How Bollywood Ruined My Hug Life

 In some movies, one hug can solve anything — heartbreak, rage, unpaid rent, global warming, everything. One such movie is Munna Bhai M.B.B.S., a classic Bollywood film where the hero (a lovable goon pretending to be a doctor — yes, really) fixes people’s problems with what he calls a “jaadu ki jhappi,” or “magical hug.”

The idea is simple: someone’s angry? Hug them. Sad? Hug. Yelling at the receptionist because you lost your file? Hug. Basically, it’s a full-body Ctrl+Z for human emotion.

So naturally, I thought, “Why not bring this cinematic wisdom into real life?”

Spoiler: because real life is not a movie.

Especially when your angry mother-in-law is involved.

What I imagined would be a heartwarming moment turned into a dramatic scene involving surprise gripping, a scream for help, and finger marks that made it look like I’d tried to strangle the woman instead of hug her.

Let’s rewind and unpack how a hug almost had me blacklisted from the family WhatsApp group.

So, one evening, my MIL was visibly upset. I don't remember the reason, but knowing us, it was probably something earth-shatteringly petty. Like I used the “outside” coconut for pooja instead of the “inside” coconut. Or I put coriander in the sambar without consulting the family constitution. Classic DIL sins.

She didn’t yell or throw a spoon. No. She chose the more powerful weapon: the silent treatment — that legendary Indian mother-in-law move where every bang of a vessel screams “you’ve disappointed me” and every cough sounds judgmental.

As she marched toward the staircase in slow-motion rage, I had a flashback — Munna Bhai M.B.B.S.. In the film, the hero hugs people into calmness. They stop fuming and start weeping joyfully. Sometimes they even thank him.

So I thought, “What would Munna Bhai do?”
And unfortunately, my brain answered: “Go for it. Hug her. Redeem this moment. Be the change.”

She was just about to cross the doorframe to the upstairs room — her zone of no return — when I reached out. With all the sincerity of a peace ambassador and the subtlety of a WWE wrestler, I gently-yet-firmly grabbed her arm and tried to pull her into a hug.

Now, let’s pause here for important background:

1. People often tell me I have a strong grip.

2. My MIL is quite fair-skinned.

3. Surprise hugs are not an official love language in our household.

The next few seconds were... cinematic.
She froze.
I pulled.
She resisted.
I thought it was just stiffness, so I gripped harder.
She yelped.

And then — the plot twist.

She looked at me with shock and horror, pushed herself away, and shouted for help like I had attacked her with a rolling pin.
I was still standing there with my arms awkwardly open, like a confused flight attendant demo-ing the emergency exit.

She yelled: “She’s hitting me!”

And that’s when my FIL and husband came running out — the courtroom drama music playing only in my head, but vibes very much real.

My husband’s expression said, “Please tell me this isn’t happening.”
My FIL looked at her arm and went quiet.
Why?
Because my fingers, dear reader, had left very visible marks. On her arm. Finger-shaped. Like forensic-evidence-in-a-crime-series level visible.

I sputtered something like, “I was hugging! Like Munna Bhai! Jaadu ki jhappi! Emotional healing!”

Dead silence.

No one said anything. They just stared at me like I was trying to explain calculus to a bunch of pigeons. Eventually, everyone walked away — no lecture, no confrontation, nothing. Just... quiet retreat.

What followed was a masterclass in family-level damage control.

My MIL spent the next three days treating me like I was radioactive. If I entered a room, she’d suddenly discover an urgent need to water plastic plants or realign already perfectly aligned cushion covers. My husband walked around with the wary expression of a man living between a ticking time bomb and the one who may have ticked it.

As for me, I developed what experts call Post-Hug Panic Disorder. Symptoms include flinching at doorknobs, avoiding human contact, and thinking twice before hugging any mammal, human or otherwise.

Of course, the Great Hug Incident didn’t just end quietly. It became family lore. Retold at every family dinner, casual gathering, and function, usually with me as the punchline and my MIL as the brave survivor of unsolicited affection. If I had a rupee for every time someone said, “Remember the time she tried to hug Amma and left fingerprints?” — I could afford therapy. Or at least a softer grip.

To this day, when I so much as offer her a blanket, she squints at me like I’m going to roll her up in it and throw her off a balcony.

In short:
No one died.
No one disowned me.
But the next time I feel the urge to recreate a Bollywood moment?

I’ll just send a GIF.

What Scared Me More Than the Horror Movie?

I recently watched a horror movie.

There’s a scene where, when the lights are on, nothing is there—but the moment you switch them off, a figure appears. Switch the lights on again, and it’s gone. Switch them off once more, and it’s closer. Eventually, it’s right in front of you.

