Agent 420(the tiffin taster)!!

 If my marriage had a soundtrack, the percussion would be the sound of Tupperware lids clicking shut, and the lead melody would be my husband saying, "Hey, have you seen my lunchbox?"

Most people lose their keys or their phone. My husband? He loses lunchboxes. It is his superpower. He treats lunch containers like disposable tissues. Ever since we got married, I’ve watched a steady parade of high-quality plastic enter his office, never to be seen again. At this point, I’m convinced there is a secret underground society in his office building made entirely of his "lost" water bottles, helmets, and lunchboxes.

But last week, the universe threw us a plot twist.

The Great Pre-Lunch Heist

Usually, he loses the box after eating. This time, someone snatched it before lunch.

He called me, sounding like he’d just witnessed a heist. "It's gone! Someone took it!"

While he was panicking about his missing calories, I was actually flattered. I started laughing. My cooking is so legendary that we now have corporate spies stealing it before the noon bell? I told him, "Look on the bright side—someone finally appreciates my hard work enough to commit a crime for it!"

I told him to go buy lunch. For the first time in history, he didn't come home with a brand-new box. I think he knew that if he brought one more "mismatched set" box into my kitchen, I might lose it. My cabinets are already a chaotic museum of "The One That Got Away."

In a building with over 5,000 employees, the odds of seeing that box again were zero. We all know the drill: you assume someone took it by mistake because they have the same generic blue lid, or you quietly blame the "system."

But then, the miracle happened.

Today, the box was returned to security. Not just returned—cleaned. I have so many questions for this Mystery Eater:

Did you enjoy the spices?

Did you find the salt levels adequate?

Did it take you a full week to "muster the courage" to drop it off at security, or did it just take that long to scrub the turmeric stains out?

A Missed Bollywood Opportunity

Honestly, I’m a little disappointed. This could have been a real-life The Lunchbox movie moment. I was half-expecting a handwritten note tucked inside: "The dal was life-changing. Please send more Jeera rice on Wednesday. Sincerely, Cubicle 420"

I wouldn't even have been mad! If the Mystery Eater is reading this: I’m open to starting a private "Dabbawala" service just for you. I’ll even send an extra box with my courier (aka my husband) every day.

The only catch? It’s going to be chargeable. And for the love of all things holy, please don't make me wait a week for the box to come back next time.

P.S. To the Mystery Eater: If you’re reading this, thank you for the dishwashing services. Next time, leave a review! 4 stars? 5 stars? Or was it just "better than the cafeteria food"? My husband is already prepared to be your daily delivery driver—for a small fee, of course.

Honestly, you should probably just give me a 1-star review and be done with it. I know the complaints already:

The "Sambar" Scandal: You probably thought, "Who puts raw papaya and potatoes in sambar?!" It’s a total identity crisis, right?

The Flavor Gap: Not enough salt, zero spice, and absolutely no tamarind.

The Bean Fry Fiasco: Again with the potatoes! And without coriander powder, does a dish even legally count as "tasty"?

But here’s the thing: That wasn't your standard South Indian meal—that was authentic Odia homely food.  In our kitchen, that’s exactly how we love it! Whether it stands up to your idea of "proper" sambar or not, it’s a taste of home for us. Never mind, though—I hope you enjoyed the change, even if you missed the cuisine memo entirely!

However... if you happen to be a fellow Odia who actually enjoyed the Dalma and the simple flavors—then you are more than welcome! Feel free to place your regular dabba service order with us, yet I warn you salt will be in lower side as that's my signature style. 

The Clever, The Foolish, and the Hollow in Between!!

 I was reading a story to my son today about two characters: Neing and Asu. It is a story as old as time itself. Neing is the "foolish" one—the one who gives, the one who works, the one who yields. Asu is the "clever" one—the one who receives, the one who tricks, the one who masters the art of letting others serve him.

In the logic of the story, Neing’s "foolishness" is presented as a virtue. He works harder because he doesn't know how to demand. He gives up his share because he cannot bring himself to force his needs upon another. In the world of children’s books, we call this kindness. But in the world of adults, we call it a deficit.

In the fables, a great storm eventually comes. The clever one’s greed leads to his downfall, and the foolish one is rewarded for his endurance. We tell our children these stories to make them "good." We tell ourselves these stories to justify our own silence.

But as I closed the book, I looked at the reality around me. In the real world, the storm often never happens. The "Asus" of our lives don’t lose; they accumulate. They move from one success to another, building their empires on the backs of those who were too "good" to say no. They occupy the rooms, they claim the credit, and they sleep soundly while the "Neings" are left with the labor.

