I Wrote Those – by Sid Balachandran

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  • The Christmas Shopping Hunger Games

    The Christmas Shopping Hunger Games


    There is something about the festive period, that makes us collectively lose our minds and venture into shopping centres and retail hubs like lambs to the slaughter. December is undoubtedly the most unforgiving time of year where you really start to question your judgement. Or lack of.

    The journey itself to get to a shopping destination is a bit like a ‘choose-your-own-adventure’ in frustration. You could decide to take public transport (like a million others), and unsurprisingly discover that the trains are packed tighter than Santa’s sack of toys. Then there’s always that one person with their massive suitcase who swears they ‘need to get to the airport’. (Mate – Heathrow’s in the other direction; maybe use an app?). If you do manage to board one of these transportation vehicles, you’ll essentially be playing an advanced version of ‘People Tetris’- wedged between someone’s Starbucks coffee and what feels like the entire stock of Primark.

    Or you could drive. And find yourself spending 45 minutes in traffic watching pedestrians overtake you, all while questioning your life choices, and making deals with the traffic gods. ‘Just one green light please, and I promise I’ll start my shopping earlier next year’. The parking lot itself is where humanity first begins to unravel. You’ll witness otherwise normal people stalking random shoppers with their cars, following them through the rows like predators tracking wounded prey. Like that seemingly sweet elderly lady who is now locked in a silent war with a man in a BMW over a parking space, neither willing to back down. This is their Everest.

    Either way, you’re going to be participating in an urban triathlon nobody signed up for. And surprise, no one gets a medal for completing it. But you’ll definitely have the scars and trauma to show for it.

    I suppose what makes it marginally worse is when you have colleagues or friends who finish their Christmas shopping in August. They’re probably at home right now, perfectly wrapped presents arranged with one of those fancy recipient name tags, sipping hot chocolate and watching Love Actually or The Holiday. Meanwhile, the rest of us are here, fighting for our lives in the gift wrapping aisle, wondering if our loved ones would notice that their present came in a shopping bag with a scribble over a particularly feisty price sticker that you lost the battle with.

    So, you finally made it into the shopping centre? Yay! That’s where the real ‘fun’ begins. I always feel like people who design shopping centres are evil geniuses who sit in a dark room somewhere, as they watch us try to navigate their masterpiece maze. Honestly, they’ve mastered the art of psychological warfare. Take those interactive maps? The ‘You are here’ is meant to be something that’ll help you find your way. Instead it says ‘go North’ with a compass on the top right. NORTH? I’m indoor shopping, not going on a quest!

    And why is it that no matter which entrance you use, the shop you need is always at the opposite end? It’s like they’ve created some sort of retail black hole where ‘Claire’s Accessories’ is somehow equidistant from every single entrance. Don’t even get me started on those “helpful” directory boards that list shops by category. “Oh, you want Superdrug? That’s under ‘Health & Beauty’ on Level 2, ‘Pharmacy’ on Level 1, and ‘Gifts’ on Level 3” – same shop, three different locations, all of them wrong.

    The escalators, of course, are strategically placed to ensure you have to walk past exactly 47 shops you don’t need to reach the one you do. They move at the pace of continental drift, packed with people who seem to have forgotten that walking is an option. Meanwhile, you’re doing some sort of retail HIIT workout nobody asked for – because whoever designs shopping bags must have a twisted sense of humor. They’re either massive but containing one sock, or tiny but somehow heavier than your monthly grocery shop. You end up doing this weird bag dance, switching hands every few minutes, trying to find the perfect balance. And just when you’ve mastered the art of carrying seven differently sized bags, someone hands you one made of paper that’s thinner than your remaining patience.

    Oh, and the music. Can we talk about the Christmas music? It’s like they’ve got Mariah Carey on loop, interrupted occasionally by Wham! – and you know what? You’ll inevitably catch yourself humming along, maybe even doing a little shoulder wiggle in the queue, until you make eye contact with another shopper doing the exact same thing. That’s when you both look away, pretending it never happened. But we all know it did.

    If you’re (un)fortunate enough to bring kid(s) along, well, congratulations – you’ve voluntarily chosen chaos mode. You’re now essentially a human octopus – one hand holding coffee that you desperately need, another clutching the aforementioned shopping bags, one eye on your phone’s Christmas list, the other on your child who is getting increasingly inspired by the mall’s spinning display of festive socks. “No, we can’t visit the other shop that’s like Hamleys” becomes your new mantra, repeated approximately every 10 seconds. It’s that time when children suddenly evolve from cute tiny humans into sleep-deprived gremlins, their ‘I want’ lists longer than government legislation. They orbit the toy section like satellites, occasionally crashing into displays with the force of small meteorites. The only solace is when you see other parents also having to negotiate with their kids like they’re handling international peace treaties. Parenting misery truly likes company.

    The food court is its own special circle of hell – a sort of gladiatorial arena where the weapon of choice is ‘passive-aggressive staring’. You’ll pay £17 for a sandwich that tastes a bit like disappointment, but first, you need to find somewhere to eat it. The real pros? They’re the ones who’ve mastered the art of eating their hot dogs while standing up, bags balanced between their feet like some sort of festive flamingo, having given up on the dream of finding a seat.

    Enter the complex social dynamics of food court wars. There’s the classic hover-and-stare brigade – people who’ve mastered the art of making you feel guilty about still having half a burger left. They’ve got their trays ready, circling like vultures, perfecting that unique ability to tut without making a sound. You know the ones – they’ll stand just close enough to make you uncomfortable, but far enough away to deny they’re doing it on purpose.

    Then there’s the table hoarders – the elite squad who’ve been camped out since breakfast, surrounded by shopping bags like they’re building a retail fortress. They’ve got three chairs for their bags, a prime spot near the plug socket, and they’re on their fourth coffee with no signs of moving. You’ve got to admire their dedication, really.

    Let’s not forget the space optimists – bless them – trying to squeeze four people and eight shopping bags around a table clearly designed for two. “We can make it work!” they declare, as someone’s Sports Direct bag slowly slides under your chair, and their McDonald’s drink edges dangerously close to your Zara purchases.

    And my personal favourite – the receipt enthusiasts. They’ve finished eating 20 minutes ago but they’re meticulously examining their shopping receipts like they’re decoding ancient manuscripts, completely oblivious to the growing queue of people clutching trays and giving them the eye. Meanwhile, that group of teenagers has somehow managed to occupy eight seats while purchasing a single portion of chips between them.

    It’s a delicate dance of British awkwardness – nobody wants to actually ask anyone to move, so instead we all just stand around, avoiding eye contact and pretending we’re totally fine eating our overpriced food while balanced on one foot. The only winners are the pigeons who’ve somehow made it inside and are living their best lives on abandoned chips and sandwich remnants.

    Here’s the thing though – I absolutely love the festive period. There’s an inexplicable magic in this madness. Between the chaos and the queues, you’ll catch glimpses of what it’s all about: a child’s face lighting up at the Santa’s grotto, the elderly couple helping each other pick out presents, the teenager secretly buying something for their younger sibling. And that joy when someone opens a gift that you’ve chosen, and their face lights up. Of course, by time you escape, clutching bags full of things you never intended to buy, you’ll have forgotten what day it is. Your only comfort is knowing that somewhere in those bags is a gift for yourself – your reward for surviving this festive gauntlet.

    Welcome to Christmas shopping – where holiday joy meets utter chaos, and somehow, despite everything, we still love it. Just maybe next year, I’ll at least make a list. I’ll be more like Julia at work. I’ll do all my shopping early, wrapped with colour-coordinated paper and bows that match… and remember to bring the bags for life that are definitely still in the car. Probably.

    Narrator: They did not do their shopping early next year. But they did buy more bags for life.

  • Slang Wars

    Slang Wars


    So, there I was, sitting on my sofa, scrolling mindlessly through the many OTT channels (as we more fabulous millennials often do), when I remembered that I needed to follow up with my 12-year-old about some of his chores (and responsibilities). 

    I did what any responsible, digital-savvy parent would do – I reached for my phone, opened WhatsApp and wrote a carefully worded message to him. You know, the kind that can only be widely regarded as a masterpiece of ‘modern parenting’ – a unique blend of gentle reminders, life lessons, and an open-ended question to encourage communication.  Why? Because nothing says “I’m hip and with it”, like communicating with your kid through an app, right? (Plus, he’d gone out)

    I hit send and leaned back into the sofa, feeling pretty darn proud of myself. I may (or may not) have even mentally high-fived myself for nailing this whole digital parenting avatar.

    No pre/teen wants to be told what to do, so in my head, allowing him to contribute to the conversation was a win-win. After all, I am one of those very understanding and engaging parents of the 21st century. Or so I thought.

    My phone pinged gently as the now-familiar green notification flashed with his name on the top half of my screen. I clicked the notification, ready to bask in the glow of a successful parent-child interaction.

    And there it was. In a big and bold font (yes, I’m at that stage), his response to my beautifully crafted eloquent message.

    “K!”

    Seriously. Just… “K!”.

    I blinked. A few times.
    I even closed and reopened the app, hoping that the rest of the message was hiding somewhere in the digital ether of the Internet.

    But nope. There it was. In all its single-letter glory.

    It’s safe to say that my face, at that moment, was a combination of confusion, mild outrage and the dawning realisation that I’d become my parents. 

    Welcome to the linguistic wonderland of Generation Alpha, where complete sentences are apparently passé, and vowels are optional.

    What else should we expect from a generation raised on a steady diet of “tl;dr?:”

    (For the uninitiated, no, that’s not a typo. It stands for “too long, didn’t read” – which, ironically, is longer than just reading the thing in the first place)

    Our conversations often go something like this:
    Me: “How was school today?” 
    12yo: “Good”
    Me: “Do you want to tell me more?”
    12yo: “Nah”

    Me: “What did you guys learn in Maths today?”
    12yo: “Stuff”
    Me: “Do you want to elaborate a bit more?”
    12yo: “idk”

    It’s like pulling teeth but with less anaesthesia and more eye-rolling. Or a conversation with a magic 8-ball, but with less response variety.

