Tag: Life

  • The Romance of Distance

    Time and again, both the wise and the foolish have spoken about yearning, about loving from afar. Philosophers, theologians, ardent devotees, and poets have all mused on how, sometimes, cherishing someone from a distance and waiting for them can feel more blissful than actually being with them.

    Neuroscience explains this phenomenon through arrival fallacy. This refers to the idea that dopamine, the neurotransmitter responsible for motivation and pleasure, is released in anticipation of something rather than in its attainment. Once a long-awaited goal is achieved, dopamine levels drop, leaving a person feeling unexpectedly empty.

    Someone who longed to be with their beloved, for instance, might find themselves feeling strangely indifferent once that desire is fulfilled. This concept has also found a place in spirituality, particularly in Sufism and Vaishnavism, which speaks of how yearning for the divine is often more intoxicating than attaining union with God.

    Many couples talk about how their relationship changed after marriage, how the passion and effort that once defined their love seem to fade. It is as if marriage itself marks the completion of a goal, after which the pursuit, the excitement, and the longing all dissipate.

    A similar feeling often follows major life events. We hear of people feeling numb after accomplishing something they deeply desired. It is simply a “now what?” moment, a sense of emptiness that lingers after a mission is complete.

    Infatuation, too, thrives on distance. There are those who find quiet joy in merely observing the person they admire, never confessing their feelings, content instead with fleeting moments such as a brief meeting of eyes, an accidental brush of hands, the lingering trace of perfume as they pass by.

    If it’s a celebrity crush, people can spend years, even decades, dreaming of someone they may never meet.

    It is the waiting, the yearning, that turns people into poets and artists, not the fulfillment of desire.

    Perhaps there is a kind of sweetness in longing. Of course, it shouldn’t consume a person, turning into obsession or unhealthy patterns. But there is a quiet charm in knowing that someone you desire is close yet out of reach. And in a world so focused on achieving, acquiring, and winning, perhaps longing itself is an experience worth savoring.

    Maybe love, in its purest form, isn’t about possession but about presence,whether near or far. And maybe, just maybe, the ache of longing is not a curse, but a quiet kind of grace, a reminder that some things are most beautiful when they remain just out of reach.

  • Mom & Me: A Story of Life, Death, and Beyond

    The Fear Of Death

    I have three types of experiences with death. I had imagined it many times. Daydreaming about my mom’s death or the deaths of people I loved came naturally to me. Probably because I always watched her being unwell while growing up, I felt we could lose people anytime. 

    As a child, health concerns in my family in various forms was part of my daily life. Even when my mother didn’t have a real fear of dying, I always feared losing her. 

    To me, imagining the deaths of loved ones was probably my love language. It was my way of realizing how unbearable losing them would be. I would cry and tell myself, It’s not going to happen.

    These thoughts came and went until they came too close to reality. I don’t know if I manifested it or if it was an inevitable truth waiting to upend my life.

    My first experience with death spanned my childhood and teenage years. I was disturbed and probably needed help. I felt it was better for people to die because that was one way to rid themselves of the pain of birth and this dreadful life. 

    I used to think death had nothing on me, until it actually did.

    Slowly, the fear of death started to engulf me as I grew up. Life was getting real and true learning was on my way.

    Living with Death: A Game of Hide and Seek

    The second experience of death started, and I guess grief too, when I was told what to expect about my mother’s chronic kidney disease. This was when I just started my new job. It hit like a boulder, a giant mountain, a glacier, or a planet falling on my head. Until then, I was frantically trying my best to fix her kidneys.

    I thought if I tried hard enough, I could make her live forever, somehow happily too.

    During those times, the universe would play with me. On my way to the office, there was a cremation ground. Every alternate day I would see a death procession, and slowly started to feel nauseous expecting to see another one on my way, everyday. Right when parallelly in my personal life death was looming over my mom’s head.

    During a casual conversation with the doctor, a bomb was dropped on me: she might survive for another year, but not more than that. That was the typical average lifespan of a dialysis patient in India. And I did see a lot of patients succumbing to the disease within that time frame. 

    When I was told about this timeline, I didn’t know which dam broke in my heart, but I started crying profusely in front of the doctor, as if mourning my mother’s death already. I still do, whenever I happen to talk to him by chance. The doctor reminds me of her and the version of myself that existed then. He has been a silent audience to the whole experience. 

    Anyway, even after that dreadful conversation, I didn’t lose hope. I sulked, I cried, I complained to god for a while. And then I thought, three years is just an average. 

    My mom was not an average person. And she did prove everyone wrong.

    That’s a story for another day.

    I decided to quit my job. It became increasingly overwhelming for me to work and handle the stress of health emergencies. I would fear I’d need to rush home but what if I reached too late!!

    Since that conversation, as I got used to the disease, the caretaking, the regular hospital visits, the frequent operations and tests, our home became a second hospital, and the hospital became a second home. The hospital staff and the people who helped in caretaking in various roles, became extended family. 

    During all this, I was breaking every day. The nights were the toughest to pass.

    Every task related to her care, her dialysis, the slow walks that eventually turned into wheelchair rides, feeding her in the hospital, running frantically to call the nurse the moment her BP fell, or when the machine would start beeping, reminded me that this would take her life one day. It reminded me of the death processions I used to see on my route to the office.

    Watching my mother’s blood flow in the tubes thrice a week during hemodialysis, the blood that made me, the blood that was running in my mother’s body since her birth, made my blood turn into water seemingly. I could not feel my own emotions watching this. It seemed like watching a movie, but a silent one.

    Blood sometimes spilled on the floor, dozens of gauzes filled with blood, the crazy blood clots in her hand, made blood from something sacred life giving, to a mere fluid in the body which needs to be treated. Her hand became a pin cushion from the constant attempts of finding the right blood vessel. Her skin became multi- colored due to blood clotting and wounds due to frequent syringe piercing. 

