The 'Divine Light' is Guiding Your Wife

Dear Jagdev,

The day I wrote that blog (The Laughter, The Arguments, The Regret and The Relief) about you, something strange happened. I suddenly realized that I had your mother’s phone number saved on my phone. I do not remember when I got the number or how long it had been sitting there quietly in my contacts. I did not even know whether the number was still active, whether she was still in India or whether she had moved abroad to stay with one of your sisters.

After thinking about it for a while, I decided to call. And to my relief, she picked up.

I gave her a brief background. I told her that you and I were classmates in school and that I had met her a couple of times between 1994 and 1996. Naturally, she did not remember me. Why would she? I was just another boy from your school days. Tall, intelligent, good looking (all that just in my mind) but just another boy. 

I told her that I had only called to check how she was doing. And suddenly she started crying uncontrollably. Honestly, that shook me. I am sorry to make your mother cry.

Somewhere in my mind, very foolishly, I had assumed that after all these years the pain would have softened a little. But listening to her cry, I immediately understood something that perhaps only parents understand fully - time may teach people how to continue living, but it does not erase loss.

After a while she handed the phone to your elder sister. We spoke briefly. It was a polite and slightly awkward conversation because she too did not really recall me.

After disconnecting the call, I sent them the blog I had written about you. Along with it, I requested if they would be comfortable sharing the contact details of your sisters and your wife.

There was no immediate response. And honestly, that was understandable. They were probably wondering who I was - someone who had suddenly called after decades, spoken emotionally about you and then shared a web link. In today’s world, where people are naturally cautious, I could understand their hesitation completely.

Then today, two days later, I received a few messages from your mother’s number. They were probably sent by your elder sister. She had read the blog and commented warmly about it. And then she shared the contact numbers of your younger sister...and your wife!

I could not stop myself from immediately messaging your wife on WhatsApp.

I introduced myself and shared some background. She too was understandably cautious in the beginning. In fact, one of the first things she asked me was how I had got her number. Sadly, the sheer number of spam calls and random messages people receive these days has made everyone naturally suspicious of unknown callers, especially from India.

I explained how I had received her number through your family and that probably calmed her nerves a little. I asked her how she was doing and how your daughter was doing. She shared a couple of pictures of your daughter. After that we exchanged a few more messages. Then I shared the blog I had written about you.

She read it. And asked me if she could call me.

Honestly, while I genuinely wanted to connect with your family, I was not expecting that at all. Somewhere in my mind I had assumed they may feel uncomfortable speaking to a stranger from your distant school days.

So when she asked if she could call, I was pleasantly surprised. And then we had a video call.

She was there. And so was your daughter. And for the first time, I spoke to her.

Noor. Which means 'Divine Light'. Such a beautiful name. 

It was a lovely and emotional interaction speaking to your wife and daughter. Your wife was very emotional and, so was I. Life without you has clearly not been easy for them, but your wife is doing an exceptional job raising Noor. Noor is extremely pretty, bright, graceful and doing really well. She is growing into a wonderful, confident and lovely young lady who will make both her parents immensely proud. I told her that you often talked about her and you loved her a lot. 

While writing this, I am thinking that somewhere, somehow, you must already know all this. You must already be watching them with pride.

And today, after speaking to them, I felt something I have not felt in a very long time whenever I thought about you...

Relief. A deep sense of relief. As if a large rock - almost my size - has finally been lifted off my chest. I am so happy!

I will stay in touch with them and, like always, they will remain in my prayers. If they ever need me, I will always try to help in whatever way I can.

God bless you, my friend. And God bless your family.

The Laughter, The Arguments, The Regret and The Relief

My first memory of Jagdev goes back to Class 10 in school in Ranchi.

The session had already started a few weeks back and one of the classes was going on when a teacher walked into the classroom with a very lean, quiet Sikh boy and asked him to take a seat. That was Jagdev. If my memory is not failing me, he was wearing all whites - so maybe it was a Saturday - and had a green patka (A patka is a smaller, simpler form of turban worn by Sikh boys and sometimes by Sikh men during sports or casual activities).

To everybody’s amusement, instead of sitting in the boys’ section, Jagdev crossed the entire width of the classroom - straight to the first bench in the girls’ row - and sat there calmly. The entire class found it hilarious. Jagdev, however, looked completely unfazed.

I do not think we became friends immediately. In fact, when I think back about Class 10, I do not remember too many incidents involving him and me together. We must have been cordial - like everybody else in the class - but not particularly close.

He stayed in the main Dipatoli military cantonment on the outskirts of Ranchi and I stayed in the officers’ quarters in the middle of Ranchi. I am not even sure whether those were technically separate cantonments or part of the same military establishment. The two places were several kilometers apart and, in those days, friendships depended heavily on physical proximity. There were no mobile phones, no internet and no social media. Once school ended, everybody disappeared into their own part of the city.

Things changed a little in Class 11 when both of us joined the Commerce section. Ours was a smaller section with around fifteen or sixteen students while the Science and Arts sections were much larger. Smaller groups naturally create more interaction.

I started visiting his house occasionally. His family was warm and welcoming. His father had risen to officer rank in the army and they lived in officers’ quarters. Jagdev had sisters and he was the only son in the family. I could sense that he was deeply loved and probably the most naughty and pampered member of the household.

