Expanding The Horizons

Part 1 – The Girl Who Vanished With The Moon

December 5th, 2025

It is strange how people forget things.

Stranger how some memories return only when something inside you shakes awake.

Five years ago I was in Rishikesh.

I joined a Yoga class because everyone said it was spiritual and life changing.

Maybe for me it was, but not in the way they meant.

There was a girl there.

Fair skin, deep eyes, hair like wet river stones.

She never spoke much, but she always smiled like she knew something you did not.

One evening after class, she asked if I liked horror stories.

I said yes, even though I rarely listened to any.

She suggested a podcast.

The story was about a small city where people started seeing full moon every night even when the calendar said otherwise even during new moon when the sky should have been dark.

I remember very little of the plot but I remember how she and I spent the night; laughing softly, speaking slowly and listening for almost eighteen hours as the story continued with no ending.

Eighteen hours feels like a lifetime when you do not sleep.

Eighteen hours feels like magic when your heart is young and open.

We shared something intense, something I thought would stay with me forever. But then she disappeared the next morning.

No goodbye.

No contact number.

No Instagram.

Nobody in class had her credentials.

Some said she went back to Germany.

No one could confirm.

After a few months, I forgot her.

Like we forget dreams by breakfast. Like we forget names of people we loved too quickly. Life replaced her with routine, bills, work, plans.

Until now.

Because I am getting married in seven days. A beautiful woman, a beautiful life ahead. Everything is perfect.

Except something is wrong with the sky.

For the last seven nights, I have seen the full moon.

Every night.

Bright, round, white.

People say it is normal but calendars do not lie.

There should have been darkness two days ago. But the moon was full, glowing like a white wound in the sky.

Yesterday, while checking old photos, I found a picture I never remembered taking. It was the girl. She was standing behind me. Her eyes were looking straight into the camera. Her smile was the same calm smile from Rishikesh.

But the moon behind her was full and huge like it was watching us both. I felt cold, but I kept it to myself. I thought it was coincidence.

Until today.

I was trying on my wedding sherwani when I heard a woman whisper behind me.

The voice was soft, like someone breathing inside my ear.

“Did you finish the story?”

I turned. No one was there. Only the mirror. Only me. And behind my reflection the full moon bright inside a room with no windows. Tonight is the eighth full moon. My wedding is in six days. And I do not think she ever left Rishikesh.

I think she followed me.

I think she has been waiting for me to remember.

Because some stories do not end.

Not after eighteen hours.

Not after five years.

Not even after marriage.

And I just realised something terrifying.

In that forgotten podcast they had said that the moon appears every night for only one reason. Someone who never left you is trying to come back.

To be continued…

I love how when I used to write earlier I used to look for hours for an appropriate picture. Now I can do it with an enter.
Wedding featuring Moh & Maya

November 26th, 2025

Weddings are a great sport. You dive headfirst into a crowd of familiar faces who suddenly feel distant for reasons nobody will ever fully explain. You meet cousins you once shared secrets with. You laugh with people you have not spoken to in years. There are moments when something inside you feels repulsive and awkward. And yet, when the whole fiasco ends, a strange ache settles in your chest and you wonder where all the time disappeared.

I caught myself standing alone in the middle of the wedding crowd, quietly imagining that I am Shah Rukh Khan at NASA. The song “Ye jo des hai tera, Swades hai tera” playing somewhere in the background of my mind. Nostalgia was dripping from every corner like old photographs falling out of forgotten drawers.

Is this what we call Maya and Moh?

The strange attachment to people who have changed and to memories that refuse to change.

You return home. You smell coffee again. You stare at your own walls. But your mind is still stuck remembering the oily wedding food you have been eating every day. The way bitter karela arrived like an uninvited VIP guest inside mix vegetable sabji. The body reacts first. The heart reacts later. The stomach is still traumatised.

It is going to take days before I feel city normal again. Before routine returns. Before silence replaces band baaja. Before my pulse stops vibrating to the rhythm of dhol.