The tragedy of the "Neing" isn't just the extra work. It is the hollow that grows within when they realize their "goodness" was used as a tool for their own depletion. By not forcing their needs on others, they effectively told the world that their needs didn't exist.

As I read this to my son, I feel a deep urge to change the narrative.

Neing cannot go back in time. He cannot undo the years where his hard work was harvested by the clever. Those chapters are written in stone. But he is learning that while he cannot change the past, he can certainly change the terms of the future.

I am teaching my son this story, but I am also teaching him the lesson Neing learned late: that goodness is only sustainable when it is protected by boundaries. Neing is finally learning to build a fence around his efforts. He is learning that his hard work is a treasure to be guarded, not a commodity to be handed over to the first clever person who asks. The storm may never come for Asu, but Neing is busy building a house that finally belongs to him.

वक्त की रेत!!

 सपने इतने ऊँचे देखो, आँखें न मूँद पाएँ,

जब तक मंज़िल मिल न जाए, नींद न पास आए।

पर हकीकत बड़ी कड़वी है, ए दोस्त ज़रा देख,

ढलती उम्र में नींद और ख़्वाब, दोनों छोड़ जाएँ।

सब यहीं छूट जाना है, फिर ये कैसा मलाल है?

नींद और सपनों का साथ चलना, बस एक सवाल है।

हम तो वहीं ठहरे रहे, पर वक्त भागता गया,

हमें पीछे धकेल कर, अपना रस्ता नापता गया।

इस दौड़ में अक्सर, मुस्कान भी खो जाती है,

सपनों के साथ अपनों की पहचान भी खो जाती है।

न जाने क्या-क्या संग लेकर, ये गुज़र जाता है,

पीछे बस यादों का एक धुंधला सा साया छोड़ जाता है।

जब अंत निश्चित है सबका, तो ये कैसी बेबसी है?

जाने क्यों दिल से जाती नहीं, ये जो अजीब सी उदासी है।

कोई आए और ले जाए, इस खामोश दर्द को अपने साथ,

अब ये बोझिल रूह मेरी, माँगे उम्र भर की मात।

The medal of the minute: a lesson from the Rama Setu!!

 They say we humans have a brain that can think, and that is why we are the mightiest creatures—the best creation of the Supreme Lord. However, time and again, the animal kingdom has proven its ability to think, often outsmarting the very humans who claim superiority.

​Consider the squirrel present during the making of the Rama Setu. Did it not display a profound ability to think and feel?

​Indeed, it did. In fact, being one of the tiniest of creations, it didn't seem bothered by its size or its impact. It didn't wait for permission or compare its stature to the task at hand. It simply did exactly what it could do. Driven by a genuine intention to contribute, the squirrel took a dip in the sea, rolled in the sand to cover itself, and then hurried onto the Setu to shake itself clean. Each grain of sand was its silent offering to the bridge.

​The squirrel was not discouraged by the humongous vanaras, the giants who could uproot massive stones and toss them into the abyss. While the magnitude of the giants surely accelerated the construction, the tiny squirrel possessed a purity of purpose that the "Grand Creation" required.

​This tiny act did not go unnoticed. In a world of chaos and boulders, the Lord Himself paused. The squirrel was picked up by the Divine hand and received a pat on its back—gentle strokes that left three permanent lines.

​For all its fellow species, and for all of us who feel petite in a world of giants, those lines remain. They are not just fur; they are a medal to be remembered always. A mark that proves that while the world measures the weight of the stone, the Universe measures the weight of the heart.

हक छीनने से पहले (Haq Chheen Ne Se Pehle)!!

 Today, I watched a movie called "Haq". But the screen faded into the background as the word itself got stuck in my throat. I had to pause the film because my own life was playing a much more painful script and I felt like scribbling a poem out of it.

The tears came silently—the way they always do. Not a loud cry for help, but a quiet leak from a foundation that has held too much for too long.

हक जताना पड़ता है? पर किसके आगे?

जब कोई अपना, जाने से पहले एक बार बोले न...

जब कोई अपना, बोझ की तरह किसी और को दे दे,

जब कोई अपना, 'चीट' करने से पहले एक पल सोचे न...

तो कैसा हक? जिसे हमें ज़ाहिर करना पड़े।

पर जो प्यार दिया हमने, क्या उसका कोई हक नहीं?

क्या जो सम्मान दिया हमने, उसका कोई मान नहीं?

क्या जब हम पीछे खड़े थे ढाल बनकर, उसका कोई वजूद नहीं?