He was introverted. He spoke very little. But whenever he did say something, it was either unintentionally funny or unintentionally awkward.

And sometimes both.

The Haircut

One of my strongest memories from school involves Jagdev and a very unfortunate haircut.

When Jagdev had joined the school in Class 10, he used to wear a patka. At that point, like most Sikh boys from traditional families, he had long hair and had probably never imagined cutting it.

Then suddenly one day he decided to chop it all off. I still remember him telling me that with his hair gone, he was probably no longer welcome at his grandfather’s house in Punjab.

Why did he do it? I honestly do not know. Maybe he wanted to blend in better with the rest of us. Maybe he was tired of standing out. Or maybe, like most teenage boys, he thought a new hairstyle would dramatically improve his appeal among girls. High hopes!! That did not happen at all.

Initially, everything was fine. After the first few days, everyone got used to seeing Jagdev without a patka or turban. The novelty faded away and life moved on.

And then fashion happened.

Back in those days, a particular hairstyle had become extremely popular. Boys kept their hair longer on top while shaving or trimming the sides and the back almost to zero. Jagdev decided to go for it.

The result was unforgettable.

Since his scalp had remained covered by long hair and a turban throughout his life, suddenly exposing it fully revealed skin that was unbelievably white. It looked so strange and unexpected that the entire class found it hilarious. Even teachers commented on it. It made Jagdev awkward and conscious.

The next day, however, something miraculous happened.

Jagdev entered the classroom and his scalp looked completely normal. The shocking whiteness had disappeared overnight. For a brief moment we were genuinely wondering how he had managed that....Till he started sweating.

Slowly, very slowly, thin black streams began appearing near the sides of his head. That is when we realized the truth. To darken the exposed white skin, Jagdev had applied black liquid shoe polish all over his scalp. And now, because of sweat, the polish had started dripping down. People laughed uncontrollably. Even Jagdev eventually saw the funny side of it and started laughing himself.

Even today, after so many years, the incident brings a smile to my face.

Another thing that I remember from that entire haircut disaster is that Jagdev started getting a lot of flak from teachers for his new hairstyle. So, in what we believed was a great act of friendship and solidarity, some of us decided that we too would get the same haircut. I do not remember how many actually went through with it, but I definitely did. The hairstyle looked ridiculous on us. I blame the barber.

Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge

Another memory from those days is when he suddenly came to my house and insisted that I accompany him for a movie. The movie was Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge.

Both of us had already watched it, but he wanted to watch it again. He had truly loved the movie while I had found it just “okay”. So I was a little reluctant, but looking at his enthusiasm I joined him. He watched the movie like a complete fanboy and lived every moment of it. I could make out that the movie had made a significant impact on him. That remains one of my key memories of Jagdev from school days.

Shared Stupidity

There were also the usual immature school incidents that now seem ridiculous and funny in hindsight.

Once Jagdev made a remark to one of the girls in our class which offended her badly. She was furious enough to complain to our class teacher, who also happened to teach us Accountancy.

Now this particular teacher already disliked our group because we bunked his class quite regularly. So the moment he realized he finally had a legitimate reason to thrash one of us, he arrived in the classroom with the speed and aggression of a man who had been waiting for this opportunity for months.

Back then teachers could thrash students and easily get away with it. In fact, many parents probably considered it part of a teacher’s responsibilities. Nobody questioned it too much. Sometimes I miss those days (this is for a specific reader..my daughter)!

Until the teacher stormed into the classroom, most of us had absolutely no idea what Jagdev had done. The teacher entered, walked straight up to Jagdev and slapped him immediately before even beginning the lecture. The entire classroom froze for a second. Then he announced to everybody what Jagdev had apparently said to the girl.

The girls in class were scandalized. The boys - like boys - found the entire thing hilarious.

There stood our friend getting thrashed while the rest of us idiots struggled desperately to suppress our laughter. Some were giggling with heads down. Some were hiding behind notebooks pretending to be serious. We all ran the risk of becoming the next target.

School friendships are strange. At that age affection rarely expresses itself through emotional conversations or loyalty. More often it hides itself behind mockery, laughter, leg-pulling and shared stupidity.

Lost Touch

After Class 11, Jagdev left school. His father got transferred to Delhi (if I am not mistaken) and, like countless friendships in army/cantonment life, we lost touch completely. That was normal in the 1990s and before. People vanished from your life without closure. My father served in the army and I had already experienced this cycle repeatedly while growing up.

Reconnect-Disconnect-Repeat

Years later, social media happened.

Somewhere around 2012 or 2013, old classmates found each other again on Facebook and WhatsApp.

Jagdev was in Australia by then, living with his wife and daughter and working with Harvey Norman. I was in Malaysia with my own family.

Unfortunately, adulthood had changed all of us. In school we bonded over jokes, cricket, movies, girls and harmless stupidity. Now everybody had political opinions.

Jagdev and I often found ourselves on opposite sides politically. Initially the debates were manageable, but gradually they became personal and unpleasant. He would sometimes comment aggressively on my posts or on posts by some of my friends or colleagues, even though he did not know them personally. Heated exchanges became common.

To be honest, even in school we were never inseparable friends. After reconnecting online, we were more like old batchmates rediscovering each other.

