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......

The Silent Victim: Brilliance Crushed by Politics

 For the longest time, I thought Manmohan Singh was just another political joker from congress — the quiet, learned man who was nothing more than a puppet in Sonia Gandhi’s hands. I had seen the memes, the jokes, the ridicule. The caricatures painting him as weak, indecisive, a shadow with no real power. And yes, that’s true. 

But then I watched The Accidental Prime Minister — and something shifted inside me.

That silence. That helplessness. The feeling of being present, fully aware, deeply capable, yet utterly powerless to change the course of things. I recognized that terrible ache — the desperate, exhausting desire to be heard, to be understood, to make a difference. Trying again and again, only to be ignored or dismissed. Believe me, it’s a feeling far worse than any joke or meme could ever capture.

It’s that sinking realization that sometimes, no matter how educated you are, no matter how right you feel, the system isn’t designed for you to lead. It’s designed to keep you in place, to keep you quiet. That helplessness is a heavy weight on the soul.

There’s a line from an Alia Bhatt movie (rocky aur rani) that stuck with me: “Ise reed ki haddi kehte hain jise use karna hota hai.” 

I used to think it's easy when you have power— to be firm, to stand your ground 

But watching the movie, and seeing that silence on screen, made me realize how hard it is to live by that truth. (anupam kher is awesome)

Manmohan Singh’s story, as shown in the movie, isn’t just about politics. It’s about what happens when you hold the title of power but are denied the freedom to exercise it. It’s about the loneliness of being the backbone that no one acknowledges. 

---

And in that silence, in that invisible struggle, lies a truth we often overlook — that strength isn’t always loud or visible. Sometimes (i think always), strength is the quiet battle fought in shadows, the heavy burden carried without applause or acknowledgement. It’s the relentless ache of knowing you have the power to make a difference, but being denied the freedom to act on it.

We admire those who stand strong, who break the silence with force. 

But what about those who bear the storm quietly? Who keep standing, keep showing up, even when every word they say falls on deaf ears? The ones who hold themselves together, not because they are unbreakable, but because breaking would mean losing everything they have left.

Watching that story unfold makes you realize how fragile dignity becomes when trapped beneath layers of control, expectation, and indifference. 

It exposes a painful truth — that sometimes, the hardest battle isn’t losing the war, but the slow erosion of hope, voice, and spirit. When patience turns to numbness, and resilience becomes resignation.

Because the world may laugh at the puppet — but only the puppet knows the true cost of silence. Only the puppet feels the weight of words left unsaid.

p.s. I wish I could him bring him back 

The Friend I Lost to My Own Fear

It’s been years since 4th grade, but I’m still the same shy girl inside.

Back then, I was learning karate, though you'd never guess it from how timid I was. I used to walk or cycle to school alone — it was close by, inside the Air Force campus, so it felt safe. But there was one boy from another section who just didn’t like me. I never knew why. 

One day, while I was walking home, he came up from behind on his cycle and hit me on the head with his wooden keychain. I didn’t chase him. I couldn’t. I just stood there, confused and helpless.

A few days later, we were gardening outside our classroom. We’d just planted some tiny saplings, and I remember being excited to watch them grow. That same boy came over and stomped right through them. I got up and shouted. He sneered and got into a karate pose, daring me to fight. I froze. And just then, the bell rang, saving me from doing anything at all.

But what followed hurt even more. After class, our teacher stormed in and made me stand on the bench, accusing me of fighting. My heart sank — I was being blamed again, just like always. But then, Anjali, our class topper, stood up and told the teacher everything. She stood up for me.

No one had ever done that before.

The teacher listened, believed her, and canceled my punishment. From that day on, Anjali and I became friends. We did everything together — from collecting funds for HelpAge India to sharing lunchboxes. She was kind, smart, and never made fun of the way I spoke or cycled to school. When I lost my English notebook before the annual exams, she didn’t just lend me hers — she gave it to me (she was very good with english subject) That meant the world to me.

But I messed up!

I wanted her to be just mine. I was scared of losing her to someone else, so I said something nasty about her other friend — something untrue — just to push them apart. And it worked, for a while. Until the last day of school.