    As an adaptable millennial whose day job for the better part of the last 5 years has involved working closely with younger millennials and Gen Z, I’m no stranger to abbreviated text speak. I thought I was fluent in “young person”, but apparently, I’m still stuck in the dark ages. This new way of communication makes me feel like I need a Gen Alpha-to-regular-English dictionary. I’ve consulted my fellow millennial parents; this is a universal experience. We’re all out here, desperately trying to decode our children’s monosyllabic responses and wondering where we went wrong.

    But here’s the thing – and frankly, I hate to admit it – we did this too. Like when we thought it was pretty cool to say “Whatever” to everything our parents said. Or when we started using “Sick” (complete with the finger click/snap) as the much-preferred alternative to “awesome”. Or trying to explain SMS to our parents. (No, Dad, you don’t need to type a text message like you’re writing a formal letter). 

    I guess karma’s just come full circle, folks.

    We tend to forget that, inevitably/ every generation develops their own unique vernacular that they love and completely befuddles (and irritates) the adults in their lives. It’s like a rite of generational passage, a linguistic rebellion against the ‘old guard’. So yeah, as much as it pains us to admit it, Gen Alpha is just following the yellow brick road that has our footsteps on it.

    The irony isn’t lost on me. Most millennial parents think we would be the “cool” parents, forever young and always on the ball with the happenings. We secretly swore we’d never be as out of touch as our parents. And yet, here we are, scratching our heads over “yeet” and wondering why everything is suddenly “sus”.  Not gonna lie – I had to Google it the first time my son used them. Apparently, “yeet” means to throw something with force or excitement. And it can be used in any context. Sort of like a verbal Swiss Army knife. 

    I even tried using “yeet” in a sentence once. Unsuccessfully, I must add. My son’s look of secondhand embarrassment was quite the sight.

    But as they say, every cloud has a silver lining. So here’s the kicker. The secret weapon to make all this Gen Alpha slang uncool – just use it ourselves. Nothing kills a trend faster than Mon or Dad adopting it. 

    The next time my son hits me with a “K”, I’m going to quickly respond with a “Bet, fam. That’s lit.” And then I’ll watch and smile as his face contorts in horror as I successfully assassinate his cool lingo.

    I might even throw in a dab for good measure.
    (That’s still cool, right? ….. Right?)

    So, fellow millennial parents, let’s embrace the confusion, the eye rolls, and the single-letter responses. It’s all part of the ride, and we’re in this together. And who knows? Maybe one day, we’ll get a full sentence. In the meantime, I’ll be here, trying to decipher if “slay” is a compliment or a threat and wondering if I should be concerned that my child keeps talking about some guy named “Cap.”

    Send help.
    Or better yet, send a translator.

    Until then, “K” it is.
    A special preview of the Gen Alpha slang dictionary for Millennial Parents

    I’m genuinely considering investing in a Gen Alpha slang dictionary. Because we’re gonna need it.

    Meanwhile, here’s a rough guide to what the slangs I used in the post mean.

    Yeet: I’ve already covered this in the post; sort of like the Swiss Army knife of Gen Alpha slang. Need to express excitement? Yeet! Want to describe a forceful throw? Yeet! A multi-purpose exclamation to fit any context – from chucking a ball to celebrating a win.

    Sus: Short of suspicious; made popular by the game “Among Us”. If something doesn’t seem quite right, it’s “sus”. Kinda like when your kid suddenly offers to do the dishes – suspiciously out of character. We had sketchy, if you remember.

    Cap: Cap means lie, and “no cap” means, well, no lie. Like your kid saying “I did all my homework – no cap”, which is supposed to be them claiming honesty. But hey, as we know, this is usually often followed by a sudden scramble in the morning to do said homework.

    Slay: Usually means doing something exceptionally well. I guess an equivalent of our “nailed it”, maybe? Like when you finally manage to assembly IKEA furniture without wondering what this extra nut or screw is for.

    Bet: Quite the chameleon this one; it can mean “yes”, “ok” or even “I agree.” So when your kid says “Bet”, they’re doing one of the above. Usually. Or maybe they’re just acknowledging your existence. Ah, who really knows.

    Lit: If something is “lit”, it’s amazing. Or exciting. Oh, I can’t remember now. Basically “lit” is to this generation, what “cool” was to ours. The pinnacle of approval. Like your child doing his chores without you having to chase him? That’s lit.

  • 40 plus: No FOMO, Only JOMO

    40 plus: No FOMO, Only JOMO


    There is nothing quite like one of those ‘By 30, you should have..’ lists to make you feel like an underachieving blob. It’s a magical power of sorts – that only these age-based achievement lists possess. Because hey, according to them, the universe has some sort of cosmic deadline for success.

    The good news though is that the majority of us are not on it. On my side, it’s mostly because I’ve not invented the next new social media platform, amassed a large fortune or conquered Everest while battling sleep anxiety (and my sleep apnea).

    Of course, I do have other achievements. And some of them genuinely are age-based ones. Like mastering the art of misplacing my keys, missing important dates and of course, the big one: Getting most of my steps from pacing back and forth between rooms trying to figure out why I went in there in the first place.

    I call this Level 40 of the Adulting Game, where the reward is a nagging sense of mortality, a cupboard full of clothes that no longer fit and a profound appreciation for afternoon naps.

    So, here’s a counter proposal to the powers that be. Maybe it’s high-time we have more realistic (but still aspirational) achievement lists to celebrate the everyday victories.

    For instance, ‘by the age of 41, you could/should/might…’

    Have an ambivalent relationship with your glasses, and a preference for large-print books – because hey, why squint and strain when you can read in glorious 18pt font.

    “Apparently this is called the ‘billboard’ font.”
    “Is it a chair? Is it a laundry monster? Either way, it’s winning.”

    Own at least one piece of furniture that doubles up as the default place in the house where you dump most of your laundry for a few days before folding them away. Kind of like a rite of passage.

    Make a playlist that’s an eclectic mix of ’80s/90s’ hits and today’s top 20 because you’re trying to stay relevant. Plus, your kids have hijacked your playlist, and now you’re suprisingly okay with singing along to Billie Eilish.

    “My playlist is a love letter to the ’90s and a peace treaty with my kids.”
    “Welcome to the Bermuda Triangle of kitchen storage.”

    Have a favourite Tupperware container, and absolutely no clue where the matching lid went. Seriously, do these things vanish into a parallel universe?

    Have a sound realisation that ‘sleeping in’ means anything past 6 AM, and that you run the risk of injuring yourself while sleeping. Yes, ‘bedhead’ now comes with an extra body ache on the side.

    “Apparently the neck pain is complimentary.”
    “I call this spot organised chaos”

    Have a dedicated spot in your house where you keep the important stuff: keys, wallet, phone, and that one crucial piece of mail you swear you’ll deal with tomorrow.

    Have accumulated a collection of reusable tote bags that rivals the inventory of a small grocery store. However, you forget to take them when you go shopping.

    “Does anyone know if the ‘Accio’ charm works for tote bags?
    “I’m just a man, sitting in front of a TV, wondering why my streaming service thinks I’d like ‘Extreme Ironing’.”

    Develop a deeply personal relationship with at least one streaming service, complete with curated watchlists, and a begrudging acceptance of how the service always seems to suggest shows that you’re convinced you’ll never watch

    Have at least one friend or acquaintance who understands that your “on my way” means you’re yet to leave the house. Bonus points if you’ve also honed the art of politely declining invitations with excuses that are both believable and vaguely ominous.

    “Should have said ‘I have a thing tonight’”
    “Love the convenience, hate the doomscrolling, and TikTok… well, it’s complicated.”

    Be in a love-hate relationship with your smartphone, constantly torn between its convenience and its ability to suck you into a vortex of doomscrolling. Bonus if you’ve come to terms with the fact that you will never understand the appeal of TikTok, but you’ll still occasionally find yourself scrolling through it out of sheer curiosity.

    Have at least one drawer nicknamed ‘The Time Capsule’, that is essentially a chaotic jumble of old receipts, expired coupons, and trinkets that tell the story of your life. Not to mention the collection of cables and chargers for devices you no longer own, convinced that you’ll need them someday (even though you probably won’t).

    “She calls it junk; I call it future treasures. Some day, she’ll see.”

    The list could go on.

    After all, as the saying goes – “With great age, comes great experience.”

    But with it also comes the realisation that JOMO (the Joy of Missing Out) is a real thing. Sure, “adulting” is basically a never ending series of trial and error, with each mismatched sock and forgotten password marking another level cleared.

    But with each passing year, we also gain a newfound appreciation for the simple joys of staying in, saying “no,” and embracing the quiet moments that recharge us.

    So, forget about those arbitrary list of milestones. Go live a life that’s uniquely yours, one mismatched sock and forgotten password at a time.

    Because let’s face it, adulting is hard.

    But hey, there is the acceptance that your body makes weird noises now, and that you’ve learned to laugh them off as the soundtrack to your life.
    And that, my friends, is the real achievement.

    If you’re wondering about the images, here’s the low down on them. I’ve always been a fan of “The New Yorker Cartoons”; and when I started writing this post, I was keen to give the points a similar angle. It took a bit of time, but after a lot of reverse prompt engineering, I was able to get some AI outputs that I could use. So yeah, thanks AI gods!

  • Ghosts of friendships past

    Ghosts of friendships past


    Breakups.

    They come in all shapes and sizes; but perhaps none hits harder than when you lose a close friend. Or worse still, friends. 

    Lately, I’ve been haunted by these ghosts of friendships past. They’ve not been triggered by any single event; just the normal ebb and flow of life. You see people laughing together, enjoying a good chinwag, and suddenly, those long-shut memory doors creak open. It’s a reminder of what was, and I guess, what’s lost. That, and maybe the fact that I’ve not been a great headspace recently. (But more on that another day.)

