Many years ago, I was working with an airline.

There are certain stories that have nothing particularly extraordinary about them when they happen, but somehow they stay with you.

This is one of those stories.

It was late at night, and the aircraft was getting ready to leave. I was on the tarmac, working on something that needed to be sorted before departure. There was a piece of luggage that had to be offloaded in an emergency and I was waiting while the baggage handlers tried to locate it.

The airport was doing what airports do at night. Engines humming, people moving quickly, and that familiar controlled chaos of getting hundreds of people and thousands of pieces of luggage where they needed to be.

Our aircraft was parked beside another one. Subhash was standing next to the conveyor belt that carried the luggage from the tarmac into that aircraft. Hands on his waist, chewing away like a cow in a meadow, he seemed almost reluctant to acknowledge the baggage truck snailing its way towards him, as though it were an unfortunate interruption to an otherwise perfectly pleasant evening. I recognised Subhash. He worked for our airline from time to time, one of the contract baggage handlers who worked across multiple airlines.

The baggage cart finally arrived, loaded with multiple boxes. Many of them had one word clearly printed on them.

FRAGILE.

I watched in horror as Subhash picked up the fragile boxes, one after another, and threw them onto the conveyor belt. Is he really doing that?

With every box, my heart sank a little, wondering what on earth was happening to whatever was inside. And somewhere between my conscience screaming STOP and my imagination picturing shattered contents, another little voice piped up: What if that box was mine? Would I want my luggage being thrown around like that?

That was enough.

Even though it wasn’t my airline and, frankly, it was none of my business, I heard myself yelling:

“Fragile hai, Subhash! Kya kar rahe ho?”
It’s fragile, Subhash! What are you doing?

He stopped.

He looked at me, slightly puzzled, as though I had just asked him to solve world peace.

And then, with the most matter-of-fact expression, he said:
“Arre, box toh theek hai na. Andar kya hai, mujhe usse kya?”
The box is intact. Why do I care what’s inside?

And then he carried on, muttering to himself in what I was fairly certain was colourful colloquial slang.

It was crazy how this conversation had found its way into the deepest cabinets of my subconscious. Because one night, after a particularly intense conversation with a friend about how she had explained away cheating on her spouse, I found myself back on that airport tarmac in a dream.

Subhash was there, holding a box marked FRAGILE.

His face kept shifting between his and my friend’s. But the words were unmistakably his:
“Box toh theek hai. Andar kya hai, mujhe usse kya?”
The box is alright. Why do I care what’s inside?

The next morning, sitting with my coffee during my usual me-time, I thought about the dream, Subhash, my friend, and the connection that was impossible to miss.

So many times, we treat our relationships the way Subhash treated those boxes.

We look at what is visible. We look at the box. We see the marriage certificate, the family photographs, the holidays, the anniversaries. From the outside, the box is there. It looks intact.

What makes a relationship meaningful isn’t simply that the box exists. It is what is happening inside it.

Inside that box is trust. Vulnerability. Intimacy. Respect. Friendship. Safety. Affection. Shared dreams.
The little things we say and do that tell another person,

I see you.

I value you.

And most importantly…

You are safe with me.

And all of those things are fragile.

The conversation that sparked the dream was with a friend who told me she felt it was somehow her karma to cheat on her husband. She had met an incredibly exciting man who showered her with so much attention and affection, something she had struggled to find within her own marriage. Her husband worked long hours, travelled frequently, and somewhere along the way, they had become more like roommates than partners.

I understood why she was drawn to the attention. The loneliness. The excitement of feeling seen again.

But I kept thinking about the box.

The box is what the world can see.

The contents are what your partner has placed inside it.

Their trust. Their vulnerability. Their faith in you. Their belief that the person they have chosen will protect them. Their heart. The feeling that they are safe with you. Their belief that, even when life gets difficult, the two of you will fight for each other and for what you have built together.

And yet, how often do we care for what the box looks like and completely disregard the contents?