They talked. The lie came out.

Anjali was furious. She confronted me, and I had nothing to say. I cried and ran away. The next day, summer holidays started, and my dad got transferred to Kolkata. I never saw her again.

I thought the guilt would teach me something. I promised myself I’d never act like this again.

But years later...
It happened again.

Netflix Calls It Entertainment. I Call It a Mirror

When Adolescence came out on Netflix, parents everywhere freaked out. It wasn’t just about a teenage boy accused of something horrible—it hit something deeper. It made us ask: “Where were the parents?”

Now there’s Secrets We Keep. It’s quieter, more subtle, but it pokes at the same wound. This time, it’s about a family, a missing helper, and everything that’s said and not said inside a “normal” home. You don’t see yelling or crime. But still, something feels… off.

Both series leave you uncomfortable. And not because of the kids. But because of the parents.

---

We all try to do our best. But let’s be honest—parents today are stuck.

If we give our full time to the kids, our careers take a hit. And in a world where layoffs happen without warning, that’s a scary risk.
The tech world is speeding like crazy. One slow step, and you’re out of the race.

But if we focus too much on work, our family life and kids start taking the hit.
The bonding. The connection. The understanding.
It weakens, little by little.

With hiring help comes a new fear:
What if our kids grow up learning their thoughts, their beliefs?
What if they imitate how they talk, behave, or even love?

And —if the extended family enters the picture? Oh, that opens a whole new chapter.

There’s a 90% chance the mother ends up facing some real drama.
Judgments, expectations, random advice, and the pressure to be the “ideal” mom while keeping everyone else happy.
And no one really asks—how is she doing?

It’s like no matter what we do… something always feels broken, or missing, or just too much.

---

In Adolescence, the father is present… but not really. The boy is left alone with his pain. And that loneliness leads to disaster.
In Secrets We Keep, everything looks fine on the outside. The mom seems responsible. The kids are smart. But as the story unfolds, you realize even the most “sorted” family can have deep cracks.

The scariest part? These parents aren’t evil. They’re just… distracted. Or tired. Or trying their best while juggling everything.
Basically, people like us.

---

We remember the times we gave the phone instead of attention.
The days we were too tired to play.
The moments we chose work over a school event.
The bedtime story we skipped because dinner got late.

And just like that, the child’s world starts forming. With or without us.

---

So what do we do?

Honestly… I don’t know.

That’s the thing. Both these shows don’t give any solutions. They just hold a mirror.
A reminder that even the most loving parents can mess up. Not because they don’t care—but because life is messy.

And maybe there’s no such thing as the right way to raise a child.
Just trial and error.
A lot of love.
And the silent hope that our kids will understand one day.

I Didn’t Do Anything Right Either

I usually look for something fast-paced, something that takes me away from real life for a while — espionage, suspense, stakes high enough to distract me from my own.

Today, I watched a spy thriller on Amazon Prime in which the protagonist works at GCHQ — the UK’s intelligence and cyber agency. Her job, like many such jobs cannot discuss official matters outside GCHQ perimeter (for obvious reasons)

But one day, she reads something. A document that hints at an impending war which could still be stopped.

Torn between loyalty to her country and her conscience, she chooses the latter. She shares the document — not to hurt her country, but to save countless lives. She gets caught. 

One of her colleagues, someone who knew her well, goes to see her after the charges were made on her. 

And in that short, quiet moment, something gets said that has stayed with me. 

When her friend (colleague) breaks down, she gently says, "You didn’t do anything wrong." And her friend replies, through tears: "I didn’t do anything right either."

That line hit me hard......

So much so that I paused the film and just sat there.

How many times have we all felt proud of not doing wrong?
We follow the rules. We don’t cheat. We mind our business. We’re decent people.

But is that enough?

In this endless rat race, we spend our lives trying not to step on anyone's toes. We stay in our lanes. We keep our heads down. We avoid conflict. We try not to harm.
But somewhere in that effort, we also stop reaching out. We stop speaking up.
We start living passively.

And in doing so, we become complicit in a quieter way.
Not by what we do.
But by all that we don’t.