    I stopped noticing her hand was a part of her, but a tool to keep her alive.

    From this craziness to the dullness and lull of the hospital waiting rooms, the coldness and eerie silence of the night spent at hospitals, with only machines’ beeping a constant sound just like your heartbeat, the smell of the hospital started to become a part of my core memory.

    I still have white coat hypertension due to this. Every time I step into a hospital, my BP increases.

    From almost learning how to operate machines to knowing what was about to happen medically to her, from predicting which medicines would be prescribed next to almost becoming a half doctor and probably a full-time nurse for her, I was living her death in every moment. 

    While doing her peritoneal dialysis at home, 4 times a day for 4 years, I just kept thinking she would die of this disease one day.

    Thinking about death like, I was possessed by it at this rate, wreaked havoc to my mental health and perception of life.

    Sometimes, I would look at that frail body in a wheelchair or on a hospital bed or at home, getting her dialysis done, and I would think about the woman she once was. A woman with broad shoulders who had carried the weight of the world, who was still carrying it, carrying us. 

    A revolutionary at heart, a spiritual guru in her soul, a compassionate woman ahead of her time, and a sad, broken yet a hopeful mother in that fragile body. 

    I listened to her new voice, which was hoarse, and weak. You could sense the debility in it. She always had a sharp, strong voice. And this reminded me how slowly things were deteriorating. 

    She would be lost in her world, maybe because her faculties were affected as the disease progressed. Maybe because of fluid retention, depression, diabetes, or the hearing loss that completely shattered her confidence to communicate with people. Her usual sharpness and confidence was missing.

    I mostly did the talking on behalf of her. She started to rely heavily on my psychological support, almost like I was her brain, and maybe I wanted her to not to worry about anything anymore. 

    But despite all these changes in her, something was always there, the grit, the optimism, the zest for living, and an inspiration in her to keep going, keep trying.

    She wanted to live for us. Even for herself probably.

    She probably wanted a tryst with destiny, a chance to have a few happy years after the long, arduous life she had lived. So she kept trying.

    She wanted to make me happy, probably. She could see I was trying. And even though she was in so much pain, she tried not to give up for me and her family.

    She was sacrificing for us.I sort of couldn’t see it then.

    But I did see her living in those dying moments every day.

    We lived our best years.

    We went out frequently. Wore new clothes regularly. Ate whatever we could because she could hardly eat or drink anything, so whatever she did was a win. We lived as if all was well.

    We talked, we fought, and she was mine for all those years. Whatever nobody could give her in her healthier years, I tried to give her in the days that were numbered.

    I made sure she did not have to ask for anything, I wanted her to believe I am one person for whom she is the top priority.

    I would look at her sitting from afar, trying to register that memory in my head forever. Somewhere deep down, I knew I might not see that face again someday, but not the following day.

    I tried to fix her body so she could have a good time before her death. Even though I didn’t believe her death was imminent, I felt the need to cherish her as much as I could.

    Denial has always been my close ally.

    She was my last hope of the lost childhood, a hope of getting the love I never received or maybe never understood, and would never get a chance to feel again.

    And then a point came when I started to believe, maybe my plan had worked. Maybe she would now live, as long as we kept fixing her. 

    I got married during all this madness but I kept trying to keep her alive. Going back and forth between cities, to get her dialysis done.I thought soon I’d have more control over our situation. 

    As long as I kept running and praying, I could do it all. 

    When things didn’t seem to work, I prayed harder, and God seemed to give in. I thought God has to grant my wishes if He wants to prove His existence. And He kept humoring me. My mother kept humoring me too.

    Things kept getting tougher, but hope was never lost.

    There wasn’t a single corridor, or a room or a person I’ve been with, where I did not cry while talking about my mom or even thinking about it. I did not know a person could cry so easily, that the human body had so many tears to shed.

    I never had a conversation with the doctor where my eyes were not teary or my throat was not choking. I could feel it took a lot to just smile. The way I spoke had changed. I did not feel excited about anything, I did not want to be anywhere but home, there was no one I thought about but mom, I was struggling. I was gasping for air, for peace, for myself.

    I had a struggle understanding what I am beyond caretaking and being a daughter, and is it really enough?

    Those days were so stressful and eventful that I never got a chance to mull over these things for long. It was like living in a war zone and anytime a bomb could be dropped on your head.

    Through all this God had some plans for us. And our lives were suddenly disrupted by COVID pandemic.

    During that period, I got her cataract treated so she could see better, it gave her hope and strengthened her will to live.  

    And then, after a series of events, stories of the truest, greatest acts of love and spirituality, where God Himself had to come to change fates, she went away.

    Rendezvous with Death

    It was 3:30 on a Saturday morning.

    The person who called had disdain in his voice, I was in a denial in what I heard.

    I reconfirmed with him. He also insisted that he was not wrong or he did not mix up her name with someone.

    She was gone.

    In the hospital. Alone. And hopefully, lost.

    Probably, she had already left when she left for the hospital to be admitted to the ICU.

    She had decided to leave me. She had made her plans.

    I was 9 months pregnant. I was strictly advised not to go to public places or a hospital to avoid picking COVID infection during this time. Hence, I could not accompany her for the first time to the hospital, especially when she was going there to stay.

    And that’s why she decided to choose this time. She already told me, she feels now she’d be a burden to me, because I won’t be able to care for her along with the baby.

    She didn’t let me see her like that. She knew I’d stop her, so she didn’t take me along to the hospital. 

    She left without making me feel like she was going.

    She did send a signal that I didn’t understand.

    She had her last two-line conversation with me, which I didn’t realize would be her last. She told me to prepare for the baby to come. She was thinking about me. She spoke to me when she could barely think or be conscious anymore. 

    A few days before, she told me she had the best three months of her life. She told me, I have never been loved by anyone this much. I am truly happy.

