm of honks and halts, when a podcast gently playing in the background mentioned the name “Smriti.”

And just like that, I was transported — not to the podcast’s story, but to a quiet classroom from years ago, where a 12th-grade girl named Smriti once sat. Fragile in spirit, painfully self-aware, and wrapped in the silence of low self-worth. She was the eldest child, overprotected and rarely allowed to step out into the world on her own. Her voice often trembled when she spoke, as if she had to cross an invisible wall of fear each time she opened her mouth.

But buried beneath that hesitation, there was a soft yet undeniable thirst — a thirst to grow, to break free, to become someone beyond her timidity. And that’s something people who’ve always been bold can never fully grasp. Confidence, to them, is a given. For someone like Smriti, it’s a mountain.

Just then, as I stood at a red light watching the countdown tick away, a small boy — maybe ten — dashed across the zebra crossing. A flash of childhood courage. And another flash of memory. Smriti used to be dropped off to my classes every day, even though she lived barely a kilometre away. Her father, cautious and protective, couldn’t imagine letting her walk alone.

I remember telling him, gently but firmly, “Let her try. Let her learn.”
But he replied, “There’s too much traffic. I’d rather be sure she’s safe.”

I didn’t push. After all, you can only take the horse to the water — drinking is a choice born of readiness.

But that image stayed with me — a father afraid, a daughter caught in cotton wool, and a childhood that never stepped out into the world.

And then I started noticing something. A pattern. A quiet truth that no textbook teaches:

• The ones who became confident early had to live life early — either by parental design or by circumstance.
• They had tougher days, sometimes not out of trauma, but out of necessity.
• They were involved — in chores, in errands, in daily decisions.
• They were asked to do things on their own. They were trusted with little responsibilities that later became the bedrock of belief in self.

Isn’t that how strength begins? Not in loud applause, but in small, silent wins.

When I visit rural schools, I often meet teenagers who carry themselves with surprising surety. Not polished, not fluent in English perhaps, but undeniably rooted. They help their parents in the fields, take care of siblings, know how to budget small amounts of money. Their lives don't give them the luxury of being protected.

And I wonder: Are they confident?
Yes. In many ways, far more than their urban counterparts.
They may hesitate in front of outsiders, maybe shy away from a crowd. But talk to them — in their language, in their space — and they shine. They know how to handle life. Because they’ve been handling it.

Government school children are the same — sit with them in their comfort zone, and their talent pours out like an unsung melody. It’s not lack of confidence — it’s often just unfamiliarity with the environment.

This thought sat with me until curiosity took over. I turned to research — and like a friend of mine always says, “If you’ve thought of it, ten thousand others have too.”

Harvard’s research confirmed it: children who are entrusted with chores, who are made responsible for tasks, grow up feeling capable. And when you feel capable, you begin to believe in yourself. That belief becomes esteem. That esteem builds confidence.

How simple!. How profound!.

Confidence is not a coat you wear — it is skin that thickens over time.

Not everyone needs to fight a battle to become brave. But we all need to do — to try, to fall, to fail, to succeed, to repeat. It’s not about shouting “I can do it!” from the rooftop. It’s about quietly telling yourself, Let me try. Let me try once again.

We often search for confidence in the wrong places — in applause, in image, in validation.

But maybe… confidence is born in smaller, quieter things — like walking alone to class for the first time. Like doing the dishes without being told. Like making a mistake and knowing the world didn’t end.

If you ask me today where confidence begins, I’ll say —
It begins at home, with a chore.
With a choice.
With the chance to try.

And if you're ever wondering whether to let someone "do it on their own," maybe the better question is —
"What will they believe about themselves if they do?"

That belief is the true beginning of self-confidence. One step at a time.

 

It’s Nothing… And Yet Everything

This morning unfolded in a way I hadn’t planned, but I’ll carry it with me for a long time I guess!

My dad and I had stepped out early on an errand. On our way back, we stopped at Brahmin’s Cafe in Hanumanthanagar — that modest, bustling place where the aroma of fresh filter coffee and piping hot idlis feels like home.

We had our breakfast, as Dad waited inside for our parcel , I stood quietly near the entrance sipping coffee, just watching the world pass by — the rhythm of life on the street, people rushing, pausing, chatting, honking, living.