    Romantic breakups are definitely tough. But the thing about romantic relationships is that we always know deep down that there is a chance – no matter how infinitesimally small – that the ‘vibes’ could fade over time. Even the most hardcore romantic knows that heartbreak is a possibility. But we dive in anyway. Because, in the words of a certain Mr. Lennon, to paraphrase – “All we really need is love.”

    But a friendship breakup?  It feels a bit more surreal. Kind of like losing your co-pilot mid-flight, and being expected to just keep flying the plane. But you don’t know how, and there’s no emergency landing procedure for this kind of turbulence. 

    I don’t think we really talk enough about breaking up with or losing a friend. 

    Maybe it’s because, as children, we’re often told that ‘friends come and go’. (I mean, so do romantic relationships, but no one ever tells you that). We’re left believing that there’s always more time to make new friends. So it rarely feels like that big a deal when you’re really young.

    Or maybe, it’s because certain friendships have this rather strange ‘immortality’ complex about them.

    Some friendships feel like those indestructible houseplants that you ‘forget to water’, yet somehow, they still linger, clinging to life and even thriving.  You expect them to last forever.

    Until they don’t.

    When you lose a friend, it’s like losing a piece of your inner circle’s puzzle. One day, all the pieces fit perfectly. And the next, you’re left staring at a gap that used to be filled with inside jokes, shared secrets and the understanding of unspoken words. Suddenly you’re sat in a pub that you used to hang out at, sipping your beer alone – the taste feeling a lot bitter without the familiar banter echoing against the clink of the glass. 

    It’s not just sadness ,though. It’s a confusing mix of anger, betrayal, and a hollow ache in the place they used to occupy in your life. 

    And yes, no matter what the others say. It hurts.

    But perhaps the toughest part of losing a friend is the lack of a social script. As a society, we have a playbook for handling romantic breakups. It’s not perfect, and yes, very much, we all know that ‘one size fits all’ is never going to work when emotions are involved. But there’s a general set of steps. An established decorum, if you will. Friends and family rally; there’s an expectation of sadness; some sympathy – and maybe some ice cream (insert your food or drink choice of preference) and even a sad playlist.

    But with friendships, there are no rituals like returning (on in some cases, burning!) their belongings, or changing a status on social media to signal the end. These breakups are often quieter, and there’s no closure. No ‘having the talk’. No final arguments, and often no definitive ending. Just a realisation that texts have dwindled, invites have stopped and that you’re no longer in sync.

    As an adult, the world expects you to shrug it off, find a new one, and move on. But it’s never that simple, is it? These are the breakups that quietly gnaw at you. Because, who do you confide in about losing your confidant(e)?

    And I suppose that’s the ‘elephant in the room’ – the acceptance. Of the end. Of the fact that something that good could come to such an unceremonious end. In a way, it’s like a small death, the severing of a lifeline that you didn’t even know you were hanging on to. 

    You think of them in your old hangouts, hear ‘the silly laughter’ when you see something funny. And a piece of you crumbles. Because we like to think that friendships are built to last, founded on shared histories and unconditional support. The realisation that they can end so unceremoniously can shake our sense of reality. 

    As I said, friendship breakups are messy, irrational. And it HURTS. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. 

    But as painful as these can be, like any other relationship, they’re a rite of passage. An uncomfortable, but necessary reminder that even the strongest bonds can fray. But we learn. We grow. And yes, maybe we come a little more guarded, a bit more selective. And who knows, maybe we’ll even emerge from this wreckage with a newfound appreciation for those who stick around.

    After all, as the wise philosopher Beyoncé once said (again paraphrasing it!) – “If you like it, then you should have put a friendship band on it.“

    So, to all the friends I’ve lost before – I’m sorry. Wherever you are, I hope you find the closure in the laugher we shared and the peace you deserve.

    To the ones who stayed, I know it’s not been a perfect ride, and there are times where I’ve certainly not been the best friend I could have been. But thank you for being there. I’ll try better.

  • The 3AM Club

    The 3AM Club


    As if at the flick of a button, my eyes snap open.

    Not in the gradual, ‘maybe, I should give this a few more attempts’ flickering tube light with a dodgy chalk kind of way – but instantly, like one of those brand new halogen lamps that get to its maximum wattage in mere nanoseconds.

    I let out a sigh, turn my head partially to the right and glance over to the bedside desk. My phone, duly playing its nighttime vigilante mode, flashes briefly as it detects the movement of my eyes. 

    I close my eyes; the silence is unsettling, broken only by the occasional light snore from my partner (of course, she doesn’t snore!) and the soft tick-tock of the clock on the wall.

    I sigh. This time a bit more loudly, and glance at the phone. 

    If this was a movie, there’d be a drum roll at the title credits.

    Welcome to the 3 AM Club:

    Where worries, wonder and wonky ideas collide 

    There are only two types of people who are usually awake at 3 AM. 

    • The first is when you’re a new parent, desperately trying to decipher if that’s a “hungry” cry or a “wet diaper” cry (or both! *gulp*)
    • The second is when you’re teething on the edge of insomnia and have been “blessed” – with an overactive mind. 

    At this point, I’m firmly in Camp B. And if you can relate, you’re probably a fellow member too. (Let me know, and I’ll send you the official membership cards and super-fuzzy slippers).

    3 AM is a bit of a bizarre time. All research states that this is when the world is asleep, en route to reaching that deep REM status that everyone craves. But my brain, the treacherous little fiend, clearly missed this memo and decided to throw a late-night party, to which everyone’s invited – except sleep. 

    3 AM is also where the most random thoughts come out to play. It’s almost as if my brain has been waiting all day for this moment, saving up the most bizarre questions and scenarios to make their cameos. I’ll give it this though – the 3 AM brain can inject more layers of complexity into an idea than Christopher Nolan’s storytelling. (Maybe he’s part of the elite 3 AM club too)

    It usually starts with something relatively straightforward and sensible like:

    • I should really try some more deep breathing – it’ll definitely help me sleep.”
    • If I get up now and make a quick list, those errands won’t feel so overwhelming tomorrow
    •  That recipe I keep meaning to try… maybe tomorrow’s the day. 

    And then, without batting an eyelid, the 3 AM thoughts slip into “method actor mode” – now dressed in bright colours like in Riley’s brain from the movie “Inside Out”. First up is worry. 

    • Did I lock the front door?
    • That pain in my upper back. What if it’s something serious? Maybe it’s the big C?
    • Did I say the wrong thing in that argument? Do they still care?
    • What if I’m in the wrong career? What if I never find out what I’m good at?

    As the minutes tick by, so do the thoughts. But now they’ve gone up a couple of notches, past worry and into full-blown, quirky thoughts bordering on existential crisis:

    • What if pigeons could talk? Would they have a secret society where they plan a hostile takeover?
    • It’s hot. But if I leave my feet out of the duvet, and someone breaks in, will they chop them off?
    • What if the internet went down forever? What do we do? Would my son even know how to play outside? 

    And worse, at some point, all questions and thoughts merge into one. Like the screenplay for a movie. And not some prestigious, introspective arthouse film, but one of those B-movie gems with low-budget special effects and delightfully cheesy dialogue delivery.

    I’m a frazzled protagonist chef with a perpetual fear of pigeons. I have a shot at getting my restaurant a Michelin star, but here’s the catch – I need to follow a secret legacy recipe, where the hero of the dish is …yep, you guessed it –  pigeon.

    And then one day, I wake up and realise I can suddenly hear pigeons speak – and they’re debating the best way to infiltrate human society (“Aim for the picnic baskets!” screams a particularly fluffy one). One of them spots me – so I run.

    Cut to my bedroom, where I’m on the bed. Drenched in sweat, trying to do some deep breathing as I saw on that YouTube video. But then there’s a knock at the door, and I see the handle turning. But I’d locked the main door to the flat. Or had I? Wait, can pigeons open doors?

    The door opens slightly, and I see the sharp, glistening metal. It’s a knife, I think. I suddenly realise that my feet are out of the duvet. Oh my god, this is now a horror movie. I frantically Google “How to defend myself from talking Pigeons?” while desperately building a blanket fort.

    Oh no! The internet has gone. Disappeared.

    Just when the tension peaks, the fear overwhelming, my eyes snap to the one thing that can break the spell…my phone on the bedside.

    Its digital glow cuts through the shadows, and the numbers scream a silent alarm: 3:27 AM.

    Stillness settles.

    The pigeons, the fear, the existential angst of my culinary future… it all fades slightly, not defeated, but pushed back into the recesses of my sleep-addled mind. It’s still the dead of night, that bewitching hour where anything seems possible.

    But for now, the most pressing threat is the fact that there are only a few hours of sleep left before morning, and along with it, another day of pigeon recipes and the pressures of reality.

    Quite possibly the cover of my first 3 AM best-seller

    Truth is that the 3 AM club can often be a lonely, anxiety-ridden place for most. But often, in those blurry-eyed moments, the most profound (or profoundly ridiculous) thoughts lay the seeds for something fantastic. Some of my best stories, those weird and wonderful plot twists, all come to life during the reign of the 3 AM club.

    So my fellow insomniacs, if you find yourself wide awake at 3 AM, just know you’re in good company. We’re the ones penning the great pigeon conspiracy novels no one asked for and the ones who can (perhaps) write the next award-winning screenplay where the plot revolves around your overflowing pile of unread books whispering an ancient secret.  

    Stay strong, 3 AM Club. 

    We may stumble into the daylight a little confused and sleep-deprived, but at least we’ll be prepared with a battle plan when the missing single socks from the washing machine join the abandoned lidless Tupperware boxes in the revolt against the human race.

    *All images courtesy of the wild and wonderful brain of AI. Maybe the only one that can match my level of random thoughts.