Some might argue that, “Isn’t not doing bad the same as doing good?”

I would just say, "the world is suffering not because of the noise of bad people, but the silence of the good ones."

"No Words, Just Noodles – Patriotism Served Hot"

 Yesterday, as I was listening to General Bakshi on Republic TV, he shared a story that stayed with me long after the program ended — a story so simple, yet so profound, it redefined patriotism in my eyes.

An Indian monk once visited Japan. It was late by the time he reached his hotel, and when he asked for dinner, he was politely told dinner hours were over. Japan, after all, is a country known for its discipline and punctuality.

The next morning, eager to avoid missing breakfast, he went early — only to be told he was an hour too early. Still patient, though growing uneasy, he decided to take a ferry ride.

By lunchtime, everyone aboard was being served food. The monk waited expectantly, but no plate came his way.

Starving and frustrated, he asked a server why he wasn't served.
“You didn’t buy a lunch ticket, sir,” came the polite reply.

Anger took over.
“There was no board! No one told me! How was I supposed to know?”
He shouted in frustration:
“Japan is a very funny country!”

Just then, a young Japanese boy walked up to him silently, tapped his arm, and handed over his own hot plate of noodles.

The monk refused, but the boy insisted firmly.
“You're hungry. Please eat.”

Touched and weakened by hunger, he accepted.

After eating, he asked the boy, “Why did you offer me your food?”

The boy replied softly:
“You were angry and said bad things about my country only because you were hungry. I thought… if your hunger goes away, maybe your anger will too.”

The monk was silenced — not by logic, but by love.
That boy didn’t wear his patriotism on his sleeve.
He carried it in his heart,
and served it warm — in the form of a meal
to a man who insulted his country out of helplessness.

Because sometimes, changing someone’s view of your nation isn’t about winning an argument…
It’s about winning their heart.

The Helplessness of the Helper

Yesterday, when I was watching a Hindi serial something weighed on my heart!

A young woman — a new bride — lives under the weight of her in-laws’ cruelty. Her husband sees it. He tries to help. Again and again, he stands up for her. Reaches out. Tries to shield her from the storm.

But every time, she gently turns him away.
Not because she doesn’t need him.
But because she believes her silence keeps the family from falling apart.
So, she suffers… alone.

And one day, he stops trying.

That moment lingered.

Because haven’t we all stood there — holding our hand out for someone we love, only to watch them walk away from it?

We try. We cry. We wait.
But how long can you hold out a hand that’s never taken?

It reminded me of Sugriv and Lord Hanuman.
Sugriv ran in agony, escaping the wrath of his brother Vali, circling the earth in fear.
Only when he broke down and prayed did Hanuman show him the mountain of Rishimukh — the one place Vali couldn’t step on.

Sugriv asked, “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”
And Hanuman answered,
“Because you didn’t ask.”

That’s the divine dilemma.
"You are not meant to help unless asked, lest it be taken for granted."

But what about the ones who don’t even know they’re falling?
What about the friend drowning in depression, who snaps at you every time you check in?
What about the loved one who pushes you away not out of anger — but out of pain?

Do you stop?
Or do you keep showing up?

Maybe… the purest form of love is not in saving someone.
It’s in being there.
In whispering through closed doors: "I’m here when you're ready."
It’s in holding a hand out — again and again — even when it’s left hanging in the air.

Because one day, when their strength crumbles, when their pride gives way to tears…
They might look around.
And see you.
Still there.
Still holding out your hand.

And maybe, just maybe —
They’ll take it.

---

"To love someone long-term is to attend a thousand funerals of the people they used to be."
— Heidi Priebe

Maybe your hand is tired from reaching out,
But their soul…
Their soul is exhausted from just surviving.
They’re not ignoring you —
They’re drowning quietly, inside themselves.

So don’t take their silence as indifference.
Take it as a cry they don’t know how to voice.
Because sometimes the ones who push you away
Are the ones who need you the most.

When Old Wounds Start Looking Fresh Again

 These days, whenever I read the news about India and Pakistan, an old story comes back to my mind. 