Then I saw him.  

An old man walked slowly, almost painfully, with a walking stick. He wore a tucked-in faded brown shirt, slightly darker trousers, and carried a worn-out bag — fragile, pale, and almost invisible in the crowd.

Beside him walked another man — mid-40s perhaps — in a navy-blue T-shirt, holding a plastic bag with mangoes. He was gently speaking to the old man, almost as if he knew how to speak to silence.

They moved barely a metre before the younger man helped him sit on a small steel stool near the entrance. He walked inside, and as he passed by me, I smiled and said softly,

“I’m proud of you.”

He smiled back humbly and said,

“It’s nothing. He’s old… I just offered him some coffee.”

That sentence stayed with me.

A few moments later, he came out again holding a steaming hot cup of coffee, handed it to the old man, and they shared a few words — words that clearly meant more than they sounded.

Then he came back in and said to me,

“He hasn’t had anything since morning.”

I instinctively responded,

“May I join hands? I’ll get him something to eat.”

He hesitated with kindness,

“That’s okay. It’s nothing.”

I smiled back and said,

“Exactly — it’s nothing. You gave him coffee, I’ll get him breakfast.”

He nodded gently and said,

“Just two idlis… he wants it parcelled.”

I walked to the counter, paid for the food, and handed him the coupon. He looked at me warmly,

“Thank you. Are you from here?”

“Yes,” I replied, “Bangalore.”
He introduced himself — Anand from Mumbai, visiting his brother nearby.

I told him my name, introduced my dad, who was quietly watching the scene unfold from a distance — perhaps wondering how two strangers suddenly seemed like old acquaintances.

As I walked back to where Dad stood, the sights around me felt different — like I had suddenly become part of the city’s heartbeat. I noticed people sitting on the steps — a couple laughing over coffee, someone deeply immersed in a call, another quietly finishing a dosa, and our old man, now trying to chat with an elderly woman beside him. It felt like…

The world operates on its own frequency — invisible, yet beautifully orchestrated.

In a tiny pocket of time, three strangers — who never knew each other before and may never meet again — created something ordinary, yet extraordinary.
One got to eat, two got to give.
And in that moment, everyone was full — not just stomachs, but hearts.

As we walked back to the car, my dad asked me,

“Who was that? Do you know him?”

I smiled and said,

“No. I don’t know him.”

He was puzzled,

“Then why did you speak to him? Why did you get food for that old man?”

I laughed and replied,

“He gave coffee. I just gave breakfast. None of us know each other.”

He paused… and then smiled.
A simple, proud smile that only a father can give — the kind that says “I saw you.”

As we sat in the car, I turned to him and said,

“You know Dad, Mom taught me something long ago. She always says — ‘Whenever you feel like you can help someone, don’t overthink. If it doesn’t hurt you to give, then give it immediately. Because the window to serve is small — and sacred.’”

What I did today? It was just a small echo of her wisdom.

💭 And here’s what stayed with me:

Kindness is rarely about the big gestures. It’s in the tiny moments, when no one is watching, no spotlight shines, and no applause follows.
It looks like “nothing.”
But to someone else… it might mean everything.

When One Missed Call Becomes a Verdict

Some friendships don’t break with betrayal. 
They don’t end with conflict.
Sometimes, they simply wither under the weight of one unexamined belief.

Decades of friendship. Laughter. Loyalty. Conversations. Silence.
And then one missed call.

There was a day—one I don’t even remember clearly - when, he says, I didn’t answer his call. And perhaps I didn’t. Life may have caught me off guard, and I might have had my own reasons, though none of them were meant to hurt. I vaguely recall that he was scheduled for surgery the following week, and I had every intention of meeting him before that. It was raining heavily that day, and amidst personal priorities and a rushing mind, I just couldn’t make it. I wish I remembered the exact sequence better. But what I do remember - with complete clarity - is everything I did afterward.

I called. Many times.
I sent messages. Wishes. Voice notes.
Not out of guilt, not out of compulsion—but out of care.

No response.

Yesterday, after all this time, I saw him. I smiled, and I spoke.
He didn’t.


His words cut—not because they were loud, but because they were laced with cold conviction.

“If someone doesn’t answer my call, I feel ignored. And if I feel ignored, I hate them. That’s how I am. That’s my discipline.”