Yet, when he blocked me on Facebook after one argument, I found it deeply strange. I could never understand how school friendships could become casualties of political disagreements.

Then one day he disappeared from the WhatsApp group too. For a couple of years, we did not interact.

Then one day in 2016, I randomly called him.

I have noticed something strange about myself over the years. I can remain angry with someone for a long time, but eventually the specifics fade away. That is a good habit in me. Unless I have felt insulted, I forget about the specifics of any argument or fight. I do not recall who said what. That makes it easy to overcome any bitterness. Sometimes all it takes is one normal conversation to rebuild a bridge.

That day I was sitting at KL Sentral in Kuala Lumpur when I decided to call Jagdev.

We spoke for a very long time. He spoke about spirituality and about a Guruji he had started following. He said he sometimes felt like leaving everything behind and staying in an ashram. He had actually discussed it with his Guruji but was discouraged from doing so. 

I asked him if everything is alright.

He told me that his marriage was going through a difficult phase. His wife had moved out and was staying separately with their daughter. I do not know the full story and therefore I cannot judge what happened between them. I told him that while I do not know the specifics, it seems that the issue is not something that cannot be resolved through communication and understanding. 

During the conversation, what I could clearly sense was the pain of separation from his wife and especially his child. Jagdev came across as a sensitive person and he sounded emotionally shattered. I realized for the first time how deeply he loved his daughter. 

I believe that daughters change men. They make even strong men vulnerable in the gentlest possible way.

That conversation affected me deeply and I prayed for him.

In the months that followed, he again went into a shell and unfortunately we again lost touch. I did try to reach him a few times but could not.

Regret

Probably the first time I regretted a social media argument was sometime in 2017.

Years earlier he had unfriended and blocked me after a political argument. Later he had again sent me a friend request on Facebook. I ignored it. Not because of ego. Not because I hated him. I think I simply felt hurt that somebody could throw away an old school connection over silly online debates.

Now I realize I was being equally silly.

In mid-2017, I got the news that Jagdev had passed away in a motorcycle accident in Punjab. It was a hit-and-run case. 

He was visiting his family in India. During his trip, he bought a motorcycle and had taken it out for a ride at night. A car hit him and sped away. He lay injured on the road for some time before help arrived. (source: a friend of Jagdev, who I reached out on Facebook when I heard the unfortunate news)

And just like that, a school friend was gone...forever.

Honestly, when I heard about his death, grief was not the only emotion I felt. I felt regret for losing touch. I felt regret for not accepting his friend request. I felt regret for not speaking to him more often.

But, above all, what haunted me most was the thought of his daughter. In 2017 she was just a toddler. I kept thinking that when she grows up, she may not even remember her father’s face clearly. She may never fully know how much he loved her.

And that thought broke something inside me. That silly argument and not accepting his friend request haunts me and will haunt me forever.

I made a silent promise to myself that if I ever get to connect with his daughter, I would tell her that her father truly loved her and cared for her deeply.

Relief

A few weeks ago another friend and classmate from school - Jinish Thomas - who is stays in Australia told me that Jagdev’s wife and daughter are doing well. They are in touch with Jagdev's family in Punjab and even visited them. He told me that Jagdev's daughter is growing up well. She is doing well in studies and extracurricular activities. She is happy. 

Hearing that gave me immense relief.

Jinish shared a video of Jagdev's daughter where she is wishing Happy Diwali to everyone. I felt that she looks like Jagdev but Jinish said she looks more like Jagdev's younger sister. I do not recall the face of Jagdev's sister so I cannot comment. But the video made me very happy and relieved.

I do not know if I will ever meet her in person or connect with her digitally. But if I do, I will tell her this -

"Your father loved you and cared for you deeply. More deeply than words can explain."

Jagdev, I miss you, my friend. Life took us in different directions and somewhere along the way we allowed silly arguments and distance to come between us. But when I think of you today, I remember the awkward, funny, sensitive boy from school days and the father who loved his daughter deeply. I will always pray for your daughter’s happiness, strength and well-being.

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

The above is my FB post in 2017, when I heard the news. Much of what I had written, remains true even today. I still regret the silliness of those arguments and the distance that followed. But after hearing recent updates from Jinish about his daughter doing well, growing up happy and staying connected with Jagdev’s family, I finally felt a sense of relief. Somehow, that mattered to me more than I can explain. 

The Boy Who Bowled MS Dhoni

There are stories that stay with you because they were extraordinary. And then there are stories that stay with you because they were unfinished.

This is about a school friend named Ariel.

Ariel was from Jharkhand. Even his name sounded unusual back then. But that was not the unusual part about him. Ariel played cricket with a polio-affected leg. And yet, he was unbelievably good. Even today, when I think of Ariel, I remember one thing before anything else - how ridiculously difficult he was to bat against.

I was never much of a batsman, but I still remember once facing around twenty deliveries from him and failing to connect even one properly. I know, you guys would argue that it only reflected my batting (in)abilities. Fair enough! But that was not the real issue. Ariel had one of the most difficult bowling actions I have ever faced.

Because of his affected leg, his run-up and delivery stride were awkward, unpredictable and extremely deceptive. And then came the real problem - he could bowl leg-spin, googly, off-spin and wrong ones with almost the same action.

Trust me, I am not kidding or exaggerating.