She was busy raising the children.
He was working all the time.
We had become more like roommates.
I was lonely.
I had needs.
I got bored.

There will always be reasons. Some may even be completely valid.

And then there is karma.

Meeting someone new may be part of our karma. Some people enter our lives to awaken something in us, to show us what we’ve been missing, or to teach us something we need to learn. The lesson isn’t always about the person we meet. Sometimes it is about what that person reveals about us. 

Karma may put someone in front of you. It doesn’t make the choice for you.

Even when those reasons are completely valid, being unhappy still leaves us with a choice about what we do with that unhappiness. A reason for being unhappy is not the same thing as permission to destroy what someone has entrusted to you.

If the marriage is no longer working, perhaps the bravest thing you can do is admit it. Talk about it. Try to repair it. Seek help. Change something. And if, after all of that, the relationship truly cannot be saved, it may be time to put the box down… gently. Throwing it around while secretly reaching for another box is not the same thing.

Cheating isn’t the only way we throw the box around. We throw it around when we constantly criticise the person inside it, humiliate them in front of others, stop listening, make them feel small, unseen or unsafe, or take their love for granted because we assume they’ll always be there. We throw it around through anger, resentment, addiction and the ways we refuse to take responsibility for the wounds that were ours to carry, not our spouse’s to inherit.

We don’t always break the box in one dramatic moment. Most times, we just keep dropping it, day after day, until one day we look inside and wonder when everything got so damaged. Sometimes the contents become so shattered that no amount of careful handling can put them back together again.

But society loves an intact box, right?

We celebrate the 25th anniversary, the 40th anniversary, the golden jubilee. We smile for the photograph, cut the cake and post it on Instagram.
Forty years of togetherness. ❤️

And everyone comments about what an incredible couple they are.
“Look at them. Forty years! That’s what marriage is.”

We hear it from our grandparents and parents too.
“Look how long we’ve been together.”

As though longevity, by itself, is proof of a successful relationship. But sometimes, if you ask the children who grew up inside that box, you might hear a very different story.
They were miserable.
They barely spoke.
They fought all the time.
They slept in separate rooms.
They stayed together for us.
They should never have been together.

And suddenly, the box doesn’t look quite so impressive anymore.

What is the achievement in keeping a box intact if everything inside it has been shattered?

This isn’t an argument for giving up on relationships. Quite the opposite.
It is an invitation to look inside the box a little more often.
To notice when something is breaking, repair what can be repaired, nurture what is still beautiful and have that difficult conversation instead of simply smiling for the photograph.

Yes, of course, there is something beautiful about saying, “We have been together for forty years.”
There’s something even more beautiful about being able to say:
“We have been together for forty years, and what we placed inside that box all those years ago is still safe, still cherished and still worth protecting.”

Someone once said that if we’re fortunate, we get about eighty summers in our lifetime.

Eighty.

Imagine spending some of those summers with the people we cherish, nurturing the relationships that matter and protecting the connections we have been entrusted with.

At the end of our lives, it won’t matter how long we managed to keep the box intact.

What will matter is what was inside it, who we shared it with and how carefully we held it.

So here’s my question for you today.

Look at the many boxes that have been entrusted to you.
Your spouse. Your children. Your closest friend.
The people who have placed their trust, their vulnerability and their hearts in your hands.

And ask yourself:

What’s in the box?

And more importantly, is what’s inside safe with you?

For the Emotionally Exhausted

Your Body has been speaking
Today let it finish the sentence

It’s Valentine’s Day! A day of love, hearts, and soppy love songs. And here I am, deep in the heart of the forest, being chased by a rhino.

Oh man! We were gingerly driving down a peaceful jungle track when she literally exploded out of nowhere. My driver floored it and not a second too soon. I see my life flash before her horn. I look back and that’s when I notice the baby with her, and suddenly it all makes sense. Maybe she just doesn’t want visitors. And honestly, I get it. All that pregnancy weight, still feeling a little moody, and all you want is quiet time with your baby without random, annoying guests popping in unannounced, cameras in hand and big goofy smiles. But she’s chased us into a denser part of the jungle, and today I had fully intended to stay in the grasslands where a gorgeous male tiger, Dabangg, is usually on the prowl. Just as my mood begins to sink, a familiar whoosh-whoosh-whoosh forces me to look up and instantly lifts my spirits.