  • The Red Earring

    The Red Earring


    A sudden jolt followed by a shooting pain across his right temple woke Farhan up. He looked around groggily trying to place where he was. The elderly gentleman sitting on his right flashed him a toothless smile, and mumbled something incomprehensible. Farhan gave him a confused look, and felt his sore temple. He could already feel a bump starting to develop.

    A cacophony of voices from his left drew his attention towards them. He peered through the metal bars that blocked the large square window. Outside a crowd had already gathered and raised voices could be heard. Though he hardly understood the conversation, he could make out that they were arguing about something.

    “Just my luck!” he thought, as he continued to massage his bruised temple. Farhan looked around the bus again, and noticed that most people hadn’t even gotten up from their seat. “Must be a daily occurrence” he mused, as he leaned against the metal backrest of the seat in front of him. After what seemed like an eternity, the bus commenced its journey again. But the throbbing pain made it impossible for him to sleep. Through the window, he quietly watched the city speed by, indifferent to his presence.

    This was his new home.

     

    Two hours later

    Farhan was yet to reach his destination. He sighed and cursed under his breath. The bus was almost empty save a few others. Though he knew the name of the stop he needed to get out at, he was conscious of the fact that due to the language barrier he could completely miss it.Thankfully, the conductor on the bus periodically yelled out the name of the stop, and he hoped that he’d be able to identify the name of the stop when he heard it.

    He looked around the bus again and took in the other passengers. There were two elderly men seated a couple of seats ahead. They were snoring away with their heads leaning sideways against each other’s. A young couple sat two seats behind him, and were huddled over what looked like a book. Having been through the stage, Farhan was conscious that they weren’t really studying. He smiled slyly as he caught their attention. The girl, probably in her teens, quickly pushed the guy’s hand off hers, and looked away. The guy, visibly embarrassed, broke eye-contact with Farhan and pretended to fiddle with his mobile phone.

    Farhan turned around, his face still sporting a grin. “Good old days of courtship!” he thought, as he fondly remembered his rather unsuccessful adventures with the opposite sex.
    Farhan looked at the woman sitting diagonally opposite to him, a few rows ahead. A light blue dupatta (a shawl worn over traditional Indian dresses) partially draped over her head drew his attention to her. The left side of her face was still visible along with a part of her left ear, from which dangled a sparkling ruby-red earring.

    Though not one to be mesmerised by shiny, bright jewellery, Farhan felt captivated. With each bump on the road, he watched the earring moved back and forth slightly, tugging at the tiny hole on her ear lobe. The rustling breeze from the open window caused strands of jet-black hair to peek out from under her make-shift head scarf. He was so fascinated by the scene that he almost missed hearing the conductor call out his stop. Fortunately, one of the elderly gents had to get down and the bus stopped at his destination.

    He tried to exit the bus through the front door in a bid to see the woman’s face, but a surge of middle-aged ladies boarding the bus ensured that he exited from the rear entrance. As he watched the bus pull away, he wondered if he was more fascinated by the earring or the face that was hidden by the dupatta. A few minutes after the bus had disappeared from view, he slowly walked towards his newly rented house. As he made his way, he found himself wondering if he’d see the mysterious woman with her sparkling earring ever again.

     

    Farhan beamed as he watched the woman laugh loudly, displaying two rows of pearly white teeth that complemented her almost flawless fair skin. He gazed intently at the contours of her face, as she continued her conversation with the little girl next to her. Her almost-musical laugher was as refreshing as drops of rain on a dry summer day. Her dupatta still partly covered her hair, but since he’d changed seats he had a better view of the side profile of her face. He watched carefully as she nonchalantly lifted her left hand and used her long, artistic fingers to tuck the unruly strands of hair behind her ear.

    It had almost been a month, since he had started observing the mysterious woman, who seemed completely oblivious about his presence. Everything about her, fascinated him – from the way she smiled to little mannerisms such as the way she scrunched up her button-nose when bad odour wafted in from outside. And today, he’d heard the little girl refer to her as Farida Didi. Since he knew that Didi meant elder sister, he safely assumed that her name was Farida. He still wasn’t sure why he felt drawn to her.

    He wondered if she was married or betrothed to someone. He also hadn’t been successful in seeing her face fully yet. But the two hours he spent everyday, travelling in the same bus as her was definitely the highlight of his day. Twice he’d thought of walking up and talking to her. The seat next to her was almost always free and from what he’d noticed she didn’t seem to mind company. But he just couldn’t garner the courage to do so. Whilst he blamed it on years of shyness, he knew that the real reason was because it wasn’t like him to chat up a woman. Especially, one he knew nothing about.

    Farhan tapped his feet impatiently. The bus was late. However what bothered him more than the tardiness was his desire to see Farida. He hadn’t seen her on the bus for almost ten days, and was starting to get a bit agitated. Though he’d initially thought of travelling to the final stop of the bus and make an enquiry, he soon realised that it would be akin to looking for a needle in a haystack. He also had no idea where she usually boarded the bus from, since she was always on the bus when he entered.

    The bus thundered towards the stop and came to a halt. Farhan rushed up the stairs and looked at the seat where Farida usually sat. It remained empty, just as it had been for the past ten days. He slumped into his seat and hoped that everything was well with her.

     

    Few months later

    The heat was starting to get to Farhan. Hailing from a village in the mountains, he’d always known that heat would be his Achilles heel. But nothing had prepared him for the 45° furnace that the city turned into during summer. He ordered a soda-lime drink from a street vendor and lit up his cigarette. He knew his mother would disapprove of his sudden nicotine addiction, but work was starting to take its toll on him and this nicotine fix gave him the strength to push on.

    A sudden squeal of tyres on the road drew his attention towards the signal. It looked like the Red signal had caught one of the drivers unawares and he had managed to stop his car just in time. As Farhan sipped the soda-lime drink, he glanced at the crowd of people crossing over from the other side of the road.

    The WALK indicator on the pedestrian signal had started to flash rapidly. That’s when he noticed a blind woman with her cane in the middle of the crossing. As the traffic lights changed to green and the cars around her started honking, the woman seemed to panic and stood frozen to the spot. Ignoring the honking cars and the yelling drivers, Farhan rushed across and slowly took the woman’s elbow and helped her cross the road.

    As he let go of her elbow, Farhan could feel the woman shiver slightly.

    “Are you okay?” he asked her.

    She just smiled and said “Thank you Sir. I’ve been crossing this road unaided using my walking cane for several years now. But today…I was a bit absent-minded.”

    Farhan smiled at her, well-aware that she couldn’t see it. He couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. Though he couldn’t be sure, she looked like she was in her late twenties. “You are welcome, miss!” he replied.

    She had turned sideways and was in the process of tying up her hair. And that’s when he noticed the ruby-red earring staring back at him.

    Farhan stood in shock as Farida draped her dupatta over her head and slowly walked away tapping the cane in front of her, oblivious to the world around her.

    [This post is written for the Project 365 program at We Post Daily aimed at posting at least once a day, based on the prompts provided. The prompt for today was “Turn to your co-workers, kids, Facebook friends, family — anyone who’s accessible — and ask them to suggest an article, an adjective, and a noun. There’s your post title! Now write..” ]

  • Have you ever felt like an imposter? I have.

    Have you ever felt like an imposter? I have.


    Despite the heavily air-conditioned room, I could feel the perspiration starting to form on my forehead. If I could slow down time and block out all other sounds, as they sometimes showed in the movies, I am sure that I would have heard my heart beat loudly in the cavity of my chest. My fingers trembled slightly as they announced the results. Around me, the entire table erupted into a loud cacophony of howls, whistles, claps and congratulatory messages.
     

    I know, I should have been happy. Ecstatic even, but I just couldn’t get myself to be so. As I walked onto the dias to collect the award, I heard him clear his throat – that chubby little devil of self-doubt sitting on my shoulder, ever ready to slyly push those morsels of insecurity into my mind. I could almost hear him whisper: ‘Are you sure you deserve this?’

    This is not a piece of fiction. It is, in fact, a very real snippet of a scene that transpired during the WIN’15 Blogging awards held by BlogAdda. Of course, most people who were around me may not have noticed my nervousness at all, because I often do a pretty good job of hiding it. But that does not dismiss the fact that I was extremely anxious. And the uneasiness arose from the fact that I could possibly win an award for my blogging. And that somewhere deep down, there was this nagging voice asking me if I really deserved the recognition.

     

    ‘But you are quite successful at what you do’.

     

    This is something that I often hear from friends and well-wishers. Most times, I just smile and dismiss it saying, ‘Oh, I’ve just been lucky’ or ‘it’s been pretty good fortune so far’. No, it’s not modesty. Every time someone says something about my achievements, there is something internally pushing it back as an ‘accidental’ or ‘fortunate’ set of events. In other words, I have trouble taking or accepting credit for something that I actually did achieve.

     

    That’s what Imposter Syndrome is all about – an intellectual fraudulence of sorts, where you feel that whatever you have achieved has been quite ‘accidental’ and that you perhaps haven’t earned it.

     

    If I’m honest, I suspect that I have been plagued by this condition for as long as I can remember. For instance, I graduated in the top percentile of my class for both my Bachelors and Masters degrees. I even had several promotions and recognition over the course of my almost-decade-long professional corporate career. However, when I had to apply for a new role, I found myself asking, ‘Who is going to hire me? What if I’ve just been fortuitous so far? What if they discover that I don’t actually know what I’m talking about or that I have absolutely no skill set to talk about?’

     

    For years, I’ve kept all these doubts, insecurities and imposter-like feelings bottled up inside. Not even my wife had a clue about it.  After all, I was still very ‘fortunate’ to have found work that I seemed to be good at, and there was no need to ‘rock the boat’, as one would say.

     

    It wasn’t until I started writing and blogging, that I started to experience stronger, and sometimes uglier sides, of this imposter phenomenon. Honestly, I suppose anyone in any field could technically experience this syndrome. But I suspect that it is slightly more prevalent in fields where your results aren’t exactly ‘physically tangible’ and where your work is subject to critique by a larger number of people.