    I don’t know why she said that because we never thought her days were coming to an end.

    One of those days, she had asked me.

    She told me she wanted to leave now.

    She was tired of the pain.

    It was as if she was asking for my permission.

    But I would never tell her to go. Because I knew she wanted to live.

    She wanted to live fulfilled. Pain Free too.

    And most of all, I wanted her to know she was wanted. Not as a role, but as a person. That she deserved all the love and care and respect. That I would fight anyone and do anything to keep her alive and happy.

    But probably, the one thing I missed was that I couldn’t reduce her pain, even when I wanted to.

    I was no God sadly.

    And so, for the first time, I let go.

    At the age of 62, after 35 years of mental and physical struggle and an 8 year long heroic battle with Chronic Kidney Disease, she finally rested.

    Grief: Never Ending Echo

    My third ongoing experience of death is a slow dance with Grief. 

    Grief is a strange, silent companion. It sneaks up on you when you least expect it, latching onto moments and memories, warping time in ways you cannot comprehend. It makes the past feel too close and the present too distant, blurring the lines between reality and dream. 

    Her death and the grief that came along with it, changed my identity, my worldview, my spirituality completely.

    When she went away, I was nine months pregnant. I couldn’t even cry, at least not the amount I wanted to when the numbness would fade. I had to prepare for everything, take care of all the rituals.

    I didn’t know the clothes that I was giving for her were her last. And in a way, I feel she chose them—they were her color. 

    I missed welcoming her into our house, covered with white sheets on a gurney, her last time in her home. I couldn’t see when they lay her down on the floor of the house she cherished so much, or maybe she did not.

    This house saw everything, her own disease, her children’s marriages, her transient peace and now her death. This house was a small pit stop, though not a pain-free one, after a long, dreary life in our previous house, and now on to her final journey.

    She had always been the strongest person I knew. Now, I had to be the strong one. But I wasn’t ready. And I didn’t want to be. Even if I held it together for so long, I did not want to anymore. What’s the point after all?

    If I had to define what death feels like, it is cold. It is eerily cold. It is a vacuum. You can breathe, but you don’t really feel anything around you. You don’t know if you are capable of feeling anything now or ever. Your heart, your brain-they have decided not to feel any more emotion. Your hands and legs are moving, your mouth is talking, but you have no awareness of your own body. You constantly dwindle between reality and dream. What you are in is a nightmare and what is real is when you wake up.

    And somehow, time moves really fast when you want it to stop. You want to spend more and more time with your loved one, but suddenly, it’s time to go. 

    You try to soak in that face one last time in the hope that this remains, that maybe time doesn’t take the memory of it away from you.

    I touched my mom’s face, like she was my child or maybe my mother, how I must have looked at her when I was a child, in her arms. She looked so pretty. Her face was glowing. I felt her nose and her cheeks one last time, patted her forehead like I wanted her to finally rest, that this was finally over. 

    She looked peaceful, as if she had simply gone to sleep, waiting to wake up in another world.

    I couldn’t hug her or sit next to her on the floor because I had a baby in my tummy. We have never been those families who show love through physical touch. I have hardly hugged my mother in my whole life, this includes even my day of marriage. So I was in a way thankful when she got unwell, retrospectively. Because I got to hold her a lot, her hand when walking, her shoulders when she would be unable to balance herself. 

    In these last years, I fed her, held her, bathed her, and did countless number of dressings, which gave me a chance to be close to her as a daughter, the physical touch that I always wanted. I could mother my mom the way she mothered me. And today I touched her face like I could cherish her at my will, without any awkwardness, but the last and only time of my and her life. 

    And that day, while sitting next to her on a chair, I was hanging between real life that was in my tummy and death which was in front of me-who do I save, and who do I stop? How do I feel and not feel at the same time? Who do I hug, and who do I cradle? I didn’t know any of it.

    I tried to bid her goodbye as happily as possible. I didn’t want her to worry anymore. And it didn’t feel like she had gone for many days. She did come visit me, it seems. I kept looking for that one sign of acceptance even then. I wanted her to tell me she knew I loved her so much, that I did my best to save her, that she doesn’t feel I gave up on her. 

    I didn’t know what was what. But there was guilt, a whole truckload of it. So much of it, I shoved it all down. I started fighting with her through her photos. She didn’t give me a chance to help her. She gave up on me. Or no-I screwed it up. Why did I let her go alone to the hospital, that one and only time?

    It’s like she was looking for an escape from life, from me.

    I started to feel more and more numb, as time passed. I completely denied she had gone in my head. I stopped looking at her picture. I could feel her living in my body. I would talk about her in the present tense. 

    I could feel it when I smiled like her, sat like her, talked like her, nodded like her, and sometimes even looked like her. I became obsessed with her. The only way for me to believe she was still with me was through living like her, to feel I am her daughter and she is alive in me. 

    Sometimes, I would get soundless dreams, daydreams of her. A memory of hers,  and I am just watching her. I wasn’t even part of that memory. Every time I cooked, I thought of her. Every time I drove on the road which led to the hospital, I thought of her.

    I had kept old hospital bills, her leftover medicines, her reading glasses, her comb, her clothes and tried to find her in those whenever I felt lonely. 

    I couldn’t give away the things which were used in her dialysis, I have still kept her hospital bag as is.

    And just like that, all of my three years after her death were about reliving every memory of hers, but with no emotions. Just feeling betrayed by her for leaving. Then feeling lonely, like I was completely alone in this world. Not looking at her pictures at all because the world would start spinning, and I would feel nauseous. An empty pit in my stomach and I did not know if I am supposed to breathe in or breathe out. I didn’t know I had these weird feelings, and I couldn’t understand them. 

    Grief was my worst nightmare—or not even that, because I didn’t know I could feel this way.