The beautiful Great Hornbill flies over my head and settles onto a branch on a nearby tree. My driver says, “Ma’am chale kya?” (Ma’am, shall we go?) Honestly, sometimes it just annoys me. Forests are so full of magic, but unless there is a tiger involved somehow, everyone seems to lose interest pretty quickly.

The Great Hornbill is one of the most spectacular birds you can encounter in an Indian forest. Massive, unmistakable and somehow both prehistoric and elegant at the same time, it moves through the canopy with a deep, rhythmic whoosh that you hear before you see it. With its enormous curved bill and striking casque, it looks almost unreal, like something imagined rather than evolved. But beyond its dramatic appearance, what makes the Great Hornbill truly fascinating is its behaviour, especially the extraordinary partnership between male and female.

This one’s clearly male. You can tell by the large casque and the reddish eyes. The way he’s sitting on the branch, holding what looks like a fruit in that enormous beak, tells me there must be a nest nearby.

We wait. My driver is looking at Instagram. The hornbill is looking at me, possibly doing a threat analysis. And I am scanning the canopy above, looking for a tiny hole in one of the trees. And then I see it. A round cavity in the trunk, dark and quiet, almost easy to miss. Somewhere inside, hidden from view, the female waits.

I have always been fascinated with hornbill relationships. To me, they symbolise true love in its purest form. Firstly, hornbills are known to form long-term monogamous bonds, which in today’s day and age feels almost rare. But what fascinates me even more is their partnership and the way they show up for each other.

During nesting season, their relationship takes on an extraordinary dimension. The female chooses a cavity in a tree and then seals herself inside, using mud, fruit pulp and debris to close off the entrance, leaving only a small opening. From that moment on, she cannot leave. She sheds her flight feathers, becomes completely vulnerable and depends entirely on the male to bring her food day after day. He returns repeatedly, carrying food in his enormous beak, feeding her through that small opening while she incubates the eggs and protects the nest from within.

What a fascinating relationship! Ironically, today is Valentine’s Day. A day when the whole city and every mall is bathed in red. A day of grand gestures and outward displays of passion, red roses and love. But here I am, in the middle of the forest, witnessing perhaps the greatest display of love there is. And yet it is not loud, not showy, not dramatic.

Because what I am witnessing here is not about spectacle. There are no roses, no declarations, no audience. Just a male hornbill returning again and again, carrying food, showing up with quiet consistency while the female remains hidden inside the nest, trusting completely in his reliability. It is not dramatic love. It is dependable love. The kind that is built slowly through repetition, through presence, through small actions that do not look grand from the outside but mean everything to the one waiting within.

I wonder how she chose him. Long before they begin nesting together, the male brings her food, consistently and patiently. She assesses his reliability, his sense of responsibility. She watches who he is through his actions. She gauges how he will be when she is at her most vulnerable. Will he take off? Will he come back? Will he search for greener pastures, a different mate, something more entertaining? If he does, she simply leaves and finds a partner more reliable.

I wonder if, during their courtship period, the male is also asking his own questions. Is this a bond he will honour even when life becomes heavy?

Apparently this one will. He has finally decided that I am harmless and has flown to the hole in the tree, carefully passing his fruit to the waiting beak inside.

Honestly, there are few things more beautiful than the hornbill relationship. The fact that she trusts him blindly to come back for her. The fact that he knows she’s doing her best inside. The fact that even though there exists a big, beautiful world out there for him to explore, he chooses to remain here, wrapped in his duties as a mate, as a father. The fact that she has sealed herself inside her nest, with no easy way out. If he didn’t return, she cannot simply leave. Sealed inside, she depends entirely on his return. Even if she were to eventually break free, the cost is sometimes more than just the loss of the chicks.