We were in Kendriya Vidyalaya Dipatoli in Ranchi. Before Ariel got selected for the school cricket team, I had never seen him bowl. To be honest, when I first heard about his selection, I assumed he would become a liability in the field. I thought the captain would probably have to hide him somewhere because of his leg.

Then came the first match. I did not go to watch it. And in that very match, Ariel bowled us to a convincing victory against a decent side. Naturally, I became curious.

The next game was against Central Academy, one of the strongest school cricket teams in Ranchi at the time. They had won the Inter-School League multiple times and had also finished runners-up on several occasions. Their batting line-up included a hugely talented and popular batsman named Deepak Lal, who apparently had a reputation for never getting bowled.

Ariel dismissed him with a googly.

Not just dismissed him - completely foxed and bowled him!!

He took three wickets in that match. We still lost, but that day I realized just how special he was. Later, my cousin, who studied in Central Academy, told me that their batsmen could not stop talking about Ariel.

Our next match was against the mighty DAV Jawahar Vidya Mandir - commonly known as DAV Shyamali. Their admissions were famous for two things: excellence in academics and excellence in sports. They also seemed to have a few “over-aged” players. One batsman honestly looked more like a coach than a student.

They beat us comfortably. But Ariel left an impression there too.

Kendriya Vidyalayas used to send students for regional and national selections. Ariel was selected by our school for the regional trials in Patna.

And this is the part that still annoys me when I think about it.

He travelled all the way to Patna, only to be rejected before even getting a chance to bowl in the nets. The selectors looked at his crippled leg and decided he could not play. That was it. No trial. No assessment. No opportunity.

Ariel challenged them.

He asked them to put their best batsman against him for one over. He said that if he managed to dismiss the batsman even once, they should at least give him a fair chance. The selectors agreed.

The batsman they chose was the captain of the district team. Ariel bowled him three times in that one over. And still, he was sent back to Ranchi. Nothing changed.

The following season, we again played against DAV Shyamali. We batted first and collapsed to 45 for 8 in six overs in a fifteen-over match. Ariel played a useful innings lower down the order and somehow dragged us to 114.

It was still nowhere near enough against a side like DAV. Then...Ariel bowled.

He picked up four wickets in his three overs while conceding very few runs. One of the batsmen he dismissed that day was a boy named Mahendra Singh Dhoni - who would later become one of the greatest white-ball wicketkeeper-batsman of all time, arguably the best finisher the game has seen and India’s most successful white-ball captain.

We still lost the match. But once again, Ariel walked away having impressed everyone except the people who mattered.

Over the next couple of years, I watched him play many matches. He was a genuinely gifted bowler, a decent batsman and a very sharp close-in fielder. Running was his only real limitation. But talent alone is rarely enough in India.

Ariel came from a lower-middle-class family. His family could not support his cricket financially. He could not afford club cricket. He was not particularly interested in academics and eventually became ineligible to continue representing the school team. Slowly, his cricket reached a dead end.

Years passed.

He later started a small music band in Ranchi and performed at local functions, events and perhaps even church gatherings. But one thing about Ariel never changed - his smile. It was infectious. So was his energy. He was one of those people who made conversations easy.

I passed out of school in 1997 and after that we gradually lost touch. Even during our final years in school, we hardly met because he had failed a couple of times academically and we were no longer in the same class. Later he continued his education privately and we mostly met only during inter-school cricket tournaments.

I met him once around 1999 when another school friend and I went to meet old friends in Ranchi. Ariel was exactly the same - warm, cheerful and welcoming. His family treated us like their own.

Years later, around 2011, I visited his house again when I was in Ranchi for a few months around my daughter’s birth and while preparing for my move to Malaysia. He was not home when I arrived, but his family once again welcomed me warmly. Ariel later came back and we spent some time together.

After that, our meetings became infrequent. Occasionally, whenever I visited Ranchi, we would meet over drinks.

Then came COVID.

And strangely enough, during the pandemic, our school batch suddenly became enthusiastic about organizing a reunion in Ranchi. I knew from the beginning that I probably would not attend, especially because of the pandemic, but as usual I involved myself actively in the planning so that my eventual withdrawal would not surprise anyone.

Ariel became part of the core organizing group because he was one of the few batchmates based in Ranchi. He helped tremendously. He visited resorts, negotiated prices and coordinated logistics. At one point, some people were unhappy with the deal he negotiated with a resort, so I spoke to the management over phone and together we managed to work out a much better arrangement.

Eventually, close to the reunion date, I informed everyone that I would not be able to attend. Soon after that, the entire reunion got postponed indefinitely. Ariel was disappointed. He had genuinely been looking forward to meeting everyone. This was sometime in the second half of 2020, after the first wave of the pandemic.

We remained in touch through phone calls, WhatsApp and social media. He spoke about the shoe shop he had opened and the struggles of running a small business. Several months later, during a WhatsApp video call with a few school friends, someone suggested adding Ariel to the call.

He answered.

And I remember feeling shocked the moment the screen opened. He was lying on a hospital bed with an oxygen mask on. He told us he had COVID.

If I remember correctly, this was during the beginning of the second wave. By then, my parents had already contracted COVID and recovered. A few years earlier, I myself had been hospitalized in Malaysia with a rare form of pneumonia and had experienced dangerously low oxygen levels.

