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.

A new frame

 Arjun was in his early forties, a man who often felt like he was sprinting through life while carrying too many bags. On one shoulder sat his demanding IT career, full of deadlines and meetings that never seemed to end. On the other was his family—his 10-year-old son Aarav, full of endless questions and energy, and Meera, his wife, who kept the home and his world stitched together with quiet strength.

He loved them deeply. Everything he did—the late nights, the endless calls, the exhaustion—was for them. And yet, in the rare quiet moments, he felt a small ache inside. Something was missing.

Once upon a time, he was the guy with a camera slung around his neck, stopping to capture strangers’ smiles, the glow of a streetlamp, or the messy chaos of a Sunday bazaar. He was also the guy who filled notebooks with stories—scribbles about people he observed, or little pieces of fiction born during long train rides. Photography and writing weren’t just hobbies; they were his way of breathing, of staying connected to himself.

Now, the camera lay forgotten in a cupboard. The notebooks gathered dust. His days blurred between work and family, leaving no space for that version of Arjun who once lived for moments, not just responsibilities.

He often asked himself, is this what growing up really means—losing the things that once made you feel alive?

One evening, sitting on the balcony with tea in hand, Aarav came running with his school project: “My Father.” On the chart were words scrawled in uneven handwriting: “My papa works hard. He loves us. He used to like clicking photos but doesn’t get time now.”

Those words hit harder than any performance review ever could. Meera, who had been standing nearby, looked at him and said softly, “Maybe you need those things back, Arjun. Not just for you… for all of us.”

That night, as the ceiling fan hummed above him, Arjun thought about what she said. He realized it wasn’t about choosing between family, work, and his passions. It was about weaving them together, creating space instead of waiting for it to appear. He wanted Aarav to grow up seeing that adulthood didn’t mean giving up who you are. And he wanted Meera to see him smile again, not just out of duty but out of joy.

The next morning, he opened the cupboard, pulled out his old camera, and dusted it off. The weight of it in his hands felt familiar, grounding. He smiled—not because life was suddenly easy, but because he had decided something.

He would figure it out. For himself. For Meera. For Aarav.

The first frame of his new chapter had already been captured.