And it makes me think about us. About how often we talk about love as excitement, as chemistry, as grand gestures meant to be seen and admired. But real love, the kind that sustains life, looks quieter. It looks like consistency. Like showing up even when no one is watching. Like choosing responsibility over distraction, presence over novelty. In a world that constantly encourages us to look for something better, something newer, something more entertaining, perhaps the real question is not who makes our heart race the fastest, but who keeps coming back when it truly matters.

As I’m writing this, I can already hear many women getting annoyed at the stereotype of gender roles. But the hornbill story isn’t really about that. It’s not about which partner stayed to hold things together and who went out to bring in what was needed. This story is about showing up fully and fiercely in the role you chose to play. Showing up for the one you claim to love. It’s about finding gratitude not only in being the one who stays with the nest while your mate goes out to find what you need, but also in being the one who carries the responsibility of returning, again and again, grateful for the one who holds the fort and makes that return meaningful. If we could take even a single page from the hornbill’s love story and apply it to our own lives… what a fascinating love story that would be.

So today, as the world celebrates with roses and red hearts, maybe it’s time to look for the hornbills among us. Maybe it is time we learn to differentiate between the hornbills and the peacocks because most will meet peacocks in their lifetime. Beautiful in display, mesmerising to watch, appearing when the conditions are just right, but never meant to stay with just one and definitely gone when the season changes.

Because once the day is over, once the flowers fade and the love songs settle, what remains is who stays. Who returns. And who chooses you again and again… and again.

This Valentine’s, I hope you find your hornbill.
Happy Valentine’s Day.

---

About the writer

From the moment a girl enters the world, she is handed an invisible script.
Be patient. Adjust. Keep the peace. Don’t question too much. Don’t create trouble. Don’t walk away.

These messages don’t arrive loudly. They seep in quietly through family, culture, tradition, and even love, until endurance feels like virtue and silence feels like strength.

This is not the conditioning of one culture alone.
It is deeply ingrained social conditioning, shaped by culture yet echoed across societies worldwide.
And it teaches women, again and again, that staying is noble and choosing themselves is selfish.

So when a woman finds herself in an unhealthy or abusive relationship, she isn’t just facing what is happening in her present… she is battling generations of inherited beliefs that whisper:
“Stay. Adjust. This is what women do.”

We see this play out every day.

A woman finally speaks about her partner’s behaviour, hoping for understanding, and hears… often from another woman
“All men get angry. Don’t overreact. Just keep the marriage together.”

Another considers leaving a toxic relationship, but the women in her family urge her to think of reputation, shame, and community before her own wellbeing:
“What will people say?”

Women who carry emotional pain quietly are praised for it:
“You’re so strong. You’re holding the family together.”
As though suffering is proof of character.

A woman who has given up her career is told,
“How will you survive on your own?”
A sentence that quietly erodes confidence rather than offering support.

Many women are burdened with the responsibility of fixing the very person who is hurting them:
“Be patient with him. He needs you. Give him some time.”
As if her wounds are secondary.

And countless women who speak about emotional or psychological abuse are dismissed with,
“At least he doesn’t hit you.”

Sometimes, a woman gathers the courage to tell her mother what is happening behind closed doors… the humiliation, the emotional abuse, the fear, the exhaustion she can no longer carry alone.

And the response she receives is painfully familiar:
“Ignore kar.” (Ignore it)
“Don’t react.”
“These things happen in marriage.”
“Just adjust.”

What sounds like simple advice is often generations of conditioning speaking through love and fear. Many mothers are not trying to hurt their daughters. They are repeating what they themselves were taught, that survival means tolerance, silence keeps families intact, and enduring pain is simply part of being a woman.

But when a woman finally finds the courage to speak, and her reality is dismissed instead of acknowledged, she learns something dangerous: that even her pain is negotiable.