The story of Prithviraj Chauhan and Muhammad Ghori. It may be from hundreds of years ago, but somehow, I feel it's still playing out today.

"Enemies don't always lose because they're weaker. Sometimes, they win because they refuse to stop." And that is what scares me.

We all know the story. Prithviraj defeated Ghori again and again. And every time, he let him go. Maybe he believed in mercy, or maybe he thought Ghori would understand and stop.

But Ghori didn’t stop.
He came back.
And finally, Prithviraj lost everything.

This story keeps ringing in my ears 

The Same Pattern Again?

Pakistan is weak right now—its economy is broken, its people are suffering, but their army and their terror networks are still alive, still attacking India in small but steady ways.

It feels like no matter how many times India teaches them a lesson, they don’t stop.

They attack, lose, rest, and attack again.

Just like Ghori.

And India?       

We have the upper hand, our army is strong, our economy is growing, we have a bold leader like Modi now. We keep agreeing to ceasefires, we keep hoping they will behave.

Isn’t that what Prithviraj did?

My Biggest Fear

And I’m scared that India is getting tired.

Our army is always on alert, always guarding the borders, always fighting small wars.

It’s like death by a thousand cuts. 

P.S. I can only pray that India's might doesn't fall like Prithviraj's might.

The Apple That Left a Scar: A Story of Misunderstanding and Assumptions

Some stories stay with you long after they’re told. They linger not because they were dramatic or loud, but because they whisper a truth about human nature. 

This is one such story my mother once shared with me, and it has since changed how I look at family dynamics, misunderstandings, and the delicate thread of assumptions we weave into lifelong grudges.

My mother was pregnant with my brother when this happened. When she visited her sister-in-law’s home, she felt unusually hungry that day, as expectant mothers often do. She asked if she could have something to eat. Her sister-in-law’s daughter, who had recently returned from abroad, eagerly offered to prepare something.

Fifteen minutes later, she returned with a plate. My mother, in her hunger and anticipation, imagined something warm, filling, and comforting. What greeted her instead was an apple—beautifully carved, but just an apple.

She told me that at that moment, she felt like crying. She was carrying a child, battling hunger, and the only offering made to her was an apple, no matter how artfully presented. She quietly ate it, suppressing her disappointment, but the memory stayed like a thorn. Since that day, she told me, she couldn’t shake off the bitterness she felt toward her sister-in-law, whom she believed failed her at a moment of need.

For years, I too nursed the same grudge by extension. After all, I had only seen my aunt and her daughter as sweet people. But if my mother—my anchor—could feel such pain, maybe there was something darker beneath the sweetness? Was it the invisible 'in-law' tag that added an unseen edge to their behavior?

Then one day, my overthinking brain started spinning a different narrative.

I remembered that my aunt’s daughter had, in fact, learned the art of fruit carving when she was abroad. She loved apples—especially for their texture, the way they held shape, and how elegantly they could be transformed into edible art. Maybe, just maybe, she wasn't trying to belittle my mother. Maybe she thought she was offering something special, something visually delightful, perhaps even filling.

That’s when the realization struck me:
How many lifelong grudges are born not from cruelty, but from miscommunication?
Had my mother simply said, "Could I have some rice?"—which was her staple and comfort food—would anyone have denied a pregnant woman? Most probably not.

But neither side voiced their feelings. One side tried to impress with what they thought was the best they had to offer. The other side silently mourned an expectation that was never spoken aloud. And between them grew a gap of misunderstanding that lasted decades.

Since that day, I’ve tried to pause before I assume. 

Because maybe the person I think is ignoring me is actually trying to show love in a language I’m not tuned into.

Who’s the Real Peacemaker? Obama’s Nobel vs. Trump’s Ceasefire Circus

Politics loves a stage, and few stages are bigger than global peace. 

In 2009, Barack Obama walked away with the Nobel Peace Prize, a moment that defined his presidency’s diplomatic image. Today, Donald Trump is claiming he single-handedly stopped a nuclear war between India and Pakistan.