So when Ariel told me that his oxygen saturation was around 88, I tried to reassure him. He had removed his oxygen mask while talking to us and he still sounded relatively stable. I told him I had seen patients in much worse condition recover fully. I told him everything would be alright. That he should wear the mask again, avoid talking too much and follow the doctors’ instructions carefully.

He became a little calmer.

But before ending the call, he asked me one more question.

“Will I be alright?”

I told him confidently, “Yes. One hundred percent.”

A week later, Ariel passed away. And even today, that question haunts me.

“Will I be alright?”

He was sitting alone in a dark hospital room, away from his loved ones, searching for reassurance and hope. I still wonder whether I gave him enough of it. I do not know.

What I do know is this - every time school friends now discuss reunions, I quietly stay away from the discussions. Because some absences change the meaning of gatherings forever.

And any reunion without you would never really feel complete, my friend.

Happy Mother's Day!!!

 

The Weight of a Broken Promise

I should not have written what I wrote.

Not because it was dishonest. Not because I said something I did not mean. But because the very act of writing it crossed a line I had promised I would not cross.

Someone shared something with me out of genuine care. It was not gossip, not manipulation, not an attempt to provoke me. It was something I was told only because that person felt I deserved to know. And before telling me, there was one clear request: do not react, do not discuss it, do not tell anyone.

I agreed.

What I was told deeply unsettled me - not because of the outcome of the incident itself, and not because things may not have gone in my favor. I did not ask for that and did not need that favor - though I genuinely respect someone acknowledging my contribution and fighting for me. However, I am content with what I have, and I do not live expecting more. Also, I do not think anything more is good for the larger cause. 

What disturbed me was something far more difficult to process: the nature of the conversation, the arguments made, and the positions taken by people I trusted. Learning that such a discussion had happened, and hearing how I was perceived within it, affected me more than I was prepared for.

It shook me.

That night, the weight of it stayed with me until the early hours. Sleep did not come easily. My mind kept returning not to what happened, but to what it revealed. In that emotional state - hurt, restless, and not thinking clearly - I did what I have often done when I do not know where else to place my thoughts: I wrote.

My blog has always been a strange, deeply personal space for me. It is not a weapon, not a signal, not a coded message meant for others to decipher. I do not write personal things there to provoke reactions or to make people respond. I write because, sometimes, it feels like the only place where I can speak without interruption. In many ways, it has been less of a platform and more of a friend - one that absorbs what I cannot always carry alone.

Writing eases pain for me. It organizes distress. It gives shape to emotions that would otherwise remain chaos.

But this time, even if my intentions were private, the act itself was still a reaction.

And that is where I failed.

I told myself I was being discreet. I convinced myself no one would understand what I was referring to. But discretion does not erase the fact that I responded when I had given my word that I would not. I broke a promise - not publicly perhaps, not explicitly perhaps - but meaningfully enough for me to know that I did.

That is what I regret.

I regret not honoring the position of someone who trusted me enough to share something difficult, carefully, and with concern. I regret allowing my distress to override my discipline. And most of all, I regret failing to uphold the one thing I had clearly said I would: remain silent.

This is not about denying my hurt, nor about pretending I was unaffected. I was affected, deeply. But emotional pain does not excuse breaking trust.

So this is simply an acknowledgment: I should have handled it better. I should have respected both the care with which that information was shared and the boundary that came with it.

I am deeply sorry.

If Sudama Had a Voice

We celebrate the friendship of Krishna and Sudama as one of the purest forms of friendship - humility meeting grace, devotion meeting divinity. Sudama had little, Krishna had everything, and yet their bond is remembered because neither wealth nor power defined it. Sudama came with love, not demands. Krishna gave with understanding, not pity.

But I often wonder what their relationship would have looked like if Sudama had a voice and he questioned Krishna when something felt wrong. What if he was still humble, loving, and deeply devoted, but not silent? What if he opposed Krishna when he believed it was the right thing to do - not out of pride, but because love sometimes demands honesty? What if devotion did not always look like folded hands, but sometimes like standing firm?

Would that have made Sudama less worthy, or would it have made the friendship even deeper?

Maybe Krishna, being who he was, would not have loved Sudama less for having a voice. Maybe he would have understood him more. And that is perhaps why their friendship would have survived even truth, even questions, even opposition.

I am sure their bond would still have endured - because Krishna is God.

Krishnas of Kalyug want devotion, not truth. They just expect the Sudamas to feel obliged and stand in a corner with folded hands. If Sudama finds his voice or questions, it will not tolerated and the friendship would end.

The Mirror You Handed Me

You are telling me, “Thanks for showing me the mirror and my true worth.”

First - see how well I know you, because I had already written about this exact reaction.

Second - isn’t this the pot calling the kettle black?

In the last episode we had, I told you very clearly that there was something I did not like. I told you that you insulted me. I told you that I am hurt. And what did you choose after that? Sarcasm. Silence.

So that is MY exact worth in your eyes, isn’t it?

That I should not have a voice? That I do not have the right to feel hurt? After all, who am I?

Moreover, you are telling me that I showed you your true worth - after reading my last blog!! After the episode where you weighed my worth in monetary terms? But Raja Saab ko toh sab maaf hai, isn’t it?

