passion

Mumbai’s Rain: A City of Anticipation and MagicFocus

There’s something about Mumbai when it rains. The city slows, just a little. The streets glisten. The sea looks alive. But there’s also something about Mumbai when it waits for rain. The air is thick with hope. The sky teases with grey clouds. People glance up, waiting.

Anticipation fills the city.

And when the first drop falls, it feels like Mumbai breathes again.

The wait makes the rain sweeter.

That’s Mumbai—a city of moments.There is something to Mumbai when it rains. There is something to Mumbai when it expects the rain!

Stories a Brass Kettle

Objects have character. Don’t they? This brass kettle from another era sat quietly, serving filter coffee and cardamom tea for generations. Imagine what it has seen!

Families growing, stories flowing, and lives unfolding—all while it stayed still.

Sometimes, I wish it could talk, spilling tales of the people and the times. But its dents and marks do the talking. They hint at the lives it touched.

So, I let my imagination take over and weave my own stories.

After all, isn’t that what character is—a silent storyteller of time?

The Weight We Carry: Mind Over Matter

It’s not always about the weight. It’s about how we carry it. A heavy object isn’t just physics. The mind plays its part, adding or easing the load. What’s weighing you down today? A worry, a regret, or just a bad day?

Sometimes, the trick isn’t to put it down but to carry it differently. Shift your perspective. Find a new balance. After all, the mind can make even the heaviest burden feel lighter—or unbearable. So, how will you carry your weight today? Lighten up.

You might just surprise yourself.

The Potter’s Quiet Emotion

A mound of clay transforms into pots in hours. Each pot looks identical. But I wonder—does the potter feel the same shaping every one? Is there joy in the rhythm, or is it just routine?

Each curve of the clay carries a trace of his hand, maybe even his mood. A fleeting emotion, frozen in form. What stories would he share if asked about the pots?

Or perhaps, like the clay, he’s shaped by the act of creating—silent, steady, and a little mysterious.

A potter’s world is one of quiet emotion, moulded into shape.

The Ocean’s Eternal Charm

There’s something magical about the ocean. She kisses the shore endlessly, even when sent away. Her waves are calm one moment, terrifying the next. Yet, she never fails to soothe a restless soul.

Add to this the South China Sea at sunset—hues so breathtaking they need no filter. The sky and sea meet in a silent embrace, as if sharing secrets. It’s a moment that captures the ocean’s timeless charm: her power, her grace, and her quiet promise to amaze, always. Sometimes, all it takes is a glance at her to find peace.

(at Kota Kinabalu)

Madurai’s Mud Horses: Raw, Real, and Rooted in Tradition

There’s something about the rural plains that feels like a deep breath. A pause. A reset. Maybe it’s the colour—bold, unapologetic, woven into every fabric, wall, and festival. Maybe it’s the lack of sterile perfection, the absence of polished edges. Everything here is raw, textured, and gloriously authentic.

Take these mud horse statues from Madurai. Bright, defiant, standing tall against time. They aren’t crafted for galleries; they are made for the land, the people, the stories. Each jagged line, each uneven brushstroke carries a tale. There’s no need for refinement when there’s meaning. No need for symmetry when there’s soul.

Walking through these lands, surrounded by these colours, I feel something shift. A reminder of where I come from. The earth beneath my feet is familiar, yet always new. My roots, like these statues, breach fresh ground—seeking, stretching, growing.

Perhaps that’s the gift of places like this. They don’t conform. They don’t pretend. They simply are. And in their raw beauty, they remind us to be, too.

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#temple (at Madurai, India)

Watch Kids, Learn Life: Curiosity, Play, and Wonder

If you seek to grow, watch children.

In their curiosity, in their seeking, in their unfiltered joy, they remind us of what we may have forgotten.

I watch them play—effortlessly, freely—with kids of different skin colours, with no hesitation, no barriers. They teach me that at our core, we are all just people reaching out to relate.

I hear their giddy excitement over the simplest things—“Yeahhh, the Sun is back!”—and it nudges me to wonder more, celebrate more, feel more.

And when they discard their shoes to walk barefoot on the sand, I see them connect with the earth, fully present in the moment. It reminds me of the beauty in staying grounded.

Children don’t just grow. They teach us how to.

Watch them. You’ll learn a heap.

(at Pattaya, Thailand)

What’s Inside Matters: Lessons from Carton Boxes in Transit

Boxes come in all shapes and sizes. Some travel far, some stay close. They sit shoulder to shoulder, waiting to be sorted at the train station—silent carriers of unknown stories.

A former Indian Prime Minister once wrote a poem titled “Envelope” that went something like this:

“The letter inside is yours
The address on the cover is his
Between the two of you
I get ripped open.”

What’s inside us is far more precious than any address on the outside.

To grow, to evolve, we must let go of old versions of ourselves. We must rip open, just like those envelopes—so that what’s within can reach new places.

The address keeps changing. The journey never stops.

So, go ahead—break open the box. Let the new you emerge.

(at Jamshedpur, Jharkhand)

The Road to Vegas & The Road Back

It was evening.

The road from San Francisco to Las Vegas stretched endlessly—a ride that felt like it had started in another lifetime. Smooth, uneventful, devoid of the delightful chaos of an Indian highway.

No bulls appearing out of nowhere, no tractors playing chicken—just long, sweeping roads with scenery that tried its best to keep things interesting.

But ahead lay Las Vegas—a city of stories, possibilities, and whispered legends. Excitement pulsed through us, and for a moment, even the car engine seemed to hum in anticipation.

And then, I saw them—the cars leaving Vegas, heading home. Their passengers, wrapped in a quiet emptiness, faces drained of whatever the night had held.

That’s when a line from English, August floated back into my mind:

“The ecstasy of the arrival never compensates for the emptiness of the departure.”

I smiled. Because some truths, like the Vegas skyline, glow even in the dark.

(at Las Vegas, Nevada)

Colours, Coin, and a Question

He appeared with a tap on my shoulder, cutting through the jostling crowd at Madurai’s Chithirai Festival. While chaos swirled around us, he stood calm, his face a riot of colour—deep devilish pink, adorned with glinting trinkets.

He smiled and held out a vessel. Ah, money, I thought. It paints the town red. Or, in this case, a shade of pink that refused to be ignored.

Carefully, I wrestled my wallet free, handed him a few notes. His eyes widened.

Was it the amount?
The act of giving itself?
Or my awkward attempt at wallet gymnastics in a jostling sea of people?

Surprise gave way to a grin, and suddenly—out of nowhere—he blessed me with a peacock feather.

I asked for a picture. He stood, smiled, then vanished into the festival, dancing to a new tune, swallowed by the crowd.

But his azure blue eyes lingered long after.

And a question stayed with me—Do we all wear paint to earn a living?

(at Madurai, India)