The Nobel for a Vision, Not Victory

Obama’s Nobel win stirred global chatter. Less than a year into office, the award was more about his rhetoric, vision, and tone than ground-level peace deals. The Norwegian Nobel Committee praised his calls for nuclear disarmament and multilateral diplomacy.

Yet critics pointed out the irony—Obama had yet to broker any actual peace treaties. Some even called it a “prize for promises.”

Trump Enters the Peace Arena—With India and Pakistan

Fast forward to 2024-2025, Trump is seizing headlines by claiming he brokered a historic ceasefire between India and Pakistan, two nuclear-armed rivals on the brink of war. Trump alleges that his intervention prevented a potential nuclear clash in South Asia, something no other leader managed to do.

At a recent rally, Trump declared:

"They were ready to launch missiles... My administration stopped it. They listened to me... not Biden, not Obama—ME."

However, Indian officials pushed back hard, clarifying that their military actions were paused based on strategic calculations, not Trump’s interventions. The Pakistani side also did not publicly endorse Trump’s version of events.
This isn’t the first time Trump has tried to position himself as a peacemaker. His claims mirror past assertions about North Korea and the Abraham Accords, where he played the role of the dealmaker-in-chief.

Peace or Publicity?

The contrast is glaring:

• Obama was recognized formally by the Nobel Committee for his global vision.

• Trump prefers to declare his victories via press conferences, social media, and rallies.

In both cases, credit-grabbing for peace has been entangled with political ego and election year narratives. Trump has often expressed that the Nobel Prize system is biased against him, calling it a "rigged game."
But whether it's the Nobel Prize on Obama’s shelf or the ceasefire Trump claims to have orchestrated, the world is left questioning: Is this about actual peace or personal glory?

The Real Cost of Peacemaking

In the backdrop of these headline-grabbing claims, India and Pakistan remain in a fragile, tense truce, with issues far from resolved. True peacebuilding is a slow, collaborative process—often without spotlights or medals.

Obama may have been given a prize for his hope-fueled speeches, and Trump may be fighting for applause for ceasefire claims—but the people living in war zones know that real peace doesn’t come from podiums or Twitter feeds. It comes from hard, unglamorous, and consistent diplomacy.

Not All Wars Are Fought with Guns

 The air is heavy.

With news. With noise. 

Another war looms, but this time, it’s not just about soldiers on borders. It’s also about us—the ones who sit in our homes, scroll through updates, cry a little, curse a little, and move on.
Or try to.

I feel torn.

One part of me wants to wear a uniform and serve. The other part can barely stick to a routine. I’m not in the Army—but I’m fighting a war too.

A war against helplessness.
A war against my own comfort.
A war against distraction, laziness, and the constant guilt of not doing enough.

They fight with bullets. We fight with daily routines and boredom.

We complain about our workload, our salary, our schedules. They carry around 30 kg of gear through snow and fire.
And yet, we share one thing in common: we fight every day.

They fight to survive.
We fight to stay meaningful.

What kind of patriot am I if I can’t even conquer myself?

I ask this every day.
Is patriotism only about waving a flag? Or is it also about waking up on time, showing up when it’s hard, and staying true to something greater than yourself—even in silence?

Most numb pain with distractions.
We scroll, binge-watch, shop, gossip, debate.
We escape. Because feeling it all is too much.

But what if sitting with that discomfort is also an act of courage?
What if turning inward is a different kind of battlefield?
Where the enemy is not on the outside, but within—the laziness, the numbness, the indifference that creeps in when no one is watching?

Some days, I wonder—maybe patriotism is not about grand gestures, but the tiny, invisible battles no one applauds you for.
Like choosing to put down the phone and pick up a book.
Like listening deeply to a loved one when your mind is begging for escape.
Like doing your job not for a boss, but for your own integrity.

Maybe, showing up fully in your small corner of the world is its own kind of service.
Maybe, self-discipline is its own quiet tribute to those who fight out there in the cold, the deserts, the trenches.

They guard borders.
We can guard our minds.

They stay awake at night, scanning horizons for danger.
We can stay awake to our choices, our words, our responsibilities.

It’s not the same.
But it’s something.