Before the latest episode, I come and hugged you so many times because I missed you. I have told you what you mean to me. I have stood by you. I have defended you. I have categorically refused to throw you under the bus and prevented others from doing that. I have always tried to be there whenever you needed me. I have cried for you. I have cared. I have prayed for you. I have counted on you.

I neither have the intention to tell you your worth nor the right to do that. 

But yes. I am showing you the mirror. Someone needs to. I do not have the right. But its not the first time nor the last time. That is because I care. 

Maafi Hukum 🙏

Dagger in the back

I once believed I could read people the way sailors read stars.

So when the room grew heavy and my name became a measure of efforts and contributions, I expected the familiar constellations to hold.

• The newest bond became a shield. Defended me. Even fought for me. 

• The classmate/friend took a swipe at me.

• But the oldest bond - the one that I trusted and thought I understood - joined hands with the classmate/friend. 

This is when I have been safeguarding the interest of these two very individuals to the extent possible and create a balance that makes sense for everyone!

Funny how betrayal is rarely loud. Sometimes, it arrives as silence where 'friendship' should have spoken.

Learnt a valuable life lesson today. And I did not even know about this battle!!

(Disclaimer: This is not a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely intentional)

The Friend You Used to Be

You were once someone rare to me.

Not because you did grand things - though you did, and I don't deny that - but because you noticed me when most people didn’t. It felt that you understood me. In a world where presence is often loud but shallow, yours was quiet and real. That is what stayed with me. That is what mattered.

And it still does.

I’ve thanked you many a time. I still do. And I have meant it each time. May be you won’t understand why, but you mattered to me in ways that had nothing to do with what you could give. I of course never had much. I am not a man of means - I never was - but I have always tried to show up in the only way I knew how: by being there. Emotionally. Physically. Honestly. Consistently.

But now, may be in the last couple of years and definitely in the last one year, it feels that things have changed. I feel that you have changed and I guess you feel that I have changed. 

The person who once felt warm and genuine now feels distant and 'calculated'. I am sure that when you do things for people, you do not expect much. However, now very frequently, I hear that I did 'so much' for XYZ and I did not get anything in return. And invariably, that 'so much' is materialistic, expensive things. I have found it both strange and different. After all, friendship and generosity are not 'investments' and people's emotions cannot be 'returns'.

That shift is hard to ignore.

Another change is in the people you spend time with. They can be put in three broad buckets (and I am not including women; that's a very different subject). 

There are those above you. These are the ones you seem eager to impress, to emulate. I’ve watched you around them. You stop being yourself. You put up a performance. You are often quite fake in front of them. And I really do not think they respect you the way you think they do. I genuinely hope I am wrong.

Then there’s the middle ground - new friends who are similar to you in status. Comfortable, safe, predictable. No imbalance there, so no tension. You like spending time with them.

And finally, the ones who’ve been around the longest. The ones who knew you before all of this. The ones who care. This group also includes people who have not made it and probably never will. At least they would never achieve the definition of success that you have. You meet them but off late, it feels that you do not respect them. Their value seems negligible. Their voices are inconvenient.

Isn't it strange how the people who stood by you the longest now seem to matter the least?

The past couple of years have made this even clearer. You went through difficult times. To a large extent, it was self-created. From one bad habit to another (let us call them that as I really do not want to be specific). When you felt low, sad, depressed, angry - I was there. Not perfectly, not always with the right words, but I stayed. I questioned you when I had to because I am a friend and not a 'Yes Man'. I supported you when you needed it. I didn’t walk away, even when you tried to push me out. 

During this period, you made several choices. Some of them, extremely hard to defend. Harder to watch. I remained by your side.

I tried to be the 'voice of conscience' and told you the right thing to do. You never did. I still remained by your side.

You hurt people. You dismissed them. You subordinated everyone and everything - work, family, friends, me and - above all - your pride and self-respect. That's the part that hurts me the most because I took pride in you and respected you. I tried to stop you. You distanced yourself, proudly declaring that you no longer care what anyone thinks - that you’re finally living life for yourself. 

Well...you are succeeding. And I genuinely hope you are happy.

You pushed everyone away. Even those who once stood firmly beside you. You’ve drawn lines where there didn’t need to be any. And yet, when those same people feel bad and step back, you act surprised!!! Hurt, even!!!

That part is almost poetic.

I can already imagine your reaction to all of this - something along the lines of, “After everything I’ve done…”

And that’s exactly the point.

Not everything can be bought. Not loyalty. Not respect. Not self-worth. Contrary to what you might believe now, not everyone is transactional. Not everyone trades dignity for gifts, or affection for favors. Some people still hold on to things like pride and self-respect. Outdated concepts to you perhaps but they matter to people. 

For what it’s worth - I never stayed because of what you offered. Not the gifts. Not the gestures. Not the things you insisted on giving. Take back everything you have given and more....but return my old friend.

I stayed with you because of who you were. You used to care. You used to listen. You used to understand without needing explanations. That version of you - that’s the one who mattered. This version… now feels unfamiliar. 

I am hurt.

You know that. Not because you understood. Now, I no longer expect that from you. You know that because you asked, "are you mad at me for something"? And I told you. And then what? You chose silence over conversation. I would never do that to you because this is not what friends do.