I stood there, holding silence in one hand and reason in the other.
I asked gently, “What about the calls I made? The messages I sent after?”
There was no answer. Only more righteousness.
As the decision had already been made.
And one missed call was enough to erase eighteen years.

Later during the evening, I settled and started thinking of the ‘Birthplace of Stupidity’ & ‘Emotional Absolutism’.

There’s a kind of foolishness that doesn’t shout.
It hides behind labels like discipline, principle, self-respect.
It doesn’t examine. It just concludes.

This is what I call emotional absolutism - a rigid belief system where a single incident becomes the full story.
Where one missed moment of imperfection becomes a verdict.

In such minds, there is no room for grace. No elasticity of thought.
Only binary definitions - 
Answer me or you don’t care.
Miss my call, and you’re out.
Fall short once, and you’re unworthy.

They don’t question why they feel ignored and are they drooling under assumptions!
They don’t examine how their beliefs were formed!
They don’t revisit the memory with compassion.!
They simply rationalize their withdrawal—and call it discipline.

A positive label of discipline to protect their ego, to avoid admitting they might be wrong or overly sensitive, to feel powerful is indeed a rationalized rigidity.

I wondered why people choose this route when there are so many easy ones –

Because it’s easier to hate than to hurt.
It’s easier to hold a grudge than to hold a conversation.
It’s easier to rewrite the story than to face vulnerability.

And perhaps, for many, it’s a hidden ego defense: If I pretend, I don't care, I won't feel the ache of being cared for imperfectly.
If I reject first, I won't feel the sting of perceived rejection.

So instead of repairing, they retreat.
Instead of letting go, they form phony rules.
Instead of reconnecting, they redraw boundaries—on paper that once held deep trust.

When One Incident Becomes Everything - It’s precarious! - this tendency to let one moment, one missed call, one forgotten word, one argument, one misunderstanding, define the depth of a relationship.

I can quote many instances where in - 

·         A friend stops talking over a misunderstood message.

·         A partner walks away after one argument.

·         A parent condemns a child over one mistake.

All because someone made their hurt a law, and expected the world to obey.

They forget—relationships are not courtrooms.
They are not places for judgments or penalties.
They are living, breathing entities—where imperfection isn’t just inevitable, it’s essential.

The Lesson I’ve Learnt - There would always be a hidden face of an individual which you will get to know one day. 

I don’t chase. I don’t compel.
I don’t demand to be heard.
Because any relationship that needs to be persuaded - is already gasping.

But I do believe in sorting things out.
I believe in grace, in the benefit of doubt, in mature conversations.
I believe in second chances, when the foundation is strong.

Yet, I’ve learned a deeper truth: You can’t reason with someone so consumed by their own narrative - so fixated on being right—that they’ve gone blind to everything else. When a person is emotionally invested in their version of the story, even truth becomes unwelcome. They’ll ignore facts, dismiss intentions, and sacrifice connection - all just to protect the fragile illusion of being justified. Even if it costs them their peace, their relationships, even their own dignity - they’d rather hold onto blame than face balance.

You can’t force growth in someone who worships their own beliefs more than shared humanity.
And you can’t sustain a bond where ego becomes the gatekeeper.

A Note to all who is reading this -

The next time someone misses your call or they missed to call back — pause!
Next time when some one did not reply in line with your expectations - hold on!
Ask yourself: Am I judging years by just one day and an incident?
Am I letting one moment erase a history of care and shared values?

And if you’ve been on the receiving end of such treatment - let this remind you:

Their silence says more about their wounds than your worth.

“Some people don't grow cold because they were ignored. They grow cold because they confuse discipline with emotional absolutism. And that is not strength - it is simply unhealed hurt trying to look powerful.”

Forgive, if you must. Walk away, if you must.
But never let someone else’s narrow lens shrink your heart or your perspective.

Because maturity lies not in perfection, but in the ability to examine, expand, and empathize. 

Love, Choice, and the Spaces Between: A Personal Reflection on Ayn Rand’s Philosophy

Have you ever met someone and instantly felt at ease, as if their energy somehow matched your wavelength? You may not talk to them often, but when you do, you pick up right where you left off—effortless, honest and real.