    We never were a family of camera people. We were always too shy of spotlights, and felt really awkward about taking our own pictures. When I realized I may not have a lot of time with my mother, I felt I probably should be clicking more pictures of her or us, but I also felt if I clicked her picture thinking she might be gone one day, then I am accepting her fate, I am making it real. So I never clicked those pictures. 

    I won’t deny I always regretted it but even to this day when it’s almost her 4 year death anniversary, I still am not able to look at her pictures. It’s difficult to even talk about her with anyone without crying.

    I probably will regret not saving enough memories of her even more in the years to come.

    I would look at her old pictures, the ones when she got newly married. I would look into those eyes and try to understand what this young girl would have been thinking. She must be so excited about the new life that she’s going to start and looking forward to the dreams she wanted to come true.

    And here I was, grieving for her own unlived life as well as mine. It made me even more sad, realizing I could not ever change someone’s destiny, especially of the person I loved so much.

    I have hated myself for still living after her death, that my own heart was betraying me by still beating. I was supposed to die if she died, but I was alive, barely surviving. 

    The sense of identity loss, loss of purpose and understanding life after being a caretaker for so long, turned my emotions into a whirlwind. I couldn’t detach nor I wanted to detach myself from the role of a daughter. I felt this would be a betrayal to my mom if I thought of anything else, in fact I had spent years thinking about how to keep my mom well, that suddenly I realized I have no personal goal. I had no idea nor any wish to look forward to anything. To me life was just dragging, everything seemed pointless. 

    It finally started to hit me, I don’t know who I am, I don’t know how I would have been if things were normal. I had no idea who Neha could be, if not for this.

    There were reasons I was trying to live, denial being one. 

    And denial is probably the state that is always there, maybe even after accepting too. I don’t know if, on a daily basis, grieving people can reminisce about their dead loved ones. They barely make it through birthdays or anniversaries, especially death anniversaries.

    One of the things I hated was not being able to say goodbye at the hospital. Another was my own living. Then I was angry at her for not asking for my permission. 

    I would get vertigo whenever I looked at her picture. The Earth didn’t seem to rotate properly when I thought about her.

    I spent unhealthy amounts of time at night looking at her last rites. Fortunately, or maybe only for me, there were videos of her cremation. And looking at them made it real. Contrary to popular belief, it healed me. And the biggest of all—the one thing that healed me was Time.

    I don’t know if there’s anything apart from Time that can heal, but perhaps the other thing is Purpose. A reason to live. A reason to wake up every day. A reason to not think about your loved one and instead think about those who are left behind.

    Death, even when it seems to be looming over our heads, when it does come, it comes sneakily. It takes away our senses, our authority over our own thoughts, our ability to understand what is happening to us and around us. Brain fog becomes a constant companion. Our body doesn’t seem to know what warmth means for a long while.

    We unknowingly look for them everywhere, and we get scared when we do get a whiff of their existence in the corners of our daily life.

    It takes a while to realize the tenses being used for them need to change, that the incidents we are sharing about them are the only memories we have. The accidental things we touch that belonged to them still carry a trace of them, a coldness that feels almost unbearable.

    I only have compassion for the people who lost someone they were not prepared to lose. They may be living, but a piece of their heart has flown away and doesn’t belong to them anymore. They are looking for their loved one’s existence in another realm. They are looking for a sign from their loved one’s soul to tell them they are still loved.

    They are still trying to understand whether they are still related, or if the alive one is the only one holding the ropes of this relationship.

    Yet, they deny every day whether they are truly living or even allowed to live again like before. The void they carry in their hearts, in their life, engulfs them even when they seem happy, whispering to them to feel guilty for moving on. 

    Death not only takes a person—it makes the one left behind feel guilty for being alive. 

    Grief is not a journey for those who have never loved, but a road seemingly less traveled by those who choose to drag themselves through this road of loneliness, with no hope of ever learning to live without the person they loved so much.

    Healing from grief feels like you’re sitting on this bed, bed being your emotional self. You can’t put your feet down, which is outside of your broken self, a logical self. The logical self is very painful to face, and it feels too hot to step on this floor. The logical self tells you to move on because what is gone is gone. And you, despite being scared of the hot burning floor, still want to go out of the room, to the outside world, to the normal life like before. You step down and then go out with all your strength but you still badly want to come back to the delusional grieving emotional self. You again go through that agonising pain of facing your logical self asking you to heal and live a normal life, and return to the bed, with no hope of any strength to leave this room ever again. And this cycle goes on for months, years and sometimes decades.

    Grief doesn’t end; it shifts. And somewhere in that shift,it teaches, love never really leaves, it just changes form.

    So I am trying, and would keep trying to keep her legacy alive in me. She would not like it after all this, if i hated living this much. I would try to understand why she made that sacrifice then, and why in all possible ways, whatever she did or God does, is an act of love. I may not completely see it today, but one day, I’ll be able to cherish her memories, and not be haunted by the emptiness she has left behind. 

    Now, I look for her in the quiet moments, in the warmth of the afternoon which is as peaceful as her, in the way I love my own child and when my daughter looks at me lovingly. 

    She left, but she didn’t leave me.

  • Children & Parents- Two Sides Of A Coin

    One of the most empowering things children do is follow their parents to the T. For those parents who tell that their kids do not to listen to them, they should know that, even before they realize it, their children are copying their behavior.

    What is problematic in them is problematic in you. What is lovable in them, they have acquired it from you.

    Even though parental wounds are real, it’s deeply saddening to see how many parents don’t realize that having children is like receiving God’s love language.

    However, we receive our children, it is the greatest gift we can give ourselves. It’s an act of love toward ourselves.

    I understand that one needs to be healed enough to fully cherish this, but if you’re in a place where you can see your child for what they are, not what they could be, you will feel a glowing ball of love in your heart.

    Your child is here to show you the way you love. They are a mirror of how you love yourself. If what I’m saying hurts you, then perhaps you are also hurting yourself.