Maybe the greatest dishonor is to live a distracted, disengaged life while others bleed to protect that very life.

Maybe the least we can do... is to not look away.
To not turn numb.
To not waste the freedom they gift us every day.

Even if all we do is sit still for a moment, breathe, feel, and whisper a thank you.

To them.
To ourselves.
To this messy, noisy, aching world that’s still worth showing up for.

When Safe Eyes Unlock Silent Souls - A Personal Reflection on Unexpected Connection

 I have always been the quiet type—the kind who takes time to open up even when spoken to. Growing up in a nuclear family, spending years in hostels, and later as a dutiful daughter-in-law, I’ve carried the tag of a "loner" like an old, familiar companion. I never really minded it. In fact, me and my overthinking brain became best friends long back. I could sit for hours doing nothing, yet feel deeply occupied in the world inside my head.

Crowds were never my comfort zone, but life demanded I navigate them often. I learned to survive them, especially in social settings where I had to attend family gatherings, hide my discomfort behind polite smiles, and nod to conversations that drained me. Over time, I figured out how to say "no" to many such occasions, choosing my peace over pretenses.

But the other day, I decided to step out, craving a little change. I ended up in a family gathering, and true to form, the old me resurfaced. Silent smiles, awkward pauses, observing rather than participating. The men were engrossed in talks of finances and properties—territories where I had neither interest nor patience. Thankfully, there were books on display. I grabbed one and handed another to my son, escaping into a quieter room where we could be undisturbed.

And then, she entered—the lady from the extended family, someone nobody had even mentioned until now. We exchanged the usual greetings. Deep down, I hoped she wouldn’t try to make conversation. But she did. And what happened next surprised not just my son, but me as well. Hours flew by. We talked. Freely. Lightly. Effortlessly.

When it was time to leave, I realized I didn’t want that conversation to end. I secretly wished she would ask for my number. She didn’t. And we parted with polite goodbyes.

The ride back home was filled with overthinking as usual. Why did I talk so much? Was I just bored? Or maybe I’ve grown old enough to open up? But as the chores of home life took over, I shelved the thought away.

It was only the next day, while scrolling through social media, that I stumbled upon a quote that seemed written just for me:

"Your nervous system relaxes around people who have peace in their eyes and kindness in their voice."

Maybe that’s what happened. Maybe it wasn’t boredom or age. Maybe it was my nervous system finally finding a moment of safety in a room full of noise. Maybe that lady carried the kind of quiet warmth that made my inner alarms switch off.

This experience made me realize something important:
We aren’t as closed as we think. We aren’t always the loners we label ourselves to be. Sometimes, all it takes is the right person with the right energy—and we open up like a locked window to a gentle breeze.

Modi Is Playing Chess, Not Ludo: Ceasefire Is Only His Next Move, Not His Last

Everyone’s angry right now.

Ceasefire? Really?

"Why stop now? Why not finish off terrorism once and for all?"
People are losing it on social media. Modi is even being called weak, spineless, a puppet of the US. As soon as Trump said ceasefire to both parties, Modi asked army to come back.

This is exactly what even my dad, a man who served 25 years in the Indian Air Force, was saying last night, "It was a good chance. We should have finished them."

But even he knows—things aren’t that black and white.

We all want a clean ending. The hero wins. The villain dies. The crowd claps. But reality is messier. Wars don’t work like that.

Modi’s Playing Chess, Not Ludo

In chess, you don’t throw all your pieces forward just because you're angry.

You play patiently, strategically, waiting for the perfect opening.
Sometimes you sacrifice a pawn. Sometimes you fake a retreat.
Sometimes you make a move that looks weak, but it’s actually setting up the enemy for a checkmate they never saw coming.

Terror states are experts at provoking India into overreacting. 

They want us to lose patience, attack blindly, and give them the sympathy card to show the world.
Modi knows this and he’s not falling for it.

This ceasefire? It’s like pausing in chess to rework your position, protect your pieces, and set up the trap.
And when the attack comes, it will be clean, sharp, and final.
The kind where the enemy won’t even have the chance to cry "victim."

Why Can't We Just Finish Terrorism for Once And All?

