Discipline > Motivation

 We often wait for motivation - that spark of inspiration that pushes us to begin something new. A fitness goal, a project, a habit, etc. We tell ourselves, “Once I feel ready, I’ll start.” But the truth is, motivation is fleeting. It comes and goes with moods, energy, and circumstances. What really creates progress is discipline - the quiet, consistent commitment to show up, even when you don’t feel like it.

Discipline isn’t about being harsh or rigid. It’s not about forcing yourself through joyless routines - and surely not getting up at 5 AM & doing cold showers. It’s about making small, steady promises to yourself - and keeping them. It’s the ten minutes of reading before bed, the morning walk even on a rainy day, the hour of focused work when distraction seems easier. 

Motivation might get you started, but discipline keeps you going. It builds momentum, and with momentum comes results. Over time, that routine becomes second nature - less about willpower, more about rhythm. The beauty of discipline is that it doesn’t demand big leaps; it thrives on small steps taken consistently. It teaches patience, and more importantly, trust - that showing up, day after day, quietly shapes who you become.

Motivation lights the spark; discipline keeps the flame alive.

Comparisons

 It’s human nature to compare.

We do it almost unconsciously - with friends, colleagues, neighbours, sometimes even strangers we come across for a fleeting moment. Someone’s doing better at work, someone else seems fitter, wealthier, more accomplished. And before we realise it, our minds start measuring - not with contentment, but with quiet restlessness.

For the longest time, I lived with that same pattern - comparing myself to others, to what I thought I should have achieved by now, or to the version of success that the world so easily celebrates. But over time, I’ve come to see how misleading that lens can be. Each of us carries a different story, a different pace, a different mix of strengths and struggles. Comparison across lives is never fair - it’s like comparing a river to a mountain. Both are beautiful, just in different ways.

The real comparison, I’ve realised, is inward. It’s between who I was five or ten years ago, and who I am today. Between how I used to respond to challenges, and how I do now. Between how I once viewed the world, and how I understand it today.

Growth isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s quiet - hidden in patience, in kindness, in self-awareness, in the ability to let go a little faster than before. When I look at myself through that lens, I find perspective, and oddly, peace. The other honest comparison, perhaps, is between what I’m achieving and what I’m truly capable of. Am I stretching enough? Am I using the gifts I’ve been given to their fullest? That’s the kind of comparison that fuels growth, not envy.

Outer comparisons often drain us; inner ones strengthen us. The former distracts us, while the latter one grounds us. In the end, the only person we need to be better than is the one we were yesterday.

Real growth begins when the measure shifts from others to ourselves.

Deep Friendship

 As the years have gone by, I’ve come to realise that I know many people, but have only a few true friends. Acquaintances are plenty - familiar faces who come and go through different phases of life. But friends… real friends are different. They occupy a deeper place - not defined by frequency, proximity, or even similarity, but by connection.

What’s interesting is that my closest friends are nothing like me. They have completely different personalities, different worldviews, and often a very different outlook on life. Some are spontaneous where I’m structured; some thrive in chaos while I prefer calm; some chase adventures while I find joy in reflection. And yet, when we talk - whether after a few months or a few years - it feels effortless, like time simply folded in on itself. 

With them, silence isn’t awkward. Distance isn’t felt. We pick up where we left off, without explanations or expectations. There’s a quiet understanding - that we’ve each changed, grown, and aged a little — but the thread that binds us remains untouched. It’s taken me time to understand that deep friendships aren’t about constant contact; they’re about constant care. They are built on the comfort of knowing that someone, somewhere, understands you — not through shared routines, but through shared resonance.

In a world filled with quick chats, likes, and status updates, real friendships are like old trees - their roots unseen, growing quietly deeper with time. They don’t demand attention, but they give shade when you need it most. I’ve also realised that friendship, at its best, isn’t about similarity - it’s about acceptance. It’s about having people who see you clearly, even when you can’t see yourself that way.

So while life keeps expanding with new people and new experiences, I find myself grateful for those few constants - friends who may live in different cities, lead different lives, but still hold a piece of my story within theirs.

Some connections don’t fade with time — they deepen in its silence.

The Quiet Moments

 Every day, while commuting between home and office, I get nearly two hours of solitude. An hour each way — just me, the hum of the car engine, the slow crawl of traffic, and the city moving around me. What once felt like wasted time has quietly become something else — my space to breathe, to untangle, to simply be.

In those quiet stretches, there are no emails, no meetings, no conversations demanding attention. It’s just stillness — sometimes filled with soft music, sometimes with silence. And in that silence, thoughts begin to settle. The muddled noise of the day starts to sort itself out. Some ideas drift away, others take shape. Problems that felt tangled begin to look simpler, as if distance itself brings clarity. I’ve come to realise that these everyday moments of solitude are powerful — not because of what I do in them, but because of what they create in me. I don’t make decisions, I don’t plan actions, I don’t even try to think. But somehow, clarity emerges. A sense of balance returns. The rush of the day slows, and the mind resets.