And over time, being told to “just ignore it” can slowly teach a woman to ignore her own emotional wounds, her intuition, her breaking point, and eventually, herself.

This is the quiet truth we rarely name:
when you normalise endurance at the cost of a woman’s wellbeing, you unknowingly add to the toxicity.

When pain is minimised, explained away, or reframed as duty, it does not disappear… it deepens. And in this way, conditioning survives not through violence alone, but through normalisation passed lovingly from one generation to the next.

And sometimes, the cost of this conditioning is devastating.

Every few months, the news carries a familiar headline – a married woman, found dead by suicide. In India, this is not rare. It is heartbreakingly common. And yet, the conversation that follows is often the same.

We ask why she didn’t speak up sooner.
Why didn’t she ask for help.
We ask why she didn’t try harder.

What we rarely ask is what kind of life she was enduring in silence.

Many of these women were doing exactly what society asked of them – staying, adjusting, tolerating, holding families together, not “breaking” the marriage. They were praised for endurance while being denied support. Told to wait, to hope, to be patient, to give it time – until the weight became unbearable.

When a woman feels she cannot stay, and is not allowed to leave… when her pain is minimised and her voice repeatedly dismissed, silence stops being strength. It becomes lethal.

This is the part we avoid confronting.
Because it forces us to look beyond individual choices and ask harder questions about collective responsibility.

---

This Is Not About Encouraging Anyone to Leave

Let me be clear.
This is not about telling women to stay.
And it is not about telling women to leave.

This is about understanding that only that woman can know what is right for her life… her safety, her family, her future, her sense of self.

What needs to change is not her decision, but the way we as a society respond to a woman when she finally speaks about what she is enduring.

Instead of pressuring women to “adjust”, “ignore” no matter the cost, we should be asking:

• Are you safe?
• What do you need?
• How can we support you without judgement?
• Do you have the freedom to choose for yourself?

Support is not control.
Support is not advice disguised as concern.
Support is information, options, emotional safety, and respect.

---

Rewriting the Narrative

We have got to stop measuring strength by how much a woman can endure.
Strength is awareness.
Strength is autonomy.
Strength is choosing dignity over expectation and peace over performance.

When women are allowed to make decisions without fear, guilt, or societal pressure… whether that decision is to stay, to seek help, to create boundaries, or to walk away… they begin to reclaim their voice.

Not because someone told them what to do.
But because they were finally trusted to know what they need.

So maybe healing begins when a woman is no longer told to stay, no longer shamed for leaving, no longer praised for suffering , but is finally trusted enough to choose a life that doesn’t cost her herself, and to decide, without fear or permission, how she wants to live, love and exist.

And until we get there, perhaps the question we as a society must sit with is this:

How many women must disappear into an abyss of normalised neglect before we stop calling endurance strength and start calling support a responsibility?
Before we learn to listen rather than instruct?

And perhaps, before telling a woman to “just ignore it,” “adjust,” or reminding her how “strong” she is for surviving pain, we as a society need to recognise the limits, and the damage of casual advice. Not every situation needs uninformed opinions disguised as wisdom. Sometimes the more humane response is to stop normalising suffering, stop glorifying endurance, and encourage women to seek real support from trained mental health professionals equipped to help them navigate what they are living through.

And if you’re a woman reading this, can we find the courage to change the narrative?
To stop handing down endurance as our legacy?

Can we choose to end this cycle in our lifetime, at least within our own families?

It would be a tragedy if we continue teaching the next generation of women how to endure suffering, instead of teaching the next generation of men not to cause it.

---

About the writer

🌿 Why We Attract the Same Kind of People and Situations Again and Again

Have you ever noticed that no matter how much life changes on the outside, the same kinds of people seem to walk into your world?
The same conflicts repeat.
The same emotional patterns resurface.
It feels like déjà vu, but heavier- as if you’re reliving chapters you thought you had already closed.

This isn’t coincidence, and it isn’t bad luck.
It’s a deeper invitation.