Somehow, this sequence lodged itself deep inside my head.

Nextday, I had to wake up early, so I slept separately in my pooja-cum-study room, something I usually do (because i keep snoozing alarm which wakes everybody except me )  

But switching off the lights felt terrifying. I kept them on, scared to even close my eyes. Sleep eventually came, but the fear didn’t leave.

From then on, every time I switch off a light, I instinctively look over my shoulder—half expecting to see or feel something behind me.

A few days later, while casually chatting, I mentioned this fear to my co-sister. She asked a simple question:

“You still sleep in your pooja room, right?”

I nodded.
She paused and asked, “Even then?”

I proudly thought I’m a devotee of Shri Ram. I pray daily and believe in Him—or so I thought. I also believed that since I pray to Shri Ram, Hanuman will always be there (where there is Ram, there is Hanuman). But that one question questioned all my faith and exposed something uncomfortable - 

This isn’t really about a horror movie,

If someone believes in God but is scared to try something new—
a relationship,
an interview,
a career move,
even waiting for results—

then what exactly is that faith doing?

Is faith in god meant only for rituals, incense, and well-lit rooms?

Because real life rarely comes with certainty or guarantees.

I’m beginning to feel that when fear controls our actions, faith becomes just a label. 

But maybe faith that never gets questioned isn’t faith at all.

What do you think?

"Girlfriend" Movie Scene That Pinched My Heart

Everyone has had this experience: You watch a scene, hear a dialogue, read a quote…and suddenly something clicks about your own life.

Yesterday, while watching the movie “Girlfriend”, a particular scene pinched me, 
Rashmika Mandanna as a kid happily agrees when her aunt asks if she’d like to spend some more time with her. Later that night, when she asks her father for dinner, he tells her to go ask her aunt — “since you like spending time with her.”

Sometimes, when my son bonds deeply with someone he loves — whether it’s his grandparents, cousins, or anyone he is close to — I feel a small pinch inside.
Not anger… not jealousy… just a quiet fear that maybe I’m not the most important person to him in that moment.

When I saw Rashmika’s scene — the innocence, the confusion on the child’s face - that scene wrung my heart.

The movie is actually about possessive love between a couple, but if we ignore that layer, it quietly shows how any possessiveness — even unintentional — can make an innocent heart feel guilty or torn.

Then, I thought If I can give my kiddo one gift, it’s this:
a home where love doesn’t demand choices,
where affection doesn’t feel heavy.

 

Because I Can

 Some people destroy because of hate. Others, because of ideology. But some destroy simply because they can.

No resistance. No consequence. Just a clear path.

The stories of Ravana, Hitler, and Charles Cullen are radically different in setting, time, and method. But at the heart of each is the same terrifying ease: they weren’t stopped. They chose to act because they could.

Ravana: No Opposition, No Restraint

Ravana was not born a villain. He was brilliant, devout, and powerful. But his power met no resistance. When he abducted Sita, it wasn’t about love. It wasn’t even personal. It was to prove he could shake the gods. It was ego—unchecked and unchallenged.

His family knew of his pride. His father, a sage, remained quiet. His mother pushed him toward conquest. Those around him worshipped or feared him but rarely questioned him.

Would Ravana have still committed his great folly if someone—anyone—had challenged him not in battle but in thought? We’ll never know. No one did.

So he did what he wanted.

Because he could.

Hitler: The Silence Around the Spark

Adolf Hitler began as a child with talent and dreams, scarred by violence and rejection. As he grew, bitterness turned into ideology, ideology into speeches, and speeches into war.

At every point, signs were visible. His words became venomous. His plans outrageous. But most people looked away, hoping it would pass.

The silence wasn’t just from individuals—it came from institutions, governments, even nations. There were windows where history could have shifted. Where voices could have risen. Where lines could have been drawn.

But silence is easier than confrontation. And so the world paid.

He did what he did.

Because he could.

Cullen: Fast Forward to the Quiet Killer

Charles Cullen wasn’t a warlord or a dictator. He was a nurse. A quiet man in white, entrusted with healing. But over sixteen years, he murdered at least forty patients—some believe hundreds. He moved from hospital to hospital, leaving death behind like a trail of whispers.

Each time someone noticed, they chose paperwork over prosecution. Reputation over responsibility. And so he kept going.

When he was finally caught, he said: “They didn’t stop me.”

It wasn’t an excuse. It was a statement of fact.

Cullen didn’t kill because he hated. He killed because the system let him. Because no one stopped him. Because every institution passed the buck.

He wasn’t a monster in the shadows. He was in plain sight. Hiding behind silence.

He kept going.