फिर किसी को क्यों नहीं दिखा हमारा हक?

क्यों ज़ाहिर करनी पड़ेगी अब हमें अपनी इबादत?

वाह रे किस्मत, वाह क्या खेल खेला है तूने—

हक मारकर पूछता है: "क्यों नहीं जताया तुमने?"

कम से कम ये पैंतरे समझा तो देता... 

मेरा हक छीनने से पहले।

Translation:

They say one must claim their right... but before whom?

When our own "person" leaves without a single word,

When they hand us over like a burden to someone else,

When they don't pause for a second before they betray...

What kind of "right" is that, which needs to be explained?

Was there no right in the love I gave so freely?

Was there no honor in the respect I offered blindly?

When I stood behind them, a silent pillar, was that existence invisible?

Then why did no one see my right back then?

Why must I prove my worth to the world now?

Bravo, Destiny! What a cruel game you play—

You crush my rights, and then ask: "Why didn't you speak?"

You could have at least explained these tactics... before you stole what was mine.

Resigning from the Ideal!!

 

​A post on a screen took my breath away today—

Not with joy, but with the sharp, cold edge of envy.

A couple in their winters, united after the long frost,

Coming together to stitch the pieces of their unfilled selves.

Sixty years of "Goodness" finally traded for a moment of Truth.

​And like a glitch in the Cosmic CEO’s grand design,

A vivid picture flickered to life in my own mind:

A world tour with a man who stares, sunglasses or not,

A picturesque sunset, a glass of vintage irony in hand,

And a laugh that echoes louder than the silence of my chores.

​My heart aches—not a dull throb, but a violent press—

Urging me to find a way, any way, out of this foundation.

It whispers: “Stop being the Ideal One. Stop the Sacrifice.”

It screams: “Live, laugh, love, and repeat until the ache is gone.”

​Is this life just a single, lonely trek, or are there many more to come?

I wish my desire could always be my present.

I wish the "Animal" didn't have to wait until sixty

To drink the wine it was promised at twenty

How to Win at Losing: The Legend of Uniform Number 67!!

 If you ever feel like you’re failing at life, let me tell you about Ranatunge Karunananda. In 1964, this man became a national hero in Japan by being officially, objectively, and painfully the worst runner on the track.

The Setup: Tokyo, 1964

It’s the Tokyo Olympics. 70,000 people are in the stands. The event is the 10,000 meters—which is basically 25 laps of “why did I agree to this?”

Karunananda is representing Ceylon (now Sri Lanka). He’s wearing Uniform Number 67. He’s also been sick for a week and has no business being on a track, let alone an Olympic one.

The starting gun goes off. Thirty-eight elite athletes sprint away. Karunananda... does his best.

The "Wait, Why Is He Still There?" Moment

The race ends. The winners get their medals. The crowd starts packing up their snacks to beat the traffic. But then, people notice something moving on the track.

It’s Number 67.

He is an entire lap behind. He is clutching his side like he’s trying to keep his internal organs from escaping. He is in absolute agony.

The crowd’s initial reaction? Classic human jerkiness. They started booing. They jeered. "Hey buddy, the race is over! Go home! You’re embarrassing us!"

But Karunananda didn't stop. He just kept shuffling. Left foot, pain, right foot, more pain.

The Great Vibe Shift

Slowly, the stadium realized something. Nine other guys—perfectly healthy, world-class athletes—had quit because they weren't going to win. But this guy? This guy was dying in slow motion just to finish 25th out of 25.

The jeers turned into awkward silence, then a few claps, and then—BAM. 70,000 people stood up. They started screaming for him like he was prime Usain Bolt. He crossed the finish line in dead last to a standing ovation that lasted longer than the actual race.

When reporters asked him why he didn't just crawl into a hole and hide, he gave the ultimate "Dad" answer:

"I have a little daughter. One day I’ll tell her her father went to the Olympics and finished the race."

Translation: I’m not fast, but I’m not a quitter.

The 50-Year Plot Twist

Karunananda’s story became legendary in Japan. He was put into elementary school textbooks. For decades, Japanese kids were taught: "Don't be the guy who quits; be the guy in Number 67."

Fast forward to 2016. A Sri Lankan grad student named Oshadi moves to Japan. She’s struggling. The language is hard, the school is stressful, and she’s ready to pack it in and go home.

Then she finds out her grandfather was a celebrity in Japan. Specifically, he was that guy.

She watches the video of her granddad stumbling around that track while 70,000 strangers lose their minds. She remembers her family’s motto: "Finish what you started."