But ya, it’s an interesting choice - to walk away from someone who doesn’t need to ask if you’re hurting, because they already know. You have said that to me. I understand when you are hurt, sad, angry, depressed, anxious. I get that by looking at you. I get that from your voice. If I have to ask you then I have failed as a friend.

I am someone who stayed. I am someone who cared. Someone who, despite everything, still does.

But I don’t expect anything from you now. Not explanations, not apologies, not a sudden return to who you were. High hopes, isn't it??!! What am I even thinking? I know your reaction if and when you read this would be what I said earlier, "Wow...after everything I’ve done, this is what I get...."

I just hope - genuinely - that whatever path you’re on keeps you as happy as you believe it will. That the bubble holds. That the wonderland doesn’t crack under its own weight.

And that your 'Pursuit of Unrealistic Happiness' turns out to be worth it. Because it did cost something. More than you realize - or may ever be willing to admit.

Take care. I mean that. Even now. 

You have hurt me immensely. You know that - unlike you - I do not have many friends and when I needed anything, I have always turned to you. Thanks for taking that away. You have shown me, with remarkable clarity, how little I matter.

But I still care and...I always will. I have not given up on you. It is not in me at all. I still hope that one day you will stumble your way back to senses and understand your priorities and the people who genuinely care. Will wait...

Not My Natural Reaction

You said that you wanted to go. My natural reaction would have been to ask you to stay. However, these days, my natural reactions - out of love, affection, care, and concern - are being questioned and disliked. 

So I stopped myself. 

And a little piece of me died inside.

Cost of Closeness

If an angel were to grant a wish, many would ask for wealth, comfort, or joy. Others would wish for health and happiness for those closest to them. 

At other times, I might have chosen the same. But not today. Not at this moment...

At this very moment, my wish would be different. I would ask for the ability to conceal my emotions - my angst and pain - when they are caused by those I love, and for the power to not utter a word when an inner storm is stirred by their words or actions. 

The deepest suffering rarely comes from strangers.

नहीं रखता दिल में कुछ, 

रखता हूँ ज़ुबान पर

समझें न अपने भी कभी.....

On Respect, Recognition, Biasedness and Overreaction

Recently, I came across clippings from a television interview of Mary Kom on 'Aap Ki Adalat with Rajat Sharma'. The interview attracted widespread criticism, largely due to the tone she adopted and certain remarks she made while speaking about her ex-husband. As someone who has long admired Mary Kom, I found the interview deeply disappointing.

Mary Kom’s achievements need no reiteration. She is one of the most accomplished athletes in Indian sporting history: a six-time World Amateur Boxing Champion, an Olympic bronze medalist, Asian Games and Commonwealth Games gold medalist, and a recipient of India’s highest sporting and civilian honors, including the Padma Bhushan, Padma Shri, Rajiv Gandhi Khel Ratna, and Arjuna Award. Beyond boxing, she has served as a Member of Parliament and is widely regarded as a pioneering figure who helped bring visibility and acceptance to women’s boxing in India. 

Several of Mary Kom’s major awards and victories came after she became a mother, and this is widely regarded as one of the most remarkable aspects of her career. Her journey from humble beginnings in Manipur to global sporting acclaim is inspiring enough to have warranted a biographical film. I have been a big fan of Kom.

It is precisely because of this stature that her remarks felt jarring. Publicly discussing personal disputes is rarely dignified, and in this case, it seemed unnecessary. More troubling was the manner in which she questioned her ex-husband’s role and contribution, making statements along the lines of “what kind of man lives off a woman’s money,” alleging that he withdrew money without her consent, and mentioning that he never had a successful career. These remarks were tasteless.

One could argue that this was a case of being caught off guard by the media. People who are not media savvy, can get sucked into a drain in front of cameras. Television seeks headlines and can exploit personalities; Mary Kom did seem to have been drawn into that trap, which did not favor her long-term reputation. However, after watching the clips, it is difficult to attribute everything to lack of media training. The remarks did not seem accidental; they appeared to reflect genuine beliefs. There seemed to be a clear lack of respect for her ex-husband as he did not earn much and, during their marriage, remained dependent on her earnings.

The videos and comments of Mary Kom triggered several thoughts and emotions. For example, it immediately reminded me of a remark made by actor and stand-up comedian Chris Rock that “Only women, children, and dogs are loved unconditionally. A man is only loved under the condition that he provide something.”

It also raised a hypothetical question. What if the comment was made by a successful man for his wife who, quit her job and set aside her passions to take care of home and children? What if the man had said that his wife was not successful and had belittled her contribution? What if the man had questioned her for withdrawing money or spending money without his permission?

All hell would have broken loose. The backlash would have been swift and severe, ...and rightly so.

This also brought to mind a personal anecdote involving two people I know. One of them is an entrepreneur - intelligent, driven, and successful. After a strong career in financial services, she pivoted to start her own business, which is now doing well and receiving media attention. She is married to someone I know, and both are part of a common WhatsApp group. Lets just call her - Sierra Kilo.

On one occasion, Sierra Kilo shared a news item or media coverage related to her business in the WhatsApp group. It naturally triggered a wave of congratulatory messages. Everyone applauded her success. One member of the group – the second character in this anecdote – congratulated her 'and her husband' in his message. In my view, it was a jovial, light-hearted, and seemingly harmless comment, likely sent out of courtesy since Sierra Kilo's husband is also a member of the group...though it certainly could have been avoided.