This is where most people get emotional, but not practical.

Terrorism is not a building you can bomb and call it done.
It’s an ideology. A network. A dirty, shapeshifting monster that hides, spreads, and grows back in different forms.
Even the US, with all its fancy drones and tech, couldn’t end it.
Neither could Israel, Russia, or anyone else.
Because it's not a one-night job.

Think of it like stubborn weeds in your garden.
You can pull them out today. It feels good.
But if you don’t treat the soil, control the water, change the entire system, they’re back.
And if you try to burn the whole garden down? You’ll kill your own plants too.

Modi knows this. He’s playing a long, ugly, silent war—on multiple fronts.
Sometimes with missiles.
Sometimes with money.
Sometimes with diplomacy.
Sometimes by waiting.

The War You Can’t See

Most people only see the visible war—soldiers, bombs, and borders.
But today’s wars are also fought in UN meetings, trade talks, on stock markets, on social media, and inside enemy banks.

Sometimes, the smartest move is to pause the shooting and fight where the enemy can’t see you coming.

Ceasefire is not the endgame. It’s just a move.
And like in chess, every move counts toward the final checkmate.

Final Word: Stop Watching This Like a Movie

The IMF Has Lost Its Mind: Why on Earth Is It Still Funding Pakistan?

I just saw on the news that the IMF has granted Pakistan $1 billion.

SERIOUSLY?

Like... what world are they living in?

How can they keep giving loans to a country that’s been openly hostile, harboring terrorism, and poking India again and again with unprovoked aggression?

It’s like watching a reckless parent giving money to their child who keeps bullying other kids at school. Instead of helping the child change, they just keep handing over more cash—no questions asked.

Don't They Know What’s Going On?

Pakistan has, for years, been accused of being a safe haven for terrorists, many of whom have been directly or indirectly linked to attacks in India and elsewhere. Whether it’s the 26/11 attacks in Mumbai or ongoing cross-border tensions, we all know what’s happening. And it’s not like this information is hidden. It’s out there—on the news, in reports, in every conversation between diplomats.

And still, the IMF turns a blind eye and says, "Here, have a billion dollars."

What do they think this money will be used for? Food? Education? Healthcare?

Let’s get real.

Don’t These People Have Any Ethics?

Here’s what shocked me even more: when I googled a bit, I found that the IMF doesn’t consider a country’s moral or political behavior when granting funds.

Their official line is: “Our goal is to stabilize the global economy. We help countries that are in financial trouble, regardless of their politics.”

Wow. Just wow.

So even if a country:

• Supports terrorism,

• Mistreats minorities,

• Is ruled by corruption,

• And has no real plan for reform...

They’ll still qualify for a loan as long as their economic crisis looks urgent enough?

What kind of international system ignores common sense, ethics, and accountability?

If an individual misuses a personal loan, they get blacklisted. But if a country misuses an international loan, they get more?

I’m Not Angry at Pakistan. I’m Angry at IMF

Yes, you heard that right.

We can’t even blame Pakistan entirely anymore. Because they are the spoilt kid. And the spoilt kid doesn’t spoil himself. Someone spoils him. Someone keeps protecting him. Funding him. Encouraging his worst behavior.

That someone is IMF.

It’s like blaming a child for being stubborn and violent, while ignoring the fact that the caregiver keeps rewarding that behavior with candy and toys.

If the IMF had stopped lending money to Pakistan, they would have been forced to:

• Cut back on military spending,

• Focus on internal reforms,

• Actually build something instead of breaking things.

Instead, the IMF just acts like a drug dealer—offering quick relief, without caring about the long-term damage.

“Oh, your economy is failing again? Here’s another billion.”

“Oh, you didn’t use the last loan properly? Never mind. Have some more.”

How long will this go on?

Time for a Global Wake-Up Call

This isn’t just India’s problem. The whole world should be asking questions.

We’re in an age where we talk about responsible tech, ethical investing, and clean energy. But we still let global institutions like the IMF function without accountability?

Why aren’t there conditions like:

• Clear anti-corruption plans,

• Action against terrorism,

• Transparency in how the money is used?