Because he could.

The Power of Passive Permission

“Because I can” is not born in a vacuum. It grows in the spaces where courage fails and confrontation is postponed. It hides behind titles like genius, leader, healer. It is fed by those who shrug, who whisper, who walk away.

We imagine evil as loud. But often, it starts in whispers.

A child throws something. Laughs at pain. Lies. Cuts corners. And no one corrects them.

A colleague manipulates. A friend disrespects. A public figure lies. And we say, “It’s not my place.”

And slowly, what was once unthinkable becomes possible. Then normal. Then irreversible.

Not because the person was unstoppable.

But because no one tried.

Cullen vs. the World: A Different Kind of Monster

It’s chilling to realise some people hurt not from purpose, but from opportunity.

Unlike Hitler, who was driven by blind belief, or Ravana, who was consumed by ego, Cullen did not roar. He did not declare war. He did not justify his actions with any cause.

He simply acted in the gaps others left.

No drama. No ideology. Just absence. Of checks. Of courage. Of resistance.

The deadliest silence isn’t the one around us—it’s the one within us.

That moment we say, “It’s not my problem.”

That’s the moment power takes root.

Parenting: The First Playground of Power

It starts early. A parent snaps, slaps, shouts—not because the child deserves it, but because the parent is tired, stressed, or overwhelmed. The child flinches, cries. But there’s no apology. No correction. Just a shrug: “I’m the parent. I know best.” Or worse, “Because I said so.”

And so the child learns that control is love, that pain is discipline, that silence is safer than resistance.

When a parent hits—not out of protection but frustration—they’re teaching more than obedience. They’re teaching hierarchy. That power doesn't need explanation. That pain without justice is normal. That someone bigger, louder, or older has the right to hurt.

And most dangerously, they’re showing the child a template.

The template of “Because I can.”

The Cost of Not Saying No

This isn’t about parenting. Or politics. Or history alone. It’s about a dangerous human pattern—the comfort in looking away.

We think staying silent keeps us safe. But silence often crowns the next tyrant.

We think inaction protects peace. But inaction fuels predators.

Each time we choose not to say "No"—to a lie, a cruelty, a power grab—we allow something dangerous to grow.

That first unchecked insult can become emotional abuse. That unchallenged manipulation can spiral into full control. That unspoken discomfort can mature into generational trauma.

The cost is not always immediate. Sometimes, it arrives years later, as a child too afraid to speak up, a worker too broken to resist, a society too numb to care.

Saying no is not confrontation for the sake of conflict. It's a boundary for the sake of balance.

It doesn’t take a sword to stop destruction. It takes a voice. A line. A mirror.

Because when we don’t stop someone early—we often can’t stop them later.

Let the Pattern Break Here

There is hope. There is always hope.

It lies in the quiet courage to confront the first wrong. In the refusal to ignore. In the strength to say: “You will not get away with this.”

It lies in noticing. In naming. In nudging.

It lies in remembering that prevention is not punishment—it is protection.

The most dangerous phrase in history isn’t “I will destroy.”

It’s “No one will stop me.”

Let’s be the ones who do.

Let’s end the cycle of “Because I can.”

 

Between the Toilet Brush and the Divine

There’s a man who works for my father-in-law. Middle-aged, soft-spoken, and known to all as “Yakayya.” He’s been around for years—not someone whose work is spotless, but someone who’s easy to work with. My mother-in-law, who is no more, used to like him for exactly that. She’d say, “He doesn’t make a fuss.”

If the hall was full of chatting ladies and he had to sweep, he wouldn’t wait awkwardly. He’d simply lift each foot gently and sweep under. No grumbling, no fuss, no discomfort. He just does. Like the task is all that matters—not the gender, not the place, not the judgment.

The other day, since my regular help couldn’t come, I asked Yakayya if he could clean the bathrooms. Later, my co-sister called me—sounding concerned. I assumed she was going to warn me about slacking off or him pocketing things. But no. What she said genuinely amused me.

She said, “Be careful, he might use your toothbrush to clean the bathroom. He doesn’t differentiate.”

That word stayed with me—doesn’t differentiate.

Later, I saw him walk across the house, toilet brush tucked under his arm like it was nothing. No grimace, no hesitation. When he scrubs, water splashes on him—his face, his clothes. Still, he talks, even jokes. No irritation. No disgust. Just presence. Just movement.

I couldn’t help but compare. Even when we clean our own homes, we wrinkle our noses. We rush. We sigh. We feel it.

Yesterday he came in late, and I asked him why. He said it’s Shravan Maas, and everyone wants their homes cleaned for puja. Then I asked casually, “And you? Don’t you do any pooja?”

