The thought balcony

  WHEN PILGRIMAGE FEELS EMPTY — AND WHAT IT TEACHES US We travel miles believing that somewhere, at the end of the journey, a moment is waiting for us—a moment of stillness, of connection, of something deeply divine. I set out on such a journey through Kashi, Banaras, Hanumangarhi, and Ayodhya. These are not just places; they are living centres of faith. I went with a simple intention—to be present, to feel, to connect. But the experience was not what I had imagined. In Kashi, devotion was everywhere, yet the experience felt rushed. The crowd moved relentlessly, leaving no space to pause. There was no stillness—only a fleeting glimpse, a few seconds, and then you were carried forward. I saw the deity, but I could not stay with the moment. And without that pause, the connection felt incomplete. At Hanumangarhi, even with a more structured entry, the space became overwhelming. The crowd pressed in, and instead of feeling devotion, there was discomfort—almost suffocation. Fa...

 Still Alive — But at What Cost? I recently watched Still Alive by Samay Raina. My first encounter with his work had been through India’s Got Latent, and I remember feeling distinctly out of place. Perhaps it was the generation gap, but the excessive use of foul language and the overall tone did not sit well with me. It felt uncomfortable, almost jarring. Yet, I couldn’t ignore the fact that the younger audience seemed to thoroughly enjoy it—drawn to its raw, unfiltered humour. On repeated recommendations, and in the backdrop of the controversy surrounding his show, I decided to give Still Alive a fair chance. What I discovered surprised me. Beyond the language—which I still find difficult to fully accept—there were thoughts that lingered long after the performance ended. One of the most striking ideas was the undeniable importance of connections in a country like India. While talent and hard work matter, networks often open doors that effort alone cannot. It’s a reality we may not...

 When the Cylinder Runs Low The other day, I saw something that stayed with me longer than I expected. People were lined up, waiting for LPG cylinders. There was a certain restlessness in the air—not loud, not chaotic, but anxious enough to be felt. Later, my maid hesitantly asked me if we had an extra cylinder at home. There was worry in her voice. A kind of quiet panic. And for a moment, it all felt very real. Very immediate. A shortage. But as the moment passed, another thought stayed back. Is it really just a shortage? Or is it trying to tell us something more? There’s something quietly unsettling about the times we live in. We already know what works. We’ve seen homes run on rooftop solar, kitchen waste turn into compost instead of rotting in landfills, and simple practices like rainwater harvesting or balcony gardening make a real difference. None of this is new. None of this is beyond us. And yet, most of it remains where it feels comfortable—   in conversations, in int...

 # The Stories That Cannot Be Told Some stories are not forgotten—   they are simply never told. There are wars we see—and then there are wars that never make it to headlines. The latter are fought in shadows, by individuals whose names we may never know. Intelligence operatives, working through agencies  exist in a world where success is invisible and failure is fatal. Their victories are not celebrated, because the best outcome is often that nothing happens at all. And yet, everything happens because of them. A conspiracy intercepted at the right moment can save millions of lives. A coded message decoded in time can prevent a war, a bombing, or a national crisis. These are not exaggerated ideas but quiet truths. But unlike soldiers who return to parades and medals, these individuals return, if at all, to anonymity. No applause. No acknowledgment. Sometimes, not even a name. That is why stories like Dhurandhar stay with us. The ending, where the protagonist chooses not t...

 You don’t owe everyone an explanation  There is a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from trying to make everyone understand you. Not just informing them—but ensuring they see your intention, your effort, your struggle. You explain where you were, why you did what you did, how you were managing multiple responsibilities at once. You fill in every gap, hoping that if they just knew the full story, they would respond differently. But life doesn’t always work that way. There are times when you are literally moving between responsibilities—expected in two places, answerable to different people, and unable to fully satisfy either. From the outside, it may look like inconsistency. From within, it is an honest attempt to show up wherever you are needed. And yet, not everyone sees that. Some people only see what they expect from you. They don’t see the full picture—and sometimes, they don’t try to. They want you to fit into a space they have defined, without considering that yo...

Not Every Relationship Knows How to Hold You Not every relationship in our life is meant to hold the same depth. Yet, we move through them as if they are. We don’t always realise when it begins—but somewhere along the way, we start attaching expectations to people. Not loudly, not consciously, but quietly enough to shape how we feel when they respond… or when they don’t. A parent should understand. A friend should show up. A colleague should support. The roles feel defined. The expectations feel justified. But the reality is far less structured. Because relationships do not operate on roles as much as they operate on capacity. And capacity is uneven. There are moments when this becomes painfully clear. Like when you sit beside someone you’ve always called your own, trying to explain something that matters deeply to you—and they listen, but they don’t really understand. They respond, but not in the way you needed. And you walk away wondering whether you asked too m...