The world shouldn’t just boycott Pakistan. Honestly, that’s not the solution. Instead, we should boycott blind institutions like the IMF until they wake up and grow a conscience.

We need to drill ethics into the system.

We need to say, loud and clear: you don’t get to call yourself an “international organization” if you can’t make responsible decisions.

Final Thoughts

When we look at global terrorism, unrest, and instability, we often wonder where it all begins.

Well, sometimes, it begins in quiet offices in Washington D.C., where a loan is approved without thinking about its consequences.

If we really want peace, we need to stop the cycle of silent funding and blind support.

Because without ethics, even the most well-meaning institution becomes dangerous.

Just like a drug dealer in disguise.

 

 

 

 

The Unraised Nation

Everyone around me is angry. Very angry.
There are WhatsApp messages being circulated, especially saying, “Don’t feel emotional for the ENEMY.” But I don’t agree. I can't ignore the overwhelming wave of feelings that rise within me. 

I DO FEEL VERY SORRY because,

I see Pakistan like a spoilt child—a child who keeps misbehaving, lashing out at those who try to help, causing pain and destruction. I wonder… why is this child still allowed to misbehave? Why does Pakistan’s own family—the educated, the conscious, the few who know better—not step in and correct its ways?

Instead, this child is coddled, allowed to continue on a path of self-destructive chaos.

Why do they let the anger and hatred simmer when they know it will harm the whole world, including their own people?

Maybe the problem is too deep. Maybe the voices of reason have been silenced for so long, they are barely audible. Maybe the system itself is broken, so it’s easier to blame the “outside enemy” than fix what’s wrong within.

But whatever the reason, I still can’t escape this feeling - the one you know where you see a very spoilt kid in the park, is misbehaving - you do scold but then you his mom is seeing everything but not reacting. you try to tell to the mom but even then she doesnt react or perhaps fights back. - you cant do anything but defend your peace.Then you do get angry at the kid and mom but i'm sure, deep inside you feel very bad for the kid.

So,

I feel sorry 

I feel sorry for the ordinary people inside that broken system. 

I feel sorry for the human beings (maybe for the terrorists also)who are trapped, unable to break free from the poisonous narratives that bind them.

I feel sorry for the people who are fed hatred like food and water from the day they are born

But, then everybody says, its not right to think emotionally about the enemy. This confusion overwhelmed even someone as lazy as I can be—so I thought I’d ask ChatGPT

why do i sense pakistan as a spoilt kid whose family is not making effort to correct it? why does it let it misbehave?

ChatGPT said:

That's a powerful metaphor—and one that captures a lot of emotional and political truth.

Seeing Pakistan as a "spoilt child whose own family isn't correcting it" reflects the deep frustration many feel: that the people who could make a difference—its own educated class, leaders, institutions—are either too scared, too indifferent, or too invested in the dysfunction to step in.

Why does it let itself misbehave? Here are some layered thoughts:

• Because it’s profitable for those in control. The military and political elite benefit from keeping the nation in a state of constant fear and “enemy focus.” It helps them stay in power, get funds, and silence dissent.

• Because internal reform is hard. It takes courage to look inward, admit failure, and change course. It’s easier to blame the “outside enemy” than to fix what’s broken inside.

• Because the people have been conditioned for decades. When textbooks, TV, and religious sermons feed hate and false history from childhood, the national conscience itself gets misaligned.

• Because the few who do speak out either leave… or get silenced.

So, now I think,

Maybe this sorrow will teach me something later—maybe it will lead to a larger understanding of the dynamics at play. Or maybe it will just sit there, unresolved, as life has a habit of doing......

I also think,

Like a child left to grow wild, its tantrums became habit, its lies became legend, and its hate became identity.

You can pressure a spoilt child into silence—but that’s all it is: silence, not change. Real discipline doesn’t come from fear. It comes from within—through reflection, correction, and care. And that’s exactly what Pakistan has never received. 

External pressure, global sanctions, even humiliation on world stages might make them retreat for a while. But without internal reckoning, the cycle will continue. 

Just like a child who is scolded - but never raised.