    It’s a painful realization that our children must endure suffering that should only be ours. But since we can’t change this, what we can control is how we see ourselves, and in return, how we see our child.

    We owe it to our children to be the best version of ourselves possible.

    And by “best,” I don’t mean the worldly best, but rather the version of ourselves that we can lean on when we need support. This way, our children will learn to love themselves the way we love ourselves, unapologetically.

  • Prisoners Of The Mind: The Human Struggle

    The trouble with life is that it is made up of numerous moments. When times are good, you enjoy being in the moment, but when things aren’t going your way, every moment feels like a punishment. Life seems like a prison, and you become a slave to it.

    You keep banging your head against the invisible walls of time, trying to understand what led you here. It becomes even more difficult when you consider yourself a thinker-logical and rational-someone who can’t accept an irrational explanation for their problems. Yet, there often seems to be no rational reason for the random unpleasant events in life.

    How and when psychology became a rational branch is something that makes me wonder because, most of the time, when you can’t perform due to an emotionally troubled state, people call you useless or lazy. If psychology is the culprit, why shouldn’t a person see themselves as a victim, victim of their own mind or time, victim of their own evolution, which made them sensitive to others, victim of anything that now seems to be a self-fulfilling prophecy?

    While people strive to be part of groups where they are truly in touch with their inner selves, a person who is authentically themselves at all times is often labeled impulsive. Why is everything paradoxical when it comes to real practices in the world? Every ritual has two sides: one bad and the other worse, yet we are forced to choose.

    When we begin to understand what we lack, we find ourselves at the brink of killing our own ideals. Once we realize that this lack is the cause of our troubles, it becomes difficult to act against it because doing so feels like acting against ourselves, against the truth. And everyone has a different version of the truth, yet everyone wants you to accept their version while you keep wondering: isn’t truth supposed to be absolute?

    Perhaps this is where we make the mistake. Maybe it’s not the truth we are offering or believing, but rather an explanation. And explanations change with time, according to our understanding of the problems.

    Maybe the key to everything is knowledge, awareness. The more we get to know things, directly and remotely related to our situation, the better we will be at accepting what brought us here.

    And maybe, then, our tombstones won’t silently read: “Still searching for a reason.”

  • Masters Of The Stage Or Masters Of Fate?

    I am a novice when it comes to acting. Not only did I hold various assumptions about the talent required, thinking it was no big deal, but I also believed acting was for those who couldn’t do anything else.

    Recently, I had an epiphany, a newfound respect for actors, when I realized that acting isn’t just impromptu. It’s rehearsed. And it’s not just a monologue all the time. There is a group of people working together to present a real-life situation in the most convincing way possible. I now understand why the term “timing” was coined.

    An actor already knows what will come next, yet they still hold the expressions the scene demands. They know their next line, but they wait patiently for their turn, responding as though hearing it for the first time. And while they wait, they don’t look bored or fake their reactions, they seem to be immersed in that character and that’s the mark of a great actor.

    This got me thinking about the mystery in our own lives. What if we knew what was coming next? Could we still stay present and play our part convincingly?

    If we knew we were going to die, get hurt, or lose everything, could we still be as happy in the present moment as we are now, oblivious to the future? Personally, I doubt that about myself.

    If we can’t even be good actors in the small plays of life, how could we expect to be good humans if we knew our fate beforehand? Would living still be as exhilarating if we knew exactly how it would unfold?

    Actors don’t just play one role in their lifetime, they embody many. With each character, they get to live as sinners and saints, lovers and villains. They don’t just recite lines; they feel what their characters feel, diving deep into the emotional and spiritual depths of those experiences.

    Maybe that gives them an unusual perspective, a glimpse into different kinds of human existence. They witness what it means to be selfish or selfless, cruel or kind, broken or whole.

    In real life, they probably get to choose who they want to be, based on those experiences.

    And that made me wonder, as humans, do we experience something similar? If we believe in multiple lifetimes, could it be that, deep down, we remember the lessons from each?

    Maybe not consciously, but somewhere in the fabric of our being, we carry those experiences, shaping the way we choose to live.

    If we could see all the beads on the string of life, every role we’ve ever played, every lesson we’ve ever learned, would we finally understand why we are here? Would it make us better? Or is the forgetting just as essential as the remembering?

    Would we be content knowing we were kings among kings in our past lives, yet choose not to start another hedonistic chapter in this one?

    Would we still be able to breathe if we remembered how barbaric we once were?

    Doesn’t it seem like a blessing that God made us forget what we probably once did, and gave us a seemingly clean slate to start again?

    After all is said and done, if we are just actors with no permanence of script in the grand scheme of things, it makes me wonder;

    are we all simply players in the great theatre of existence, striving for our final standing ovation?

  • How Does It Feel Falling In Love With Someone

    (A millennial’s version)

    The age-old question. Maybe when you are a teenager. Maybe when you’ve been hurt so many times that your heart has stopped feeling. Maybe when you’ve been with someone for so long that love has faded into mere habit. Whatever the reason, this question haunts millions, and always will.

    Understanding love, the yearning for it, is one of life’s greatest dilemmas. At times, it feels impossible to differentiate between a crush, infatuation, or true love. But for now, let’s talk about love-the kind that makes you want to be with someone, in any and every way.

    We may try to separate admiration, platonic love, or protective affection, but the most perplexing kind is amorous love, the deep, undeniable desire to be with someone both physically and emotionally.

    The first sign? A definite interest in their life. A clear, positive interest means attraction, but sometimes, it manifests as irritation or even repulsion-why, no one really knows. If someone is on the receiving end of such behavior, I would never suggest mistaking a bully for a secret admirer. But the truth is, some people struggle to express warmth at first, or they themselves are confused by their emotions, making things even more confusing.