     

    I have often re-read pieces of fiction that I have written and been very well-received, and asked myself, ‘Did I really write that?’ Or more importantly, ‘will I ever be able to write like or better than that?’

     

    Sometimes when I see my awards for blogging sitting in the showcase, I feel like I am in the middle of an amazing dream, and that at some point, someone will wake me up and say that it was all a big mistake and that all of the recognition belongs to someone one else.

     

    I have often been crippled by the thought that normal people like me could not possibly be worthy of great things or such success. I have lived in the perpetual fear that someday, someone will discover how incapable and ‘talentless’ I really am, and be exposed for the fraud that I sometimes think I am.

     

    I have sometimes felt like an actor who plays the role of a writer or a blogger in real life, and that if I was ever put on the spot and asked to write something, I would fail miserably and once again be ridiculed for being unable to do so.

     

    But over the past few months, I have come to realise something. That one of the base reasons behind my (and most others’) imposter syndrome is the rather skewed definition that we have of success and successful people. While often some of these stem from heavy criticism that we may have faced as a child, I believe most of us have suffered from imposter syndrome in various degrees or levels. So, I suppose it is safe to say that it manifests from a combination of self-doubt, anxiety, the unending urge to seek perfection in everything we do and extremely harsh criticism of your own work. In some way, it is like a form of self-inflicted punishment.

     

    The problem, ever so often, is that we have drilled it into our heads that we don’t deserve it or deserve to be somewhere. It is sort of like your best frenemy sitting on your shoulder and constantly asking you if you’re good enough or if you deserve it.

     

    And as much as I hate to admit it, our culture has successfully planted these strange ideas in our mind that success means ‘so and so’. Even as children, we are constantly being compared against, told where we are presently and where we could potentially be. And, social media does its best to fuel this syndrome by parading a constant stream of success stories, lists that feature ‘successful’ people who are half your age but with bank balances more than what you could envision in your lifetime, and of course, the magic mantra to be the best version of yourselves, only if you buy the book or the course authored by some of these highly successful people.

     

    Author Maya Angelou once said: "I have written eleven books, but each time I think, 'uh oh, they’re going to find out now. I’ve run a game on everybody, and they’re going to find me out.' “

     

    So, yes, almost everyone experiences this at least once in their lifetime. Unless of course, you are a serial narcissist or have set an extremely low bar for your own achievements. The reason? Because I believe imposter syndrome is also set up by our inherent fear of failure or not being good at something. And that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. The way forward is not about how you can ‘escape’ imposter syndrome, but how you can use it to help you take the actions that will help you achieve your goals or aspirations.

     

    But as I’ve discovered over the course of this journey of mine – A big part of overcoming imposter syndrome is coming to terms with two facts:

     

    One) That there are others around you who feel the same way; and Two)  That it is not necessary for you to attain perfection in everything in order to be worthy of the success that you’ve achieved or a recognition given to you. In other words, the acceptance that it is okay not to have all the answers.

     

    Look at Maya Angelou for instance; the literary world would surely have been less ‘inspired and enriched’ had she decided to let her fear of being ‘exposed’ get the better of her. I suppose now is a good time as any to ‘restart’ work on those pending manuscripts of mine.

    As much as you own your failures and come to terms with it, it is important to own your successes too.

  • Too Hot to Handle

    Too Hot to Handle


     Ah, scorching hot summer! 

    That wonderful time of year when your electricity bills are higher than your monthly EMI; that time when you contemplate cooking eggs on a pan outside on the pavement because it’s heated up like a furnace; and also the time when you feel the need to take out over mitts just to handle the car’s flaming hot steering wheel.

    Yes, the glorious sweltering, make-your-clothes-stick-to-your-body and leaves-sweaty-patches-all-over-your-shirt summer is here. And it’s just beginning.

    As you’ve probably gathered, I am not a big fan – Pardon the pun! While I cannot deny that fact that my son does have over 70 days of summer holidays – or joyriding doing whatever he pleases while I try to work from home, as I call it – does contribute in parts to my irritability, that is not the key reason for my discomfort with these dazzling days of the sun. It is the heat. And the humidity that comes with the heat that does many ‘unspeakable things’ to my hair.

    One of the life-changing discoveries in the 3 decades that I’ve been here, is that once the temperature starts to soar over 20-degree-celsius, my body starts to react rather violently; and that reaction is called ‘sweating’ – something that drives me to the point of being bonkers.

    My tryst with the heat also seems to get worse during the summer months because of another reason. And that is because of this amazing place called The Gym. Now, before you burst out laughing at the thought of me being at the gym, let me give you a little history here. I’m pretty rotund. Okay, who am I kidding? I am the big fat panda. But here’s the thing – the reason why I always end up considering hitting the gym during summer months is because that’s the time I realise that I no longer have the luxury of hiding my round shape under a jacket or sweater. And also because in this case, there’s a bakery right opposite my gym.

    There is a special place reserved in hell for people who set up bakeries right outside the gym

    But while my sense of hygiene is debatable at times, two things that I find rather difficult to appreciate are sweaty gym equipment (hello, there are tissue boxes, paper towels, and gym towels for a reason!) and the fact that most people in the gym do not seem to have heard of this thing called a deodorant.

     I complete understand this – we sweat. All of us do. And it gets worse during summer. In fact, I often say that the plus side of hitting the gym during summer is that you could simply stand on the treadmill and walk away with enough sweat to make you think like you ran a marathon. I call it – the illusion of exercise. But the body odour is unbelievable. Especially when, if the advertising is to be believed, we now have not just 4 or 8-hour, but 48 hour-lasting deos.

    But the issue is that during summers, most people at the gym sweat like sinners at a church during confession.And it is not a fun place to be stuck at. In fact, I find myself muttering a silent prayer of gratitude for the fact that I am not Spiderman. It cannot be a fun experience trying to get out of the spandex-like suit during summer.

     So rightfully, I am not much of a summer person. And if I think about it, I believe I may have been spoilt by my time in the UK. To most people who love the sunny and hot weather, summer in the UK is very much like your favourite actor making a guest appearance in an otherwise awful movie. Pretty much the only ‘weather highlight’ in a country that is mostly wet, windy and overcast.

     I believe I may have the privilege of being part of a small portion of people who actually did not mind the relatively short duration of summer while in the UK. So needless to say, when we returned to India, I was in a world of pain. My Global Warming (yes, it’s a real thing – President Trump) had been busy at work, and even the otherwise manageable Bangalore seemed to be getting all ‘heated up’. Which meant that my wife and I suddenly had another bone to pick.

    On the list of things that cause ‘boudoir discontent’ amongst married couples, adjusting the temperature of the AC ranks right up there

    Some like it hot. And some like it cold. In the bedroom, I mean. The challenge is often finding the middle ground. My wife, for instance, needs the comfort of a warm room to sleep. I wouldn’t go on to say that it needs to be a furnace (although, personally I do feel like that some days!), but she can’t sleep in a reasonably cold room. Now, me on the other hand, I would rather have the room feel like an igloo.

    So my wife and I often ended up playing a game that I now fondly refer to as ‘Attack of the Blanket Hogger’, in the middle of the night. My wife loves to be wrapped up like an Egyptian Mummy, failing which she finds her nightly rendezvous with sleep quite arduous. Me, on the other hand, am not too fond of blankets. I’m more of a free spirit and will only use a blanket as the last resort. The problem starts during the wee hours of the morning when my wife wakes up shivering, only to discover that the blanket is now being hogged by me. Yes, the very same person who coincidentally gave her the long lecture about ‘blankets being for wimps’ and insisted on having the AC on the coldest possible setting.

    So, yes, summer for me is a tough period. Between expelling my body weight in sweat, battling sticky equipment and smelly folks at the gym, trying to lose weight while the bakery opposite the gym bake delectable goodies and having blanket and temperature-setting wars with my better half, I have decided that the saner option is just to tell people that I’m not fat; I am just hot and expand during summer.

    And of course, as some famous person said once,’Fortunately my culture believes in cremation. So I still have a chance to have a ‘smoking hot body’.

  • Confessions of a Hotel Kleptomaniac

    Confessions of a Hotel Kleptomaniac


    Have you ever felt a little nagging feeling, gnawing away at your conscience; sort of like a rat desperately trying to dig its way out?

     I have. And if ‘research’ is to be believed, I might be a ‘thief’; and you might just be one too.

     Okay! Hold off calling the cops or punching me in the face just yet. And no, I’m not crazy. (My mother had me tested.)

     If you’re a regular reader of my blog, you may well be familiar about the blackhole that we have at home. As a sort of accompaniment to that, we also have a small chest of drawers. The top shelf of this set is filled with enough toiletries, razors, shaving creams, shoe shine sponges, sewing kits, shower caps, tiny pieces of fancy soap, little bottles of shampoo and conditioners, toothbrushes and toothpaste of every imaginable sizes and shapes. If I’m honest, I think there might be enough items for a family of three to survive for a really long time. Assuming we survive the nuclear holocaust that we seem to be inadvertently prepping for in the first place. And now for the bitter truth – we might have ‘taken’ most of these from various hotels that we have stayed at over the past few decades. And if ‘research’ is to be believed, a lot of you have done so too.

    Hotel Kleptomania: Check out anytime but never with a lighter bag than what you’d checked in with.

    See, I’m quite reluctant to call myself a thief. And technically, while the term may not be entirely accurate, if the definitions set by various leading hotels are to be believed, we’re all petty thieves. I am not sure what it is about those tiny shampoo bottles or multi-scented fancy soaps, but something about them brings out another side of me. It is almost as if I feel that along with all these toiletries, Lady Kleptomania has dumped me too into her large suitcase.