The Moral of the Story

Oshadi didn't quit. She stayed, learned Japanese, and became a care worker for the elderly in Japan. She’s now taking those skills back to Sri Lanka to help her own country.

So, the next time you’re "lapping" everyone else in the wrong direction:

Don't stop.

Clutch your side for dramatic effect.

Remember that finishing last with dignity is way cooler than quitting because you aren't first.

Sometimes the biggest standing ovation isn't for the guy with the gold medal—it’s for the guy who refused to get off the track.

Mitti Ka Tan, Market Ka Crash

 We all like to think our challenges are special. We wrap them in fancy names like "trauma," "career setbacks," or "mythological legacies." But if you strip away the gold-plated labels, we are all just different versions of the same suffering. We are all "cracked cups" trying to hold onto a wine that is constantly leaking.

Harivansh Rai Bachchan understood this long before we became "Corporate Number 4s" in the MNC of life.

The King in Gold: The Ultimate CEO

Bachchan famously wrote:

"Bair badhaate mandir masjid, mel karaati madhushala!"

(बैर बढ़ाते मंदिर मस्जिद, मेल कराती मधुशाला!)

"Temples and mosques breed enmity, but the tavern brings hearts together!"

Why? Because the "King in Gold" in the temple is like a CEO of a global MNC. He’s focused on the "Delivery." He’s looking at the larger picture—the stars are still spinning, the seasons are changing, the "Show" is going on.

I told Him today: "In your larger picture, my existence doesn't matter." I haven't reached a position of power. I am not a "glitch" in His plan. I’m just a small line item that can be deleted without the system crashing. The CEO ignores the "here and there" because as long as the statues are shiny, the brand looks perfect.

The Mask of the "Gentleman"

We spend our lives wearing the "Gentleman" or "Ideal Woman" mask. We act civilized. But Bachchan’s Madhushala is where the masks fall off.

"Mitti ka tan, masti ka man, kshan-bhar jeevan — mera parichay."

(मिट्टी का तन, मस्ती का मन, क्षण-भर जीवन — मेरा परिचय।)

"A body of clay, a mind of joy, a life that lasts a moment — this is my identity."

When we drop the "Gentleman" attitude, we realize we are all animals at the core. An animal doesn't build a temple to justify its ego; it just tries to survive. And survival is getting harder. After, I left my job, I’ve realized how difficult it is to earn even a little money. I tried to trade today—the Market crashed, I got a teaching role, the pay is like a joke and the work is like a mountain. I talked about mushroom farming and it seems like a daydream. 

The "Wine" in the tavern is the only thing that unites us with our animal nature—the raw truth that we are just hungry, tired clay.

The Universal Grind

Bachchan said:

"Rah pakad tu ek chala chal, paa jayega madhushala."

(राह पकड़ तू एक चला चल, पा जाएगा मधुशाला।)

"Pick one path and just keep walking; you will eventually find the tavern."

But let’s be real: some of us are walking on a treadmill that’s going nowhere. My plans are like daydreams in a boardroom where I don't have a seat. The CEO wants his delivery, and the tavern is just the "Break Room" where we finally get to stop pretending that our "hustle" is working.

Your unique challenge might be a husband’s ego, and mine might be a mushroom farm that won't grow, but in the tavern, we are all just "thirsty animals."

The Wrap-Up

If the "King in Gold" won't look at the foundation, then the foundation will stop looking at Him. I’m trading the "Mandir" of expectations for the "Madhushala" of reality.

The Show Goes On: The MNC of the universe is running smoothly, but it's running on the backs of people like me who are struggling for the crumbs.

The Animal Wins: I’m leaning into my animal core. I am tired of being "civilized" about my situation and my pain.

Daydreams as Wine: If my plans are just daydreams, then I’ll drink those daydreams. They are the only "wine" I can afford right now.

To my readers: Stop trying to impress a CEO who isn't reading your performance review. If your side-hustles are crashing and your teaching job is draining you, come to the tavern. At least here, the wine doesn't care if your plans failed.

Devdas Drama and my grumpy shoulders!!

 Back in 2011, I wrote a post about that famous Devdas dialogue where everyone tells him to leave everything—the village, the girl, the life.

"Babuji ne kaha gaun ko chhod do... sab ne kaha sab kuch chhod do."

Fast forward fifteen years, and I’m still being told to "leave it." Leave the anger, leave the past, leave the stress. My career decided to leave me first, and my body decided to "leave" its ability to lift my arms because of a staircase fall I took in 1995.