    Yet, if their presence sparks a rush of energy, a quickened heartbeat, a clouded mind, or burning ears, if you suddenly become hyper-aware of your own face when they’re around, chances are, you’re drawn to them.

    If you can’t help but be interested in their personal life, if hearing their name makes you feel lightheaded, if your hands tremble when touching something they’ve touched, if you’ve memorized their routine and favorite songs, if you secretly take candid pictures of them, if you know the exact shape of their eyes and nose by heart, and if just standing next to them sends electric waves through you,then you are truly, deeply infatuated.

    If they sit behind you, you dare not turn around for fear they might see the madness in your eyes. Writing their name becomes a pastime. You imagine them in every love song, every movie, every poem. You’ve stood outside their house just for a glimpse. You’ve lingered in places they frequent, hoping for a chance encounter.

    Looking into their eyes feels dangerous because they’d instantly know how much space they occupy in your thoughts. So instead, you hide within a crowd, just to watch them from a safe distance.

    If you’re already friends with them, you tread carefully. You hesitate to show too much care, yet somehow, you’re always the first to rush to their aid. Jealousy flares when they pay attention to someone else. You twist time and schedules just to be near them, ensuring they never glimpse your struggles. Your day starts with them and never truly ends, sleep merely interrupts the thoughts of them.

    Then comes the stage where your feelings refuse to be contained. It feels like your heart will burst if you don’t tell them. So you drop hints, sometimes subtle, sometimes glaring. You find yourself playing attention games, getting mad over the smallest things, hiding away just to be found by them.

    You stop speaking to them, not because you want to, but because every word feels like it could betray your secret. And so, the push and pull begins, a silent battle between revealing your heart and guarding it, unsure whether to risk everything or hold onto your fragile, unspoken world.

    Whatever the ending, every love story is different, in terms of outcome and the length. Love taps you on your shoulder when you least expect it, nudges you to take the first step and when you are in the middle of your journey, brings you a choice, if you want to pursue further or stop right there.

    Whatever the choice, it is not easy to make. Hell, even after choosing, there could still be regret. Because love stories are messy, at least the real ones are.

    Lucky are those whose love is recognized and returned. My heart aches for those whose love remains unrequited. Perhaps that is the paradox of love-it demands to be felt, yet it often defies logic.

    We spend our days longing, analyzing every interaction, deciphering unspoken words. But love has its own will, moving in ways we cannot predict or control.

    Love, in its unpredictability, often takes unexpected routes. It can be fleeting, it can be patient, and sometimes, it circles back when you least expect it. Sometimes, love comes back when you’re no longer around-days, weeks, years, even decades later. But no matter the outcome, experiencing love in its rawest, most unfiltered form is a blessing.

    Yes, love can be painful. It can end in heartbreak. But years from now, when you look back, you’ll remember not just the ache but the depth of your yearning. The intensity of your emotions. The sheer capacity of your heart to feel.

    Because to have truly lived is to have felt-immensely and intensely.

  • Life Attention पर चलती है—क्या आप सही जगह Attention दे रहे हैं?

    ज़िन्दगी attention पर चलती है। Parenting के बारे में जो पहली चीज़ आप सीखते हैं, वो है attention। जन्म के पहले ही पल से, एक बच्चा attention की चाहत रखता है। यह एक evolutionary ज़रूरत है कि कोई भी नवजात attention मांगे क्योंकि यह उसके survival के लिए आवश्यक है। एक मानव शिशु 100% अपने माता-पिता या caretakers पर निर्भर होता है। इस कारण, माता-पिता को लगातार अपने बच्चे की ज़रूरतों और असुविधाओं को समझने के लिए सतर्क रहना पड़ता है। लेकिन क्या यह बुनियादी attention की ज़रूरत उम्र बढ़ने के साथ समाप्त हो जाती है?

    इसे जो भी नाम दें, लेकिन चाहे हमारे पास कितना भी पैसा या technology क्यों न हो, community और मानवीय सहयोग हमारे happiness के लिए बेहद ज़रूरी हैं। इंसान machines के साथ जीवित रह सकता है, लेकिन अगर उसे वास्तव में thrive करना है—एक सार्थक जीवन बनाना है—तो उसे जुड़ाव की आवश्यकता होगी। और फिर यह बहस भी उठती है कि क्या केवल जीवित रहना ही पर्याप्त है, या जीने के लिए कुछ और भी मायने रखता है?

    जैसे-जैसे हम बड़े होते हैं, attention की आवश्यकता बदलती रहती है। इसके रूप बदल सकते हैं, लेकिन देखे और सुने जाने की मूलभूत ज़रूरत हमेशा बनी रहती है। फिर भी, एक community के रूप में हम अक्सर इस महत्वपूर्ण पहलू की अनदेखी कर देते हैं—चाहे वो attention देना हो या प्राप्त करना।

    Self-reliance और independence को तीन बार सलाम, लेकिन किस हद तक? इतनी कि हम खुद को दूसरों से अलग-थलग कर लें, यह सोचकर कि हमें community की ज़रूरत ही नहीं? या फिर इतनी कि हम समाज से कट जाएँ और फिर से जुड़ने में असमर्थ महसूस करें?

    ज़िन्दगी, बहुत हद तक, वहीं होती है जहाँ attention होती है। किसी व्यक्ति की well-being, किसी business की सफलता, या किसी community की मजबूती इस बात पर निर्भर करती है कि कहाँ और कैसे उनकी समस्याओं पर ध्यान दिया जा रहा है। लेकिन इससे गहरे सवाल उठते हैं: हम व्यक्तिगत और सामूहिक रूप से अपनी attention कहाँ केंद्रित कर रहे हैं? क्या हम सच में ज़रूरी चीज़ों को प्राथमिकता दे रहे हैं, या फिर महत्वपूर्ण आवश्यकताओं को अनदेखा कर रहे हैं और तुच्छ चीज़ों पर ध्यान दे रहे हैं?