     The first time I ever ‘did the act’, I confess, there was a certain exhilarating thrill about it. I’ve always been someone who has largely abided by rules. However this little act of rebellion was something that I cherished. In fact, if I remember correctly, the first ever set of items that I took from a hotel room was a shower cap, a fancy looking soap and a dental kit. We were on holiday and were staying at a rather posh hotel for a few nights. I remember picking these up and hiding it in a little bag that I used to carry. And then I spent the rest of the day having mixed feelings; on one hand I was thrilled about the prospect of doing something which, to my naive little mind, reeked of an act of rebellion. On the other, I was terribly afraid of the hotel actually complaining to my parents and labelling them thieves. Of course, the next day, when the housekeeping staff calmly replaced the items without even asking us, I was both confused and happy. Needless to say, I tried to push the boundaries as much as I could and they kept replacing every piece of toiletry that I had stolen ‘taken’. And suddenly it no longer made sense to me.

     I suppose I should have just given into curiosity and asked my parents about it. But the act of confessing a theft rendered me speechless and I didn’t. And this was way before the time of Google and the Internet.  Over the course of my life so far, I’ve still continued to accumulate stuff – from soaps and shampoos to dental kits and sometimes, those ridiculously thin but absolutely comfortable bath slippers. I won’t confess more, but needless to say, I’ve not yet been ‘questioned’ about my stash.

     But as you grow older, and by those standards, somewhat wiser, you tend to look back on your actions. And it was during one of those phases, that I started to analyse my ‘kleptomaniac’ behaviour. With the power of the Internet at my fingertips, I managed to do plenty of research and discovered that almost everyone has at some point taken stuff from their hotel rooms. Of course, exceptions are there, and since they are few in number, I won’t focus on them.

     Now, what I found interesting was the fact that the reasons for many of them ranged from ‘Oh! But these are already included in the hotel rate’ to the more strange ‘I am showing my appreciation by taking some of their stuff – like the bathrobe with the hotel insignia on it. After all, it is free publicity for the hotel.’

     To cut a long story short, barring a handful of people, nobody has taken (or rather confessed to taking) stuff from their hotel rooms for monetary gain. Which then makes me wonder, why then do it in the first place.? Of course, the reasons continue to vary – from the thrill to a sense of entitlement. But then again, the question remains to be asked  – to the person who believes that they are appreciating the hotel’s taste in things by taking them –  shouldn’t you also feel entitled to ‘steal’ or take, say a bedside lamp or say a remote to the TV. Or maybe if you’re staying in my house, say our crockery or pillow cover and sheets? But you hardly see anyone do that.

     So it has to be narrowed down to our psychological mentality of staying in a hotel. Or perhaps, I just have bad taste when it comes to pillow covers and crockery :P. Or maybe it’s an insatiable urge that we have to make sure we get our money’s worth. Maybe it’s a condition that is stereotypical of the ‘middle-class’ syndrome – if we feel we’re entitled to it, we take it.

     Needless to say, despite an extensive research, I’m sorry to say that I am no closer to discovering why staying in hotels can turn even the most righteous, law-abiding citizens into a bunch of kleptomaniacs. Maybe it’s just a combination of factors. And we will never know the full story. What I did discover though, is a rather amusing list; a list of the strangest things that people have tried to smuggle out of their hotel rooms. While I am not going to bore you with the exhaustive list, I can’t help by share 6 peculiar items that people have tried to ‘take’ in their rather heightened sense of entitlement.

     

    Televisions. Paintings. Mattresses. Lampshades. Bulbs. Telephone units.

     Bizarre stuff, don’t you think? Sounds like the days will soon come when anything that isn’t nailed to the floor or screwed to the wall or ceiling is considered as fair game. So, if you think about it, the only thing that is physically stopping us is our sense of morality and not having a suitcase big enough to carry these.

     I found a rather interesting piece of literature about ‘Hotel Kleptomania’ which quoted a psychologist as saying :

    ‘Sometimes, hotel kleptomania is a sign of exhibitionism…..sort of like a tendency to show off. Some of them may just want to equip their home with the furnishings of a hotel, particularly if the hotel is famous, posh or expensive. Some even view it as a status symbol or even a reminder of their stay at a particular place. It is no different to a traveller who leaves luggage tags of the places he or she has visited on the suitcase. Except that the luggage tags are free.” 

    Then again, it’s not really a middle-class syndrome either. There are celebrities who have confessed about their kleptomania when in hotel rooms too. Like Dustin Hoffman who has confessed to frequently ‘taking’ bathmats/ bathrobe and Margot Robbie who has confessed to taking multiple rolls of toilet paper.

     ‘But, if I’ve paid for the room, surely I’m entitled to some of its contents’, I hear you scream. Or maybe it was just my inner conscience, trying to play advocate. Apparently, that’s where we are wrong. After consulting a few people who have worked in hotels. I’ve come to the following understanding:

    ‘Toiletries, towels and the rest of the items are provided for use within the confines of the hotel room and are not usually meant to be taken out. However, the general consensus is that if it can’t be reused, it is okay. Hence why things like toiletries are usually fair game and nobody will judge you for taking them. But the moment you lay hands on things like bathrobe, slippers and the rest, the hotel can stop you. Of course, most hotels choose not to, because it labels them as being picky. Which is why, nowadays, if you’re feeling the urge to own something from the hotel, most hotels will let you buy some of their memorabilia for a cost.’

    As for me, well, the story has changed slightly. Mainly because my research has armed with more information about what items are acceptable when taken from the hotel room under the ‘complimentary use’ tag. But yes, during my recent stay at one of the premiere hotels in Mumbai, I’m quite happy to say that I did smuggle out a few toiletries. After all, I was entitled to it. [Plus they were from Hugo Boss!]

    So, have you ever treated yourself to a little souvenir (or two) from a hotel room? Go on. Your secret’s safe here. After all, everything’s safe and private on the Internet, isn’t it?

    Sincerely yours,

    An honest hotel kleptomaniac.

  • Baking Happiness!

    Baking Happiness!


    If you know me, then you’re probably familiar with my affinity towards cake. In fact, the phrase ‘cake-devourer’ occupies a very prominent position right next to my name on most (if not all) of my social media profiles.

     But here’s the sad truth. I don’t actually eat cakes all that often. Mostly due to the fact that I’ve been blessed with  such awesome fat cells; ones that make sure that I’ll put on weight by merely inhaling the aroma of a cake being baked.

    And truth be told, I’m ok with that now.

    For me, the idea of cake is synonymous with comfort. I’ll let you in on a little secret. When I’m upset, I naturally think of baking cakes. Little sponge gateaux or cupcakes dancing around with shimmering rich icing on it. And then out of the blue, a grin appears on my face as I mentally mix and match the ingredients thinking of the unlimited possibilities. Sort of like a professional wardrobe assistant swaps the pairing of clothes.

     There is an inexplicable joy in taking simple ingredients and turning it into something decadent; something so artfully sinful and delicious. I still remember the first time I’d tried my hand at baking. It was probably like one of those school home-economics/food tech projects. You’d think that all that butter, sugar and flour would make the end product delicious. Guess what? It doesn’t. And that was my lesson number one about the art of baking :

    We can have all the right ingredients; but it takes patience, trust & skill to bake a cake right

    If you’ve made it this far down the post, there is a chance that some of you are probably thinking, ‘This is it. Sid has finally lost his marbles’. Don’t worry; I haven’t. Not yet, anyway.

    Take whisking the sugar and butter together, for instance. In theory, it’s a simple process. You take the ingredients and beat it into a fluffy mixture. But only patience and the right amount of whisking can make the mixture tender and obtain,quite literally, a ‘melt-in-your-mouth’ texture. You’ll hear people often say that this is the perhaps the most difficult part to get right; but take a moment – stop beating; now dip that little finger of yours into the glistening mixture; scoop out a small amount gently and lick it.

    Yes, the exact kind where the tongue caresses the curves of your finger.

     Wait for a brief second. Feel your lips curve upwards as they break into a smile when the silky buttery flavour jostles your tongue, slowly engulfing the every crevice in your mouth. And then, close your eyes as some of the still-granular crystals of sugar gently dissolves in the pool of saliva that is now your mouth.It’s at some point right about now that you feel that sorrow slowly start to melt away – one glorious mouthful at a time.

     Gently tap the shells of those eggs now. Imagine, that with every crack of the egg-shell, your worry is starting to ooze out. Feel it leave your body and you’ll soon feel as light as one of those egg shells. Beat the eggs into the mixture and carefully fold in the flour. This, perhaps, is the one of the most fascinating parts of baking. Watching it all come together into this little gloopy sort of mixture, as my wife so often calls it.

     Do you know what I enjoy the most about baking cakes? The tasting at every step. It’s like a tender, yet reaffirming pat on your back, when you know that the taste is spot on; just like what you’d imagined it would taste like, when you first pictured it in your head. For me, the simple act of dipping your finger into the mix acts like a little time-travel switch. It transports me back to my childhood, when my mom would often bake cookies and cakes. My mom would say that whenever I knew she was baking (or making payasam), my eyes would just shine brightly. It wasn’t just because of the fact that I knew she was baking. It was also because it was my little ‘treat’ to be able to lick the bowl clean, after she transferred this gloopy mixture into the baking tin.

     Of course, the most difficult part of this ‘tasting’ is to remember that you are not meant to devour all of it. So, you somehow stop yourself and with the enthusiasm (as well as trepidation) of a kid who scoops up wet sand for his sand castle, you gently scrape out every last bit of this gluey, yet delicious mixture and fill up those polished cake tins. And as a part of you marvels at the amazing vibrancy of the mixture, the other part furiously wonders why you aren’t just devouring the heavenly concoction.

     You know that skill I briefly mentioned earlier? Yes, the very same one called patience. As you place those cake tins into the oven and turn the timer to the better part of 30 minutes or so, you’ll realise what I’m talking about. Of course, it’s easy to just be away from the kitchen and come back to check on the cake. But where’s the happiness in that?

