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A rediscovery of rhythm, courage, and joy — one step at a time. Back Then It was many moons ago. I look back fondly on my college days — a free-spirited 19-year-old in Bangalore, graduating from a prestigious all-girls college, dancing to Shyam and the West Wind, and swaying to the beat on the occasional Saturday evening at the Club. I still remember performing on stage to I’ve Had the Time of My Life from Dirty Dancing — dressed in an all-black ensemble: a skirt and top, fee

A personal reflection on Diwali — part laughter, part longing — where food, diyas, and memory coalesce, reminding us that love glows quietly long after the night quietens to your breath. I don’t consider myself particularly religious (veering right seems to be very happening these days) — more spiritually leaning, if that makes sense. That doesn’t mean I’m sitting in lotus yoga poses wearing Lululemon pants, seeking enlightenment, hot and sweaty, or meditating for hours to tr

I wrote this on a summer evening when my dad was still here — full of energy, wit, and stubborn charm. Now, months after he’s gone, his footsteps still echo in memory. This is my way of standing by him, once more.

Hey… thanks for stopping by! I hope to make your day — just like you made mine. This is a space for my unfiltered take on life — A peek...

Shadow is the strategist. Coffee dreams on the mast. Fury stands guard. I may be at the wheel — but they call the shots. A founder's flex… told through three dogs on a boat.

Rain. Rage. Resilience. And one SUV that thinks it’s Hulk Hogan on Mars protein powder. A monsoon rant that turned wax eloquent. It’s been raining where I live. I consider myself a pluviophile — I love the rains, what with the smell of wet earth and raindrops trickling down my windows, embellishing them with little spheroids of crystal. It’s not cool to complain, I am painfully aware. Be a part of the solution, they say, not the prophet of doom and gloom. The irony, of course

when cardio, chaos and cannine charisma collide ! There’s something about a dog.Those eyes — staring straight into your soul — liquid, molten pools of love. The warm nuzzles against your cheek, the unabashed joy when you return home… priceless. For everything else in life, there’s plastic — notwithstanding your credit score. I was watching a dog eulogy on my Instagram feed the other day and nearly welled up. Naturally, I hastily forwarded it to a bunch of fellow dog empaths.

Not this. Not that. Just Becoming. We’re told to be different. To break boxes. To stand out. But what happens when you actually do? Be different. Don’t walk the beaten path. We see that call to arms everywhere — on social media, on billboards, in every #breakthebox slogan. But is that really the change we need? Or is it just superficial and light, never landing the way it should? “Dress different,” they say. Neon is in… pastel is out. But can you think different? Can you reb

Not just a Croissant. A metaphor for living well! Croissant, ah! Pronounced the way the French do (croah-ssahn)... or just Croissant, the way I do. Help me out here — I might be wandering aimlessly in an intonation wasteland. But honestly, I don’t really give a nickel. Don't label me as a pretentious snob — I am just a wanderer in search of life-altering truths. I have the association bias, you see. I like to find patterns and meaning in everything. The decadent, buttery, fla

Not for the applause. Not for the front row seat.Invisible work. Quiet strength. They say brand building is all about marquee, visibility, and flexing your muscles — being the strongman, flaunting your fancy Ivy League degrees, and celebrating every new round of funding. But what about building yourself? That’s a different ball game altogether. And this begs the question — is the brand really different from its founder/creator? I don’t know about others. To me, they have to b