    Attention देना एक गहरी और प्रभावशाली क्रिया है। यह presence, empathy, और action की मांग करता है। एक community के रूप में, हमें यह समझना होगा कि भार साझा करना कितना महत्वपूर्ण है। अगर कोई व्यक्ति अकेले अपने संघर्षों से जूझ रहा है, तो जो सक्षम हैं वे उसकी मदद कर सकते हैं। यह सामूहिक attention लोगों की ज़िन्दगी बदल सकती है, रिश्तों को मजबूत बना सकती है और belongingness की भावना को बढ़ावा दे सकती है। लेकिन पहला कदम यह स्वीकार करना है कि attention देना कितना जरूरी है—खुद को, दूसरों को, और अपने आस-पास की दुनिया को।

  • Self-Care Is Not Selfish

    History has not been kind to those who cannot advocate for themselves.

    Life and health, too, unfortunately, are unkind to those who devote themselves to others without attending to their own needs.

    Caretakers, for instance, often neglect their health because they lack the mental bandwidth or willpower to prioritize themselves.

    While they might know exactly how to care for others, planning meals, appointments, and exercises for their loved ones, they often fail to apply that same care to themselves.

    Self-care is often misunderstood. For many, it feels selfish or indulgent, especially in a society that glorifies sacrifice and selflessness.

    However, the truth is that self-care is one of the most selfless things you can do. Why? Because only when you care for yourself can you truly take care of others.

    Who is a caretaker? A caretaker is not just someone looking after an ailing or struggling person physically or mentally; it is anyone who pours themselves out to meet someone else’s needs.

    This includes a parent caring for a child, a working professional supporting their family, or a person managing both their job and an aging pet. The examples are endless.

    Being a caretaker is one of the most sacrificial roles a person can take on, but it is also one of the most self-sabotaging. The body and brain work in mysterious ways.

    When you are constantly focused on others, your own needs often fade into the background.

    Basic necessities required for a healthy mind and body, like exercise, nutritious food, and good sleep habits are ignored. Over time, this neglect takes a serious toll on physical and mental health, leading to chronic illnesses, particularly lifestyle disorders like hypertension, obesity, diabetes, and mental health struggles.

    Research has even linked prolonged stress due to neglected self-care with an increased risk of serious conditions like cancer.

    It takes immense grit, intention, and discipline to practice self-care, perhaps even more than it takes to care for someone else.

    Yet, without it, you risk burning out, becoming irritable, or even resenting the very people you are trying to help.

    You become the person you least pay attention to, and this neglect has consequences.

    If you are a parent, this may affect your parenting style. As a health caretaker, it impacts the healing environment of the home where you reside with the patient.

    This raises the question: is it wrong to prioritize yourself? Absolutely not.

    In fact, it is essential. Self-care is the foundation of effective caregiving and healthy relationships. It’s not about ignoring others’ needs but ensuring that you are strong enough to meet them.

    After all, you can’t pour from an empty cup.

    Unfortunately, societal attitudes make this even more difficult. We often glorify self-sacrifice to the point where those who prioritize their well-being are seen as selfish.

    But for those who are self-reliant or caring for others, self-care is a lifeline. It’s about maintaining the physical, emotional, and mental capacity to live meaningfully and support others effectively.

    At the same time, seeking help should be normalized and celebrated. Many people, including caretakers, struggle in silence because they feel they must manage everything alone.

    Yet, asking for support is not a sign of weakness but of courage, it shows trust in one’s community.

    This is why we must foster a culture where offering help is instinctive, even when it is not explicitly asked for. A simple offer of assistance can go a long way in reminding caretakers that they are not alone, that their struggles are seen and acknowledged.

    However, instead of encouraging practical support, society tends to glorify those who carry the burden alone to the brink of burnout. They are labeled as superheroes, praised for their endurance rather than helped in meaningful ways.

    For example, mothers juggling work and childcare without assistance are often called “wonder women” rather than being offered support. Instead of recognizing their struggle as a lesson in the need for communal care, we turn it into an inspiration for others to endure similar hardships.

    We celebrate perseverance, yet we fail to teach the importance of seeking or providing help.

    Ironically, while we admire success and ambition, we rarely consider empathy a skill worth cultivating. Internships and training programs focus on financial or professional growth, but who teaches us to support those silently struggling?

    The burden of caregiving often falls to those who grew up in difficult circumstances, not because they were taught how to handle it but because they had no choice.

    The lesson here is clear: to provide meaningful support, we must first be capable ourselves. Prioritizing self-care is not selfish; it is the most compassionate thing we can do for those who depend on us.

    We must foster an environment where taking care of our minds and bodies is guilt-free, while also ensuring that we uplift those who cannot do so themselves.

    Ultimately, self-care is about balance. It’s about recognizing that your well-being matters just as much as anyone else’s.

    It’s about creating a world where everyone, caretakers and those they care for, can thrive.

    And it starts with a simple but profound realization: you cannot help others unless you help yourself first.

    More related posts on self care:

    Are You Ignoring the Silent Killer of Your Peace and Health?

  • The Illusion of Self-Sustainability: Why We Need Each Other

    Why I Don’t Want People to Solve All Their Problems on Their Own

    This is the 21st century, the era of ‘freedom’, ‘liberation from the dogmatic clutches of society’, and ‘independence from orthodox thoughts that hold people back’, or so we had hoped. But what have we actually become?

    ‘Independent’, ‘self-reliant’, not because these are the highest human values, but because our trust in others has eroded so profoundly. Ironic, isn’t it?

    Society was meant to evolve in a way that made human life easier, allowing us to spend less time on survival and more on higher pursuits, spiritual, intellectual, or even pleasure-seeking.

    Technological advancements were supposed to serve this goal, making our lives simpler so we could focus on building stronger, healthier communities.

    But instead of using our knowledge and progress to bring people together, we are weaponizing them to break down societies.