    One of the best aromas in the world is that of the cake (that you made from scratch) being baked.

    It starts as a warm buttery aroma, that playfully tantalises your nasal passages, making your gently smack your lips together. And as the eggs start to coagulate, there is this ever so slight sulphur-like smell; one that briefly reminds you of all those funny experiments in your high-school chemistry lab. And just as quickly as it appeared, it fades away. Only to be replaced by the sweet fragrance of sugar crystals browning as the intense heat slowly caramelises them; and you deftly wipe away the drool that’s formed on the sides of your mouth.

     See! I told you that waiting’s the hardest. But it’s also one of the most enjoyable phases. I think of it like a sly foreplay of desires and wants – a variety of indulgent fragrances playing a teasing game with all your senses. This is the perfect time to make yourself a cup of tea and get some crunchy biscuits to dip into it. What amuses me is that the biscuits try really hard to satiate that inexplicable craving that your taste buds  now have, but try as they might, they fail miserably.

     Part of the joy of baking is being able to see this physical – and very visual – transformation of the cake batter into this rising mountain of deliciousness. At this point, there are perhaps enough chemical reactions  going on within the batter to rival Dexter’s lab. And as the timer goes off, your mind gently nudges you to check on the cake. As you suddenly notice the familiar crumbed-crust, your heart skips a beat and your mind joyfully tap dances when you realise that the cake’s almost ready.

     The grand finale is perhaps the toughest part of it all – letting the cake rest. Those ten minutes or so, when the cake cools down. There’s nothing  that tests the very definition of self-control more than seeing that gorgeous sponge cake mocking you at your helplessness at not being able to touch her. So, we do what we do best – we continue to look longingly at the glistening crust and airy layers. Perhaps we may even notice that the sides of the sponge have retreated away from the sides of the baking tine; very much like an introvert who shyly slinks back into their shell when they see a large group of people. I should know; I’m one of them.

     Of course, we could just put this time to good use and make some of that delicious melt-in-your-mouth icing and apply it generously over the sponge. And maybe drizzle some luscious chocolate sauce all over it. Then, make yourself another cuppa, cut yourself a very generous slice of this cake and devour it lovingly and gently. And slowly watch all your worries evaporate away, even if it’s for a few minutes.

     This, my friends, is bake-o-therapy.

    And there’s nothing quite like it.
  • Echoes of the Enchanted

    Echoes of the Enchanted


    Dennis felt like he was being tossed about like a rag doll on the rough waters of the choppy sea. He could hear the fearsome roars of the giant waves as they charged towards him, like a monster rising from the depths of sea, threatening to engulf him and drag him deeper down. His body felt like lead and no matter how hard he tried, he was unable to budge. It felt like his arms and legs had been tied down. The noise of rough sea drowned out just as quickly as it had started. From amongst the silence, his ears pricked up slightly as they recorded a series of hushed rhythmic, yet indistinct tones; tones that sounded like a chant. He tried to open his eyes, but they felt like they were sealed shut.

     The chanting soon picked up the rhythm. He tried to open his eyes again. This time, they did. But everything looked hazy, as if he was viewing through a sheer black cloth tied over his eyes.  As the chanting got louder, he tried once again, to get up. But his body refused. However a piercing scream from another part of the room jolted him. He turned his head towards his right. The scream sounded familiar, but he just couldn’t place it. As if on cue, the person screamed again. Dennis opened his mouth to yell out his brother’s name, but no voice came. He shifted his head to his right once again. In one corner of the room, amongst the shadows,  he could see a person tied to what looked like two stone pillars, a short distance apart. As another scream erupted from the tied up figure, he realised with a shock, that it was his brother, Jose.

     Shock quickly turned into a scared desperation as the vision slowly cleared and he took in the scene in front of him. His brother,who was fleeting in and out of consciousness, was naked, barring his underwear and had his arms and legs stretched and tied to the two  pillars. He had his back turned to Dennis. There were no visible wounds on his body, yet there was a very distinct pool of blood on the floor below where he was tied. Confused, Dennis tried to yell out his brother’s name once again, but no sound emerged from his open mouth. It was then that he realised that his tongue was missing. Rather, it had been carefully removed with surgical precision. As the shock set in, he noticed a sudden movement behind one of the pillars.

     The silhouette of a woman slowly came into focus. He couldn’t make out the features of her face, but the long tresses that cascaded over her shoulders and almost all the way to the floor was unmistakable. He couldn’t be sure, but she seemed to be clad in a blood-red saree and had a deep tanned skin. Dennis blinked rapidly, trying to clear the haziness that still clung to his eyes like a stubborn cloud trying to block the light of the moon. As the woman leaned in towards his brother, Jose let out another blood curdling scream. And almost instantly, he became still and almost lifeless. As Dennis watched numb with fear, the woman slowly walked out of the shadow, a spine-chilling smile etched on her scarred face. In her bloodied hands, she held the still beating heart of his brother.

     As he desperately struggled against his restraints, the woman calmly made her way towards Dennis. Still clutching his brother’s heart, she continued to chant incoherently. As the chanting picked up the tempo, she suddenly picked up a knife from a table nearby and thrust it into his stomach.

    An idyllic fishing village,
    Somewhere near Alappuzha, Kerala

    “Dennis!”

    His brother’s deep voice snapped him out of the nightmare that he’d just been in.

    Fifteen-year old Dennis, sat up on the wooden charpoy and rubbed his eyes. Unwittingly, his right-hand clutched the small steel crucifix that hung around his neck, held in place by a frayed piece of black string. As his fingers brushed against the cold, engraved form of their Lord, Dennis felt a shiver run through him. His tattered khaki shorts and off-white vest were drenched and clung to his skinny figure, causing the formation of tiny goosebumps. The monsoons were in full swing, and it had been raining non-stop for the past three days.

    “Jose!” he exclaimed to his elder brother, getting up from the rickety bed, “I’m scared. I don’t think we should do this. I just had that nightmare again. It’s not a good omen.”

    Jose, tall, muscular and all of eighteen years, put his hand on Dennis’ left shoulder and shook his head.

    “Stop being a sissy, D!” he said sharply as he ran his hand through his wet and wavy hair, “You’ve had the same nightmare for months now!”  As he was about to continue, there was loud clap of thunder and he felt Dennis quiver slightly. Jose shook his head again. If he’d been given a choice, he’d had insisted that his younger brother not accompany him. But Salman bhai, who had made all the arrangements, had insisted that Dennis join in too. ‘There’ll be plenty of valuables to carry,’ he’d said confidently, ‘so the more number of hands we have, the easier and quicker we can move it out’.

    As the full moon peeked out from between the clouds, the water droplets on Jose’s bare torso glistened brightly, like little beads of pearls. “Don’t worry, little bro! Salman bhai and his friends will join us shortly. He’s just sending us in first, so we can scout the area and make sure it’s safe for them to join us. Plus we don’t want to draw much attention to ourselves. Just imagine the life we’ll have once we get our hands on those valuables. Bhai said the value of the stuff in there should be in crores of rupees. Instead of swimming in the sea and living in this little shack, we can live like kings! Now, why don’t you relax for a bit. I need to go get the directions to that shop that bhai mentioned.”

    As his brother walked away, Dennis merely shook his head. The rain had reduced to a drizzle and wind to a cool breeze. His knew that his brother was blinded by the riches that had been promised, but Dennis trusted his instincts more than that ruffian, Salman. As the full moon reappeared and bathed the coastline in a bluish hue, he clutched the crucifix tighter.

    ‘This better be the last job that we do for that rogue’, he muttered as he stared out towards the village.

    A few miles away from the coastline, is a tiny island, formed almost entirely of rocks. This island, which was no bigger than a small hill, was surrounded by an insurmountable rocky cliff; a giant palisade with curtains of solid, sharp rocks and jagged edges.  In the middle of this island, stood a lone dilapidated two-storeyed house, with a tall stone tower that towered over it.

     In some ways, the abandoned house looked like the miniature version of an old castle from a fairy tale novel, after a tornado had passed by. While the skeletal structure of the building was still intact, the exterior had tiles ripped away in places and green moss clung to the walls like a straggly beard. Perhaps, one of the strangest things about the house was the lack of a main door. There were two visible windows for the main house, both of which were boarded up. The only remaining window was at the top of the tower than stood tall beside the house; but even that had its glasses shattered, perhaps from the last attempt when a bunch of looters had tried to gain access to the house, almost two decades ago. Another peculiar thing about the house was there were no visible roads leading to this house or the island. The only way to get to this rocky island was via the sea, and as many who had tried to break-in could confirm, the rocky cliff was practically inaccessible.

     The local village folklore was that the house was once owned by Ranasaya, a gypsy woman from Sri Lanka. Rumour had it that she had suddenly appeared on the coast, a Purnima (full moon) night. She’d arrived in a small vessel laden with some sort of exotic powder consisting of secret ingredients. It was a local fisherman who’d first spotted her and tried to help her ashore. Though she accepted his help, legend stated that she’d covered her head with the veil of her saree, refusing to reveal her face. As a token of gratitude for his help, she’d gifted him some of this powder, promising that it would cure any ailment. Curious to try it out, the fisherman had given some of it to his quadriplegic wife. After three days of continuous consumption, the story was that the wife started to walk.

     The news about Ranasaya’s magical powder  spread like wildfire and she soon became rich beyond imagination. As her popularity grew, so did the number of her enemies. It was said that Ranasaya had built the house on the rocky island in order to safeguard herself from attackers. It was also believed that after completion of the house, she had imprisoned the labourers in one of the towers and no one had seen them again. Subsequently, the families of the labourers initiated a complaint against her, and gradually Ranasaya’s popularity dwindled. The rumour mill soon became rife with stories about how she was actually witch of black magic and that her powder actually contained various parts of the human body, including flesh. Some even said that she was a cannibal.