In a world that constantly demands movement, it’s strange how stillness ends up moving you the most.

Sometimes, during these drives, I think of Siddharth — the energy, the curiosity — and I remind myself that quiet is not emptiness. It’s the space where energy regathers. The commute, once a chore, has turned into a quiet meditation — a bridge between who I am at work and who I am at home.

The older I get, the more I value this quiet — not as an escape, but as a return. A return to clarity, to self, to that soft inner voice that is so easily drowned out in the noise of everyday life. 

We often wait for retreats or vacations to “pause,” but sometimes, life gives us smaller pauses every day. A car ride. A morning walk. A quiet cup of tea.

In the silence between destinations, we often find our way back to ourselves.

A droplet of water

 November in Mumbai carries its own mood. The monsoon has just bid farewell, leaving behind a damp earth and that lingering freshness you only get after weeks of rain. The city feels calmer in these moments — like it has taken a deep breath and finally exhaled.

A few evenings ago, right after one of the last sudden bursts of rain, I stepped out onto the balcony with a cup of tea. The world was still dripping — trees shaking off droplets, cars gliding over wet roads, children splashing in puddles that looked like they were in no hurry to go anywhere. The air had that cool, washed feeling that Mumbai gifts us ever so often.

And then I saw it — a tiny droplet hanging from the edge of the railing, just holding on, trembling slightly each time the breeze passed. At first, I almost ignored it. Just another drop of rain, one among millions. But something made me pause. Maybe the stillness, maybe the light reflecting off it. I leaned closer.

Inside that tiny droplet, I could see the world around me — the building opposite, the palm tree swaying gently, even a faint reflection of my face leaning in curiously. It struck me then: here was this minuscule drop, so easy to overlook, yet holding an entire world within it.

How many things just like this do we miss in life?

We run after the big — ambitions, decisions, milestones — convinced that meaning lies only in movement and scale. But often, clarity comes from the smallest corners. A brief smile from Siddharth, Bhairavi quietly humming in the kitchen, the calm of an early morning before emails start flooding in, the comfort of familiar routines. These moments rarely announce themselves. Yet they reflect who we are, where we are, and what truly matters.

As I stood there, watching the droplet finally let go and fall, I felt oddly grounded. Life doesn’t always reveal itself in grand events. Sometimes, it speaks through a single raindrop — patient, quiet, waiting for us to simply notice.

Sometimes, life reveals itself in the smallest reflections — if only we pause long enough to see.

Sunday Evenings at Home

 There’s something about Sunday evenings that always feels different. The day starts slowly — a little lazier, a little softer — with chai in my hand, Bhairavi attending her music class, and Siddharth still in his pajamas, chasing a tennis ball around the living room. The world outside may be rushing somewhere, but inside our home, time seems to stretch and breathe.

By late afternoon, the calm starts to shift. There’s that familiar Sunday rhythm — a little different lunch cooked by the maid, Siddharth finishing homework reluctantly, and me checking my work calendar for Monday. Bhairavi plans for the week ahead, and inevitably plays some old Hindi classics or some melodious Malayalam songs, and, the sound fills the house with a kind of peace that nothing else can match.

Some Sunday evenings, we step out for a walk — the three of us — watching the sky slowly change colors. Siddharth talks non-stop about school or his favourite Football team - Manchester City, while Bhairavi and I exchange quiet smiles, listening, amused and grateful. It’s a small ritual, but one that anchors us.

I’ve begun to see that these evenings, ordinary as they seem, are the real luxury of life. Not the vacations or grand celebrations, but the slow, familiar rhythm of being together — everyone in their own little space, yet deeply connected.

As the lights dim and the city outside prepares for another week, I often pause and feel thankful. The emails can wait, the plans can wait.

Right now, this — laughter, comfort, and the gentle hum of home — is enough.

A year on the Court

 It’s been a bit more than an year since Siddharth first picked up a tennis racquet. I still remember those early days—awkward swings, missed shots, and that mix of excitement and frustration on his face after every session. Honestly, I wasn’t sure how it would go. Would he stick with it? Would he enjoy it enough to keep showing up, week after week?

Today, as I watched him rally confidently with his coach, something inside me shifted. His movements were smoother, his focus sharper. More than the improvement in his game, what struck me was the joy on his face—the kind that comes when effort quietly turns into progress.

A year of sweaty practices and gentle nudges from us as parents seems to be shaping not just his tennis, but his mindset. He’s learning patience, discipline, and the quiet satisfaction of getting a little better every day.

There’s still a long way to go—many matches, lessons, and perhaps setbacks ahead—but for now, it feels like he’s building something solid.

And the best part? He seems to truly enjoy the journey.