For me, that person is Prema. A cousin of a friend I met over a decade ago, Prema is—quite fittingly—a prem ki murti in my eyes. We somehow skipped the small talk stage and dove straight into deep waters of life, purpose, emotions, and on one particular day—Ayn Rand.

Our conversation that evening began with Carl Jung and spiraled beautifully into Rand’s bold, structured take on love, sex, and marriage. With her characteristic calm, Prema summarized Rand’s philosophy in her own words

Pride for self—for who and what you are.
Admiration for the other—for the sum total of who they are.
When this is mutual—that is love.
Sex is a celebration of that love—
A selfish, rational pursuit.
Love or marriage should be where
Independence is equal,
Dependence is mutual,
And obligation is reciprocal.

Those words lingered with me. At first, I parked them in the backseat of my mind—there were a hundred things on my plate. But when Prema gently reminded me to share my thoughts the next day, I paused, sat in my porch, and truly thought about it.

When my ideals met my experience

Love. Sex. Marriage.
Three words that once felt like fairy tales to a younger me. Back then, I was Alice in a wonderland of idealism—enchanted by the idea of forever love. But life has a way of turning your fairytales into philosophy. As I met people, saw relationships unfold and fall apart, counselled broken hearts and confused minds—I realized: these words aren’t synonyms. They are different journeys, sometimes crossing paths, often not.

And yet, somewhere in that chaos, Rand’s framework struck a chord. Not because I agreed entirely—but because it invited me to define my own truth.

Self-Esteem: Its been a 'Quiet Rebellion' for me!

In my early twenties, I believed love meant blending in—being agreeable, pleasing, adjusting. But here’s what I know now: you can’t pour from an empty cup. Real love begins with self-worth.

It wasn’t a loud revolution. It was a quiet rebellion. I stopped asking, “Am I enough for someone?” and started asking, “Am I enough for me?”

That simple shift changed everything. It redefined how I connected, how I gave, and more importantly—how I protected my own peace.

Love as Action, Not Emotion!
My definition is - Seeing is believing. 

I once had a friend—he felt more than I did. Life took us in different directions. Years passed. And one afternoon, we met for coffee. He walked me in, stepping to my right so I was safe on the footpath. He remembered my favorite milkshake. Ordered the snack I always loved.

Not because we are still close.
But because he once cared enough to remember.

That, to me, is love.
Not a dramatic gesture. Not a grand confession.
But a lingering action that outlives emotion.
Love doesn’t always speak—it shows. Its a more a verb for me than a state of amygdala!

Sex: Two People, Two Realities - Challenging, but that's the truth!

As a counsellor, I’ve seen how often relationships crumble over unspoken differences—and one of the most misunderstood areas is sex.

She once told me she felt used.
He, on the other hand, felt he was expressing love.
Neither was wrong. They were just speaking different emotional languages.

For a woman, sex often comes with layers—emotion, safety, vulnerability, trust.
For a man, it may begin with biology, but that doesn’t mean it lacks depth.

The issue isn't the difference which isnt a flaw, its a fact!
The issue is the silence about the difference.

Modern relationships falter here—not because we feel differently, but because we assume the other shouldn’t. The bridge between bodies is not physical. It’s emotional intelligence.

Marriage: The Everyday Choice

I’ve watched my parents—their little fights, their big let-gos. Quiet disagreements. Loud laughter. Annoyances that lasted minutes, loyalty that lasted decades.

Marriage, as I’ve seen, isn’t about gazing into each other’s eyes to forget the world. It’s about standing shoulder to shoulder and saying, “Let’s face the world together.”

Not a contract. Not a duty. Not perpetual

To me, marriage is this:
A daily recommitment to say,
“You’re my choice. I stand by it.”
Today. Tomorrow. Again. And again.

Where's the meeting point then?

Ayn Rand gave me a structure. Prema gave it a soul.
Life gave me the in-betweens—those grey spaces where real love resides.

So here’s what I’ve come to believe:

Love isn’t just admiration.
It’s understanding. It’s showing up.
It’s needing each other without losing yourself.
It’s a presence you choose—daily.
Rand called it rational admiration.
I call it practice, presence, and choice.
And marriage?
It’s not a fairytale.
It’s a legacy of small, consistent choices that say—
“You’re still the one. I still choose you.”