🌱 Patterns Don’t Appear to Punish Us… They Appear to Teach Us

Human beings are creatures of familiarity.
Even when the familiar is painful, our subconscious gravitates toward what it already knows.
A part of us chooses what feels known over what feels new – not because it’s better, but because it feels safer.

If you have learned to overgive, you may attract those who take.
If you’ve been conditioned to stay quiet, you may attract those who speak over you.
If love once meant walking on eggshells, you may find yourself drawn to the same emotional uncertainty again and again.

We don’t repeat patterns because they’re healthy.
We repeat them because they’re unhealed.

🌿 Your Inner World Shapes Your Outer Relationships

Most of what we attract is a reflection of:

1. Our Unresolved Wounds

Old hurt acts like a magnet.
It pulls us toward people or situations that feel similar to where the wound began – giving us another chance to see it clearly.

2. Our Subconscious Beliefs

If you don’t believe you deserve respect, you accept disrespect without noticing.
If you believe conflict means love, you normalize chaos.
If you think your needs are “too much,” you shrink before you even speak.

3. Our Nervous System Patterns

Your body remembers what your mind has forgotten.
If your system is used to being on alert, a calm person may feel unfamiliar… even uncomfortable, while emotionally unpredictable people feel weirdly “right.”

4. Our Boundaries (or lack of them)

Weak boundaries invite people who push limits.
Strong boundaries naturally filter out the wrong ones.

🌲 The Good News: Patterns Break When You Do

Change doesn’t begin when new people enter your life.
Change begins when you start choosing differently.

When you begin valuing yourself, you no longer settle for crumbs.
When you heal your wounds, you stop seeking validation from the same kinds of people.
When you challenge old beliefs, you rewrite the story of what you deserve.
When your inner world becomes peaceful, chaos loses its appeal.

You evolve… so your relationships and experiences evolve with you.

✨ You Don’t Attract What You Want. You Attract What You Believe You Deserve.

And the moment you shift that belief, even slightly, the world around you rearranges.

People who once drained you fade out.
People who uplift you find their way in.
Situations that once repeated lose their power.
And life begins to feel lighter, clearer, more aligned.

This is the beauty of inner work.
It doesn’t just change how you think… it transforms what you allow, what you choose, and what you attract.

🌼 If you’re noticing patterns repeating in your life, pause and ask:

What is this trying to show me?
What old belief is being mirrored back to me?
What needs healing, attention, or truth?

Because once you see the pattern, you’re already halfway to breaking it.

If you still have questions, need clarity, or would like to schedule a session with one of our coaches, send us a message.

8 October 2025

This season, I wish you love, light, and plenty of charpai talk. Life rushes by, but these little pauses remind us of what truly matters. I hope you find yours and I hope you linger there a little longer...

Season’s Greetings everyone! 

---

I love winters. There’s something almost magical about this time of year… when you can curl up under a blanket with a good book, a cup of chai, and the comforting crackle of a fire nearby. You can feel it approaching, that faint chill in the air, that soft golden light that settles over everything.

In Delhi, this is when the city begins to transform. The fairy lights go up, markets come alive, and there’s a quiet excitement that hums through the streets. The air feels charged with anticipation and warmth (although thankfully, not yet with pollution).

I was talking to Bua (aunt) about it yesterday – how winter afternoons have their own quiet magic. The sun softens this time of year, spilling through the trees and windows in golden rays. I like to call it a golden afternoon. There’s something about these days that makes you want to slow down, to just sit back and let the warmth sink in… no rush, no plans, just being.

She was telling me about the olden days, when the whole family would gather together in the evenings, talking about their day, the rising price of vegetables, the new saree Mala was wearing… little things that somehow felt so big back then. I like to call these charpai talks. Simpler times. Even today, when you drive through the smaller towns and villages of India, you’ll still see it… people gathered outside their homes on charpais (traditional woven beds commonly used in rural India), sitting around a crackling fire, chatting the evening away, sharing stories, laughter, and life as the sun slowly fades.