     As the villagers became increasingly agitated with Ranasaya, she would go for weeks, sometimes even months without making an appearance. Often, on dark stormy nights, the villagers would hear strange chantings originate from the top room of the tower, followed by occasional loud shrieks. The local law officers had even tried to investigate the sounds and events once. When asked for permission to investigate, it was said that Ranasaya had offered to cooperate if they could find a way into the house; however with no way to access the house, they’d been stuck.

     Though it was not known when or how, but one poornima night a few years later, Ranasaya had disappeared; just as suddenly as she had first appeared. The house had remained empty ever since. Some said that Ranasaya sacrificed herself. Others said that she was murdered by enemies who had somehow managed to gain access to the house. Over time, numerous attempts had been made by various people to break into the house, but everyone had failed. Some of the villagers had even spread rumours that every poornima night, they’d spotted the silhouette of a woman with long cascading hair at the broken window of the tower.

    As directed by Salman, they’d found an underground tunnel starting in the cellars of one of the oldest hardware stores in town. The tunnel, that stretched over a few kilometres, was damp, musty, and had big rats the size of tiny kittens running through them. After walking for the better part of an hour, they soon reached a door secured with a large wrought iron lock. Using the tools they’d gathered from the hardware store, Jose broke open the lock and climbed the stairs that led to the cellar of the old house.

     As the shadowless blackness of the cellar greeted them, Jose pulled out a small flashlight. He switched it on, and as the powerful beam cut through the dark, there were a few scuttling noises, perhaps from rats that infested the cellar floor. Dust, untouched for years, lay over every visible surface like fresh snow on the garden and the stale scent of mildew filled the air, making breathing a laborious task. Covering their mouths with their free hands, Jose and Dennis slowly made their way towards the only visible door, their bare feet sending shivers up their spines as it touched the damp, stone floor.

     Jose, who was leading them, slowly pushed the door. It shook a little, but did not budge. Using all his strength, he pushed again. This time, it made a loud creak, and slowly swung open. A strong draft of air rushed through the now open doorway, throwing him slightly off-balance. He held onto the door frame to steady himself. As Jose took the first step into the new room,  he jerked suddenly and threw a few punches into the air. Dennis, who was coming up behind him, stopped as he saw his brother try to defend himself. He pulled out the flashlight he’d been given and shone it onto his brother’s face. Jose looked back at him sheepishly, and gestured towards the hallway. Cobwebs of every imaginable size covered entire room. Even through the criss cross of the webs, both of them almost simultaneously spotted the stairway on the extreme right of the room.

     The stairway was twisted in a perfect spiral, like a slinky toy pulled from each end. A thick layer of undisturbed dust lay on each of the steps, and on the iron rail that served as bannister. Using the bottom-end of the flashlights and their bare hands, they managed to carve out a path to the staircase.

    “Maybe we should wait for Salman and his friends.” said Dennis, trying to deter his over enthusiastic brother from rushing ahead. He’d been getting very unsettling vibes and a strange tingling sensation since they had set foot in the cellar.

    “Don’t start again, Dennis! They’ll be here shortly. Aren’t you curious to see what that ‘witch’ has been hiding here all these years?” stated Jose excitedly, as he placed his bare feet on the first step of the staircase.

     He lingered for a moment, to check for a creak or a sign of rot, but they were none. The staircase seemed to be as solid as the day it was made. Gesturing his brother to follow him, Jose quickly skipped up the winding staircase, his bare feet disturbing the years of dust that had gathered on the steps. Dennis gulped loudly, and took a look around the hallway.

     There were no windows. Or doors for that matter. The high ceiling was plain and had  surprisingly remained intact all these years. A large, old-fashioned chandelier, parts of it cracked, hung from an almost invisible wooden beam that ran down the centre of the ceiling.  Another strong draft of air sped down from one of the top floors, causing the chandelier to swing haphazardly, the small diamond encrusted crystal pieces on its frame playing a melancholic tune as they lightly bumped into each other. A loud thud from somewhere above, forced Dennis to turn around. At once, he clambered up the stairs and reached the landing of the first floor. The thud seemed to come from further up. Just as he was about to turn towards the stairs to continue upwards, his light from his torch fell on a large painting on the landing. It was of a woman with knee-length hair, clad in a blood-red saree. As the flashlight highlighted the scarred face of the woman, Dennis felt like he’d been punched in the gut;  Ranasaya was the woman who’d haunted his nights for the past few months.

     As he stepped back in shock, he felt something crash into the back of his skull. A sharp pain shot up from his lower back, all the way up to the back of his head, and then everything went blank.

    Letting out a loud groan, Dennis tried to open his eyes. He was lying on the cold stone floor. He tried to sit up, but a strange and inexplicable pain shooting through his body, prevented him from doing so. Cautiously, he looked around his unfamiliar surroundings trying to ascertain where he was. As he identified the room, he gasped loudly; it was the very same one from his nightmare. Almost involuntarily, he tried to move his tongue. As his tongue caressed the contours of his teeth, he breathed a sigh of relief. This definitely wasn’t a nightmare.

     However he seemed to be the sole occupant in the room.  A sudden gust of wind rushed in from the lone broken window on the opposite side of the circular room. It was then that he realised that there was an array of small lit candles running along the length of one of the walls. As the breeze swept through, the flickering flames of the candle cast an ominous glow throughout the room.

     A sudden loud shriek drew his attention away from the candles and the room. Dennis shivered; his spine and skin, both tingling because of the cool breeze and the fear that had started to creep in. Unwittingly, he raised his right hand to clasp the crucifix around his neck. It was missing! Almost instantly, he tried to get up, but the pain suddenly intensified and he felt the blackness start to engulf him again.

     The last thing he saw before losing consciousness, was the knife that was protruding from his abdomen. 

     What he did not see, was the long-haired woman who slowly walked out of the shadows of the pillars, with a spine-chilling smile, etched on her scarred face. In her bloodied hands, she held the still beating heart of his brother

     

  • Time wanderers, unite. It’s 2025.

    Time wanderers, unite. It’s 2025.



    Ahoy there, fellow wanderers of time.

    Here we are again – looking ahead as another year stretches before us like a fresh coat of snow. Pristine, footprint-free and full of possibility. Another orbit complete, another page turned.

    Our phones buzz in synchronised patterns with New Year’s greetings, Duolingo reminders, and notifications from the workout app that we downloaded in a burst of midnight optimism. Our new notebooks overflow with goals scribbled in that magical moment between champagne, sleep, and sunrise.  

    You know the drill. We’ve all been here before, and we’re all in this together, aren’t we? Time wanderers, at the threshold of 2025, armed with colour-coded planners and determined promises, searching for meaning in the tick-tock of calendar days.

    “This year,” we loudly whisper, staring at ourselves in steamy bathroom mirrors. “This year will be different.”

    And you know what, my friend? That’s perfectly ok.

    There’s something beautifully ‘human’ about this annual ritual of renewal. We are pattern-seeking creatures, drawn to clean slates and round numbers. We crave those dramatic turning points in our storybook, those chapter breaks when things get too chaotic and overwhelming. It’s all a part of what makes us who we are.

    Sure, some of those memberships will gather digital dust in two weeks. That meditation app might just become another icon we scroll past as we rush to TikTok, Instagram or BlueSky a moment or thought. That smoothie blender may well end up in the ‘Cupboard of Good Intentions’, right next to last year’s air fryer. It’s all ok.

    Because the magic isn’t in the resolutions themselves. Although, that’s what the Hallmark greeting card writers will have you believe in. The real magic is in that moment when we pause, look up from our daily routines and actually  dare to imagine better versions of ourselves. It’s the collective energy of millions and billions worldwide, all taking a moment to dream, hope, and plan. And quite often to fail.

    We don’t talk enough about failing. The courage it takes to be vulnerable. To admit that we are not ok sometimes. To ask for help. To show up imperfectly. Because, if you ask me, that’s the real revolution – not in transformed bodies or minimalist homes (although, kudos to everyone who manage to see through those changes too). Maybe what we really need to transform is our hearts that dare to beat a little more openly.

    That’s the thing about change. It doesn’t need grand declarations or IG-worthy transformation reels like the influencers share. Real change lives in those quiet moments.

    Like choosing water instead of that can of cola at lunch.
Taking the stairs even when you’re tired.
Sending that WhatsApp message to check in on a friend that you haven’t spoken to in a while.

It’s in the small choices we make when no one’s watching.

    Find that thing that makes your soul hum. That project, that cause, that creative endeavour that keeps you awake at night, not from anxiety but from excitement. Maybe it’s writing that book that’s been whispering to you. Maybe it’s starting that garden you’ve wanted. Maybe it’s finally learning to play the guitar that’s been gathering dust in your corner. Whatever it is, let this be the year you give yourself permission to pursue it, messily and imperfectly but wholeheartedly.

    And while you’re chasing those dreams, remember to be gentle with yourself. Self-care isn’t just face masks and bubble baths (though those are lovely too). It’s setting boundaries. It’s saying no when you need to. It’s making time for the things that fill your cup – whether that’s a solo walk in nature, a coffee date with an old friend, or simply sitting in silence for five precious minutes before the world wakes up.

    So this year, maybe we can be a little gentler with ourselves. Success isn’t about dramatic transformations but about subtle shifts. Maybe it’s about learning to live more fully in each moment, about finding joy in the journey rather than fixating on the destination. You’ll get there – eventually.

    Let’s celebrate the attempts as much as the achievements. Let’s find humour in our stumbles and courage in our comebacks. Let’s remember that every sunrise offers a fresh start, not just January 1st.

    Because here’s the real story: we’re all mostly works in progress, sketching and erasing and redrawing our lives day by day. And in that shared human experience of trying, failing, and trying again, we find our true strength.

    So here’s to the dreamers and the doers, the planners and the procrastinators, the early birds and the night owls. Here’s to all of us, showing up each day, doing our best with what we’ve got.

    Welcome to your next chapter.

    Make it a good one – not because it’s perfect, but because it’s yours.

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