Apparently, my shoulders have a better memory than my husband when I ask him for breakfast.

The Great Staircase Sequel (No One Asked For)

You know you’re a "Petite Powerhouse" when your body decides to re-enact a twenty-year-old accident just to make a point. I woke up this morning and my arms said, "Remember 1995? We do. And we’re on strike until further notice." It’s a classic Sharmistha move—being "dragged" into a sacrifice I didn't sign up for. I didn't choose to be a martyr; I just got cornered by a staircase and a cold that won't take a hint.

The King in Gold vs. The Woman in Pajamas

I’ve had a few words with the Almighty lately. I told Him, "Listen, You’re sitting in temples wearing gold and diamonds like a King, while I’m sitting here in my pajamas with a blocked nose. Who’s really winning here?"

I realized that if God has an ego, then as a Gemini, I’m allowed to have a double dose of it. If the universe wants me to be the "foundation" , it could at least provide some better snacks and a husband who understands that "bringing breakfast" isn't a three-day project.

My New "To-Don't" List

In 2011, I was asking for a list of what to do. Today, I’m making a "To-Don't" list:

Don't expect me to be "gentle" and "serene" when I’m sick. I’m not in a mood right now.

Don't tell me to "chhod do" (leave) my anger. I like my anger. It keeps me warm while I wait for my slow breakfast.

Don't compare me to "tall models" on a ramp. I’m built for stability. I’m the one you want nearby when the ramp eventually collapses because it was built by people who don't understand foundations.

The Bottom Line

Life might be trying to "Devdas" me into a corner, but I’m not drinking the sadness. I’m drinking ginger tea and judging everyone from my bed.

The world can keep its golden statues and its "tall" requirements. I’ve got a letter from my son that’s worth more than a temple, a brother who actually appreciates my taste, and a spirit that refuses to be "dragged" anywhere without a fight.

To my readers: If the world tells you to "chhod do" (leave) everything, start by leaving the people who give you a headache. It’s much lighter that way.

Matching the Spirit: The Photo Cake That Crossed the Miles!!

 My brother is one of those rare people who always "gives more." Whether it’s flowers, cakes, or time, his generosity has always felt like a benchmark I couldn't quite reach. But this year, for his birthday, I decided to stop measuring and start "matching."

​Knowing he isn't fond of sweets, I skipped the usual sugar-heavy hampers. Instead, I sent a savory combo namkeen and dry fruit treats. But the centerpiece was a custom photo cake—and I knew exactly which memory to use.

​The photo I chose was one of our favorites: a picture of my brother and my son, both beaming with joy. They were wearing matching t-shirts he had brought back from Thailand. It’s a photo that perfectly captures the bridge between my childhood (him) and my future (my son).

​The Surprise Reveal

​When we got on the conference call yesterday after the delivery, I told him, "Open the cake and have a look."

​Unlike the minimalist reactions I sometimes encounter, my brother is a great communicator. He was genuinely taken by surprise. Seeing his own face alongside my son’s, captured in a moment of pure happiness, hit exactly the right note.

​I’ve spent a lot of time lately feeling "petite" in my life—feeling like my needs and my results are somehow smaller than everyone else's. But today, as we laughed on that con-call, I didn't feel small.

​To match the spirit of a big giver requires you to tap into your own abundance.  It’s about the observation. It’s about knowing that he loves savory over sweet. It’s about remembering the significance of those Thailand t-shirts.

​When my son showed him the letter and drawings he had made, the circle was complete.

​I hope I did better than ever before this time. Not because I spent more, but because I saw him more clearly. I realized that I don't need a "Hollywood-style" movie script to feel successful. I just need these moments where the miles vanish and the girl named Soumya feels exactly like she is "enough."

​To my readers: Sometimes the best way to get "unstuck" is to focus entirely on making someone else feel seen. When you match someone's spirit, you realize your own spirit was never small to begin with.

Happiness: My new year's tradition!!

 Since 2011, I’ve made it a tradition to wish everyone happiness on New Year’s Eve. Over the years, I’ve come to truly understand the profound weight behind the simple blessing our elders give when we touch their feet: "Khush raho."

It sounds so simple, yet it is perhaps the most powerful wish of all. To remain in a state of happiness despite the chaos swirling around us is a true grace. This year, I want to pass that same intention on to you.

My wish for you in 2025:

"May your year be defined not by the noise of the world, but by the quiet joys that fill your heart. I hope you find magic in the ordinary, strength in the challenges, and a year full of moments that make you truly glad to be alive."