    Rather than fostering camaraderie, we are fueling cynicism, paranoia, and a worldview where other humans are seen as obstacles rather than allies.

    Historians may not have emphasized this enough, but community is not a luxury, it is a necessity. Even a digital community can offer immense support to its members.

    Yet, we were sold the idea that being a good human is optional, that we only need others as a matter of choice. However, research over the past few decades has continually proven that humans cannot function in isolation.

    From birth to even after death, where people continue to honor their ancestors, believing that love and responsibility transcend realms, our existence is deeply interwoven with others.

    The Fallacy of Self-Sustainability

    Today, we are increasingly told that we must be entirely self-sufficient: grow our own food, stitch our own clothes, maintain peak health so we never need external medical care, and even grow our own medicines if we fall sick.

    If we crave community, we are advised to chant mantras to remind ourselves that we were born alone and will die alone (which, ironically, is a misinterpretation of that ideology).

    The ultimate goal, it seems, is to live in isolation, rejecting society altogether.

    But should a life goal be so alienating that it requires us to forsake our true selves? Isn’t it already evident that people become bitter when they stray too far from their inherent social nature?

    We have all encountered so-called self-reliant or spiritually ‘enlightened’ individuals who appear emotionally hardened, untouched by human warmth.

    Have they mistaken detachment for strength?

    Do they believe that even God doesn’t cry?

    The problem with self-sustainability and extreme independence is that it distances us from other humans. The idea is often rooted in mistrust, fear, and cynicism rather than true empowerment.

    Yes, corruption and untrustworthiness exist. Yes, adulteration, unethical behavior, and deceit are real. But instead of fiercely advocating for a return to ethics, empathy, and accountability, we are retreating into isolated cocoons. The result?

    People cut themselves off, not just from toxic environments, but sometimes even from their own families and communities.

    The Natural Order: A Lesson from Biology

    Nature itself does not operate on self-sufficiency.

    The first example of the division of labor comes from biological evolution, the development of complex organ systems that work together to sustain life. Plants and animals thrive through intricate interdependencies.

    If we were meant to be entirely self-reliant, we would have remained amoebas, unicellular, shapeless, and alone.

    But we are not alone. Neither at a cellular level nor on a universal scale.

    So why this obsession with ‘making it to the end’ alone?

    The Psychological and Social Consequences

    Psychologists have documented countless cases of individuals struggling with mental and emotional distress, and one recurring factor hindering their healing is a lack of a healthy community.

    It is unrealistic to expect people to thrive in toxic environments, but the solution should not be complete isolation. Instead, the goal should be to build and nurture spaces where trust and authenticity can flourish.

    This goes beyond mental health, it extends to social well-being, too. Farmers grow our food. Businesses provide goods and services. Consumers drive economies. At every level of this chain, we are interconnected.

    A strong community is only as trustworthy and ethical as its members. Yet, the prevailing narrative tells us to disengage rather than repair, to abandon rather than rebuild.

    The Frustration Feedback Loop

    Conversations about modern life increasingly revolve around how difficult it is to rely on others. As a result, people turn inward, believing they must handle everything themselves.

    But this isn’t coming from a place of enlightenment, it stems from frustration and disillusionment. When others fail to meet basic expectations of cooperation and decency, the response is often, “If I can’t count on them, then I won’t be there for anyone either.”

    This creates a dangerous cycle. As trust erodes, people stop holding themselves accountable to others.

    The growing sentiment of “Let the world burn as long as my house is safe” is becoming not only acceptable but encouraged.

    There Is Still Hope

    Yet, all is not lost. There are still people who believe in the power of community, who understand that the most profound human experiences come not from isolation but from togetherness.

    We must share the blame collectively and spread hope collectively.

    Our core human nature, shaped by millennia of evolution, proves that we cannot thrive alone.

    A community is not just about collecting ‘likes’ on social media; it is about the people you share your days with, the ones who stand by you until the very end.

    It’s time to rethink what independence truly means. It should not be about detaching from others out of fear or disillusionment but about building relationships where trust, cooperation, and interdependence thrive.

    Only then can we move forward, not as fragmented individuals, but as a society that truly understands the strength of standing together.

  • Life Runs on Attention—Are You Paying Enough?

    Life is about attention.

    The first thing you learn about parenting is attention. From the very first second, a child craves attention. It is an evolutionary need for an offspring to seek attention because it is imperative for its survival.

    A human child is 200% dependent on its parents or caretakers. As a result, parents must constantly observe their young ones for any signs of need or discomfort.

    But does this basic need for attention truly disappear as we grow older?

    Call it what you may, no matter how much money or technology we accumulate, community and human support remain vital to our happiness.

    Humans may be able to survive with machines, but thriving, that is,building meaningful lives, requires connection.

    And yet, there’s a separate discussion to be had about whether a life that is merely survived is worth living.

    The need for attention evolves as we age. Its forms change, but the fundamental need to feel seen, heard, and cared for remains the same. However, as a community, we often fail to recognize the importance of attention, both in giving and receiving it.

    Three cheers for self-reliance and independence, but to what extent?

    To the extent that we isolate ourselves, believing we are above the need for community?

    Or to the point where we feel outcast, unable to integrate with those around us?

    Life, in many ways, is where the attention is. A person’s well-being, a business’s success, or a community’s strength often depends on whether and where problems are being attended to.

    But this raises deeper questions: how are we as individuals and as a society distributing our attention?

    Are we prioritizing what matters most, or are we leaving essential needs unattended while focusing on trivialities?

    The act of paying attention is a profound one. It demands presence, empathy, and action.

    As a community, we must learn to share the load. If one person struggles to carry their burdens alone, others who are more capable can step in to help. This collective attention can transform lives, strengthen relationships, and foster a sense of belonging.

    But the first step is recognizing the importance of attention, to ourselves, to others, and to the world around us.