He smiled, almost amused by the question. “No. I don’t.”

It hit me hours later.

Maybe he doesn’t need a special puja like us. Maybe the fact that he doesn’t differentiate—between clean and dirty, between ‘men’s work’ and ‘women’s work’, between doing a job and doing it with presence—is his worship. 

Maybe this man, in all his seeming ordinariness, is more in sync with divinity than the rest of us with our decorated pooja rooms and sandalwood-scented rituals.

Oh, I wish I could live like that.

The Guest I Never Invited

I don’t know how long she’s been here.
I only know now that she has - Quietly. Carefully. Kindly.

No scratching.
No chewing.
No mess.

Not like the others.

She came in the way some memories do — without warning, without noise, without asking.
And slowly, she made herself a corner in my home.
And in my thoughts.

I first sensed her presence when I saw just 5 or 6 kernels missing from the corn-cob I had forgotton open.

Not torn apart - Not scattered. Just taken — gently.

But even before that, she had been visiting — I realise that now.

She had eaten from Annapurna Devi’s offering
Not once.
Many times.
And yet, not a single idol was disturbed in my shrine
Not a flower moved.
It was as if she bowed, took only what she needed, and left like a devotee — not an intruder.

No mess.
-----------------------------------------------------

This morning, at 3 AM, I did something I never do — I opened the bathroom door.
And there she was!

Suddenly everything connected:
The hot water not working, the soggy, pulpy bits I kept finding after draining cycles — not cloth or plastic, but something like softened paper.
And now, I know.
She had made her nest between the drum and the wall of my washing machine 

And she had been there all along - Safe. Invisible.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

I panicked and began placing glue traps,
that’s when guilt hit me.

How could I harm someone who had done no harm?
Who never invaded, only borrowed a corner to survive?
Who left even God’s space undisturbed?

And yet,
I am human.
We are the most dangerous predators, I guess.
We destroy more out of fear than need.
I say I care, I say I understand…
but in the end, I only think of my washing machine —
whose heater no longer works because of her.
Or worse — I think about the pups she might have birthed inside.
And how they might multiply.
And how that might ruin the order of my home.

I’m selfish.
I know she’s gentle.
I even believe she’s a mother.
But I still fear what might happen if she stays.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Because this isn’t just about a rat.
It’s about all the quiet things I let stay — in my home, in my heart.
Roles I no longer need.
Guilt I never questioned.
Soft things that take up space quietly, but stop something in me from working.

Not all who stay cause damage.
Not all who leave deserve anger.

Some simply remind us:
That even gentle guests need to go — for the flow to return.

Now, I just pray
she goes…
before something that should not happen… happens.

So I Watched Netflix Instead

I came across Winston Churchill’s portrait story while watching The Crown on Netflix

In one of the episodes, 

Winston Churchill sat stiffly in his chair, his expression somewhere between suspicion and disdain. Before him stood Graham Sutherland, brush in hand, studying the face of Britain’s wartime hero like it was a puzzle that needed solving.

"Paint me as I was," Churchill said gruffly. "Not as I am."

Sutherland didn’t flinch. “I paint what I see, Sir Winston. And I see… a man who has carried a century on his shoulders.”

Churchill scowled, waving away the compliment. “I didn’t come here for a eulogy. I came here for a portrait.

Weeks later, when the final painting was unveiled in Parliament for Churchill’s 80th birthday, laughter followed.

He hated it

He lashes out. Calls Sutherland an unfit artist to paint a parliamentarian.

Sutherland doesn’t flinch.
“I only painted what I saw,” he gives it back.

That’s when it hits Churchill.

He remembered himself as the man who led Britain through war, who gave speeches that shook the world, who carried a nation on his shoulders. But in the portrait, all he saw was an old, grumpy man, crouched on a sofa with a cigar.

And strangely, that’s when it hit me too.

Because, like Churchill, I’ve been avoiding my own portrait — not on canvas, but in the form of my LinkedIn profile and resume.

Every time I try to update them, I remember to clean kitchen, some part of my house which doesnt need cleaning or make my son study for his exams (though he is very much capable of working without my help)

I fear I’ll see the career gaps I can't explain in one line.
The brilliance that didn’t last long enough to shine.
The effort that didn’t translate into titles.

I fear I’ll see someone who’s not “enough.”
And that others — recruiters, colleagues, even friends — will see the same.

So I close the file.

And I open Netflix.

Because it’s easier to watch Churchill face his cracks than face my own.

But unlike Churchill, I don’t get to burn my profile.

And maybe — just maybe — I need to start seeing it not as proof of failure, but as a portrait of survival. Of someone still standing, even if a little crouched......