Today’s life feels so different from then. I often wonder what our great-grandparents would have thought of the world we live in now, where endless streams of information pour out of a small rectangular contraption we can’t seem to put down. Imagine trying to explain Instagram reels to someone who thought the height of entertainment was watching the gramophone spin! Back then, music needed a little arm strength; now, we just tap a button and it magically floats through speakers in every corner of the house (even the bathroom).

I remember my own childhood. So much simpler. Cycling around the colony every evening, then gathering around a single table for dinner. Those long hours without electricity, when conversations would wander effortlessly into the most random, wonderful things… and my dad’s hopeless attempts at telling ghost stories that were never quite scary, just unintentionally funny.

Bua’s mum is my dadi-in-law. But honestly, she was hardly an in-law and so much more Dadi (grandmother). This time of year always reminds me of her. Years ago, we’d all finish work and head over to Dadi’s house… our family’s version of a watering hole for all us love-starved, laughter-hungry souls. We’d pour in from every corner of Delhi and its suburbs, complaining about the traffic, the chaos, the workday. And if it happened to be Karwachauth (a festival where wives fast for their husbands), the evening would be even more animated – some women starving and dramatic, some patient and smiling, and others passionately debating why they never fasted or believed in it. Every once in a while, one of the men would dutifully step outside, secretly munching on festive mathris, to look for the moon so their wives could finally break their fast.

Dadi, ofcourse, was always dressed in her most colourful saree, elegant as ever, so warm… so effortlessly Dadi. We’d all gather for the pujas, and I always did mine with her. It was the part of the evening I looked forward to the most. Every year, she’d arch her eyebrows in mock surprise and say, “Arre, tumko yeh yaad hai?” (“Oh wow, you remember?”). And every year I would feel so chuffed that I made her happy.

Some days, I would join her for a cup of chai. She would tell me about her childhood and the old tales of Rajasthan… stories of kings and queens, age-old recipes, and village folk tales. Charpai talk.

Of course, those days are just a memory now.. bittersweet. It pains me that I’ll never have those moments with her again, but at the same time, my heart is full each time I think of them, grateful that I got to be there, to live them fully.

It worries me sometimes, the pace at which life moves nowadays. When I was younger, I remember days passing so slowly. Every school year felt like a lifetime. Today my boys are shocked at how fast time is flying.

That’s why I cherish these conversations with Bua… and from behind her, the familiar sound of Phoopa(uncle)’s stories drifting through. Today he’s recounting an old fishing trip- the forest, the riverbank, the easy laughter that comes with remembering…the kind of story that instantly takes you somewhere else. In my mind, I’m right there.

I can’t help but smile. I can’t tell you how much I love these conversations. She’s in another city, sipping her chai and updating me on her day, while I’m on my walk, headphones in, trying to hit my 30-minute brisk walk goal. My mind’s begging me to slow down, my smartwatch is yelling at me to go faster, and Bua’s voice is calmly floating through it all like a warm hug. It’s our own updated version of charpai talk… just a digital one. Same warmth, better 5G.

I wonder if my kids and their kids will ever get this feeling… of slowing down, of talking about nothing, of peeling off their gadgets, of really connecting. Not about money or jobs or terrible things, but just connecting… with people who matter. I wonder if they’ll ever feel this way at this time of year… when life slows down a little, or at least pretends to. When we take the time to do up our homes and spend our evenings laughing and reminiscing.

I hope I’ll be able to pay forward the simplicity of charpai talk, that beautiful space where you can talk about absolutely nothing with the people who matter most. A space where conversations meander, laughter comes easy, and time feels like it’s standing still, just for a bit. I hope as life’s pace keeps getting faster, we don’t forget this one simple thing – to take a breath, to sit together, and to just talk.

Maybe that’s what this season really is about… a gentle reminder to pause. To put down the phone, pour another cup of chai, and listen. To the stories, the laughter, the silences… and to the people who make all of it matter.