He referred to the husband as a “sleeping partner,” which, in my interpretation, served a dual purpose: to include the husband and at the same time, not take anything away from Sierra Kilo. I DO NOT believe the term was used in a formal business sense (Sleeping partner (also called silent partner) refers to a person who invests capital in a business but does not take part in its day-to-day operations or management). She, however, did not appreciate the message and objected on the WhatsApp group, clarifying that the business is a 'sole proprietorship'; she is the 'only Founder' and she runs it 'single-handedly'. 

It did not need clarification but its okay.

However, the matter did not end there. She subsequently wrote a 200+ word LinkedIn post on the subject. In it, she questioned why, when a woman entrepreneur succeeds, people say, “Congratulations to you and your husband.” She questioned why “educated, well-meaning individuals struggle to fully acknowledge a woman’s independent professional journey?”. In her words, “I was taken aback. But only briefly. Because, truth be told, this isn’t new. So I did what I always do – tuned out the noise, focused on the work, and kept going.”

The post got some ‘Likes’ and supportive comments, predominantly from women.

I found the <over>reaction immature, over-the-top and reflective of a tendency to frame the situation through a victimhood lens, while simultaneously projecting an image of being brave and unfazed.

What about the common phrase men have heard for generations: “Behind every successful man, there is a woman”. This has been said about business leaders, sportsmen, and almost every man 'who made it'...if he had a female partner. It has even been suggested that gallantry award winners from the military could fight for the country as there was a woman taking care of the home. How many men have posted about it and tried to play the ‘Victim Card’? How many say that why are you taking some credit away?

I feel that whenever it is said that “Behind every successful man, there is a woman”, it is meant as a compliment for the woman, acknowledging their emotional, domestic, or logistical support. I admit it is a big support and must be acknowledged. That is why, most logical men would never take offence, whenever they hear this.

This brings the discussion back to Mary Kom. Was her husband not providing similar support? I cannot claim personal knowledge of their marriage, but in several earlier interviews, Mary Kom herself openly credited her husband, Onler Kom, for standing by her, managing the household, and caring for their children while she trained and competed. She had repeatedly said she could not have achieved what she did without his support.

Why, then, does that support no longer merit acknowledgment? Is it because they are no longer together? Because the gap in their public and financial stature has widened? Or because personal grievances have reshaped her perception of his role? Whatever the reason, it appears that she is no longer comfortable sharing even a fraction of the credit she once willingly attributed to him. That is entirely up to her but she has no business mocking him in front of millions.

Let me make it very clear that the intention of the post is not to bash women (yeah right...too little too late) but I admit that I am getting dangerously close to that territory. I am just sharing my views on avoiding over-reactions, acknowledging your partner (if and wherever possible), being respectful and .....not having the 'Feminism ka Suleimaani Keeda'. (Oh no! I was this close to de-escalating the situation and I screwed up again!!)

On a serious note, my observations are not about any particular gender; I fully acknowledge that men are often insensitive and frequently discount women’s contributions, at times quite blatantly. Another real-life example illustrates this, involving people I know (examples, it seems, are closer than we often think).

A woman I know is married into a family that appears to be well-off (not certain as I am yet to ask them for their bank statements). They are into several businesses - including a two-wheeler dealership, possibly with multiple outlets. She and her husband slogged their asses off to establish and grow the two-wheeler business. While it may have appeared to several people (or they assume) that the husband has done everything, I know for a fact that she also managed several aspects of the business along with managing home and kids. I am not alien to the automotive industry and I had several discussions with her and was always impressed by her understanding and inquisitiveness. They were also planning to expand into a four-wheeler business, and both devoted immense effort over the years to make it happen.

Despite her relentless work and juggling of responsibilities, which included businesses, home, children, husband’s health, in-laws, another person (I know him too) repeatedly made disrespectful remarks. He would often suggest that she is all set, what does she have to worry about, she can chill and enjoy the fruits of her husband’s hard work and enjoy his wealth. 

Highly insensitive (Buddy, you make all of us look bad). In this case, a question similar to the one asked by Sierra Kilo - why educated, well-meaning individuals struggle to acknowledge a woman’s hard work - is entirely valid.

So, stupidity clearly has no gender.

Anyways, much has been said already. Ultimately, this discussion is not about taking sides or keeping score. Contributions, whether professional, emotional, domestic, or logistical, should neither be belittled nor exaggerated to suit a narrative. Acknowledging a partner’s support should not feel like a dilution of one’s own achievement. Genuine insensitivity should be called out but at the same time, if you do not like a comment, do not over-react turn it into a public outrage. 

The real maturity lies in balance: recognizing effort and support where it exists, calling out bias where it is real, and resisting the urge to turn every imperfect interaction into a larger battle.

(NOTE: If you are curious about how the individuals in the two anecdotes responded, here is what followed. The man in the first instance chose not to react to Sierra Kilo’s response; he was taken aback but decided to let it pass. In contrast, the woman in the second instance addressed the remark directly and firmly at an appropriate moment. She is no abla naari - in fact she is quite the opposite - which is precisely why I fondly refer to her as Jwaala Daaku!!)