Unveil the Other Side

In the hustle and bustle of the city, I lost my sanity. Everywhere I turned, men moved like machines, gears grinding in a race to reach the top. Achievements piled high, yet faces grew hollow. I paused, wondering—where was the time for things we truly cherish? Perhaps buried beneath deadlines and desires, or tucked away in the dusty corners of the mind, saved for a “later” that never comes. As the city roared around me, I realized the cruel truth: in chasing everything, we risk losing ourselves. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the greatest loss of all.

Rain poured softly the day Krishna first saw Purvi—draped in yellow, lighting incense at the Ganapati pandal. Their eyes met like a prayer answered. Thunder rolled, but all he heard was her laughter. From borrowed umbrellas to shared street-side chai, their story bloomed. Every rain after felt like a song only they understood. When they wed under cloudy skies, even the priest smiled, “Blessed by Bappa Himself.” Years passed, but every drizzle pulled them back to that pandal, that glance, that moment. Love, like rain, sometimes arrives quietly—soaking deep, leaving music in its wake. Krishna and Purvi were always meant to be.

 Shravya, a young girl from Bangalore, was living a new life in Mumbai’s bustling Seepz, Andheri. It was the early 2000s, and her first job, fresh out of college, had brought her here. Away from home, she embraced the thrill of independence, juggling work deadlines and weekend outings with her newfound friends. The city taught her to manage money, from budgeting her modest salary to savoring street-side vada pavs. Each day was a lesson in self-reliance, and her tiny rented apartment became her sanctuary. Shravya was no longer just a girl from Bangalore—she was shaping into a confident, independent woman.

 In the lively class 6, a buzz filled the air as the results of the essay contest were announced. Sharvari, known for her flair with words, had always been the star. But this time, her name wasn’t called. Instead, Pradyumna, a quiet boy with big dreams, had claimed the top spot. Surprised whispers filled the room as Sharvari managed a smile, clapping for her friend. Later, Pradyumna approached her, nervously holding his winning essay. "Would you read it?" he asked shyly. Sharvari’s smile grew genuine as she read his heartfelt words, feeling pride replace any disappointment in that sweet moment.

 In the 1970s, in a quaint Karavali village, Priya ran a tiny shop on the main road, a hub for locals. She was fiery, smart, and always ready with a warm smile for her customers. Every morning, Ramanna, a humble farmer, would stop by for his daily supplies, secretly hoping for a chat with Priya. Though shy, his laughter was infectious. One rainy afternoon, as Priya struggled to close her shop shutters against the storm, Ramanna rushed over, helping her with ease. Their laughter mingled with the raindrops, sparking an unsaid promise between them, a bond only the village understood.

Diwali mornings had a magic of their own. We’d start early, collecting bright flowers and leaves from the garden, ready to transform them into a rangoli masterpiece. My cousin, sister and I would sit around, arranging petals and leaves in colorful patterns in the living room. Inside, the warm, comforting aroma of sweets filled the air as my mom and aunt worked together in the kitchen. Each ladle dipped into the hot oil sizzled with the promise of something delicious. My mouth watered as I tried to sneak a piece, and they shooed me away with a laugh. Then, it was time for the hot oil bath, a ritual both dreaded and cherished. Mom would pour the oil over our heads, muttering blessings, and we’d stand there, slippery and impatient to rinse off and get into our new clothes. Afterward, we gathered for the pooja, offering thanks to Goddess Lakshmi and lighting diyas all around the house. As twilight set in, the flickering glow turned our home into a warm, welcoming beacon of light and joy. F...