Unveil the Other Side

 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...

The journey from a small village in Malnad to the bright lights of Las Vegas was nothing short of surreal. As a young girl, she had no idea what lay beyond those lush green hills. The world outside felt like a distant dream, something you'd hear about but never really understand. Life in the village was simple—familiar faces, routine days, the smell of rain on mud. She had no clue what challenges awaited her in the vast unknown. And then came Vegas. The sheer contrast was staggering—glittering lights, endless noise, and a pace of life that made your head spin. It wasn’t just the sights or the crowds; it was the realization that the world was so much bigger than she had ever imagined. Every corner brought a new challenge, every day a lesson. From navigating unfamiliar streets to learning how to stand her ground in this fast-moving world, it was a whirlwind. But through it all, she never forgot where she came from. The quiet strength she learned back in the village carried her throug...

Ajji in her red saree and shaved head was a sight I’ll never forget. It wasn’t a style choice, though. It was part of the mandatory rituals she had to follow after Thatha passed away. Despite the somber reason behind her look, Ajji refused to let it define her. In her 80s, modern in thought, she still wanted her lipsticks and nail polish, secretly asking us grandkids to sneak them in every time we went shopping. We’d laugh behind her back, imagining her strict face adorned with bright red lipstick, while she powdered her already pale face like it was some grand occasion. It was hilarious—and heartwarming—this strict, no-nonsense woman who still had a streak of vanity and a hidden sense of humor. She was the kind of contradiction that stays with you forever—traditional on the outside, rebellious on the inside.

 It was Poornima and Keshav's first Ganesha Habba as a married couple, and they were celebrating it at Keshav’s family home in Bangalore. The house was alive with festive energy—relatives bustling around, laughter echoing from every room, and the scent of modakas and freshly made dishes filling the air. As the couple helped decorate the Ganesha idol with fresh flowers, they couldn’t help but smile at the familiar rituals. “Remember how we’d fight over who got to place the garland?” Poornima laughed, looking at Keshav.  Keshav nodded, grinning. “And how we would sneak modakas before the aarti? Amma always knew, but she never said anything.”  Poornima’s eyes sparkled as she recalled her childhood Ganesha Habbas. “At our house, we’d compete to see who could make the best rangoli. My brother would always mess mine up on purpose,” she said, chuckling They shared these small moments as they sat down for the puja with the family, the soft chanting of mantras and the fragrance of...

Danush, a little boy with big dreams and even bigger holes in his shoes, stood under an old, wise tree. It wasn’t just any tree; it was the neighborhood’s best-kept secret, famous for its ability to keep people dry when the skies decided to open up. Today was no different, as the heavens had unleashed a downpour that could rival even the most dramatic Bollywood rain scene. Danush was in rags, though he preferred to think of his outfit as "vintage chic." His mother, pale and skinny, stood beside him, clutching her shawl like it was the latest fashion statement. She looked at Danush and then at the storm, which was now in full swing, with the wind howling like it had just discovered the joys of whistling. “Amma, do you think the rain will stop soon?” Danush asked, his voice barely audible over the storm’s symphony. His mother, ever the optimist, squinted up at the sky. “Of course, Danush. The rain will stop... eventually. Until then, we have this grand tree for company. Besides...