Something happens inside you at weddings. Something neither science nor spirituality can completely explain. You travel across cities and emotions. You hug people you thought no longer mattered. You say goodbye to people you wish you had spoken to more. You stare at your own reflection in hotel mirrors and realise you have grown older and softer and more sentimental than you admit.

Relationships stretch and bend at weddings. Nostalgia arrives quietly. It sits beside you like an old friend and reminds you of everything you thought you had moved on from.

Maybe that is what weddings are meant to do.

Break us open.

And send us back home carrying a small piece of who we used to be.

Later, I’m too emotional right now.
Chaos Yatra

November 18th, 2025

Private chat?

Today marks the beginning of our grand 7-day, multi-city, pan-India wedding journey. Noida → Jaunpur (Flight) → Nagpur (Train for Wedding Week) → Noida (Flight Back).

A trip long enough to qualify as a US visa interview answer.

You’d think packing for a week-long family wedding is straightforward. It isn’t. It’s a spiritual test.

The weather app says 14°C in Noida. Google says Nagpur is 31°C. Holy land of Jaunpur is somewhere in between, confused like the rest of us.

So now the question is:

Do we pack sweaters, jackets, shawls, monkey caps, sunscreen, shorts, vests, or swimming trunks?

We have reached a point where we are packing woollen socks and sunglasses together like a fashion disaster waiting to happen.

Packing with a toddler is a sport.

We folded clothes and he unfolded them. We packed toys and he launched them across the room like IPL fielding practice. We zipped the bag and he climbed on top like Simba claiming Pride Rock.And then, in the middle of total chaos, the little hero coughed twice, looked at us dramatically, and passed out asleep diagonally across the bed like a retired Bollywood villain.

Instant panic.

“Should we pack more medicines?”

“Nebulizer?”

“Steam machine?”

“Thermometer?”

“Portable air purifier?”

“Nikaal deodorant wali battery wala oximeter?”

Suddenly the bag started looking less like luggage and more like a mini ICU trolley. Along with clothes and chargers, the real decisions now include: Cough syrup, Paracetamol, Nasal drops, Vicks, Portable air purifier (yes, we actually considered it) Cooking oil?? (Because someone said Nagpur oil tastes different and now nobody is emotionally stable.)

And of course… The poetic masterpiece that somehow belongs in every suitcase: “…ek aadhi padhi novel – ek ladki ka phone number – mere kaam ka ek paper…”

For context this is not an Ambani wedding. No drone shows, no international performers, no chartered jets. This is a Middle-Class EMI-Bharat wedding featuring:

– DJ Chotu & Team

– Plastic chairs with attitude

– Room-temperature soft drinks

– Cousins practicing dance steps in lobby mirrors

– A midnight committee meeting about budget

Emotion: High.

Money: Low.

Decibel level: Dangerous.

And Then… The Plot Twist

Just as I was writing this b blog,

the missus looks up and says:

“Why don’t we go to Kashi Vishwanath for darshan first?

We can join the crew later , Saanu has to return her hoodie anyway.”

A hoodie.

A whole travel plan being redrawn around a hoodie.

In that moment, I looked at:

My toddler, sleeping diagonally like a squashed octopus The bags that barely agreed to close The medicines scattered like war leftovers My already-thin emotional stability

And all I could picture was:

My parents waiting back at village house at noon, with lunch and expectations… and us arriving at 11:45 PM saying “hoodie return tha.” 😐

My heart sank. My soul left my body.

I saw my future: a courtroom-style family meeting with me as main accused.

Women, man. Blessing and cyclone in the same packaging.

Final Boarding Call

Toddler snoring.

Suitcase locked.

Medicines packed.

Air purifier still under debate.

Hoodie diplomacy in progress.

And with zero clarity and full faith, we begin:

THE GREAT BUDGET BARAAT EXPEDITION

✈️🚆🎺🍼💸

If we reach on time, I will write Part 2 from the wedding.

If not, I will write “How I Explained to My Parents Why We Arrived at Midnight.”

Later.
Chaos Yatra

November 18th, 2025

Private chat?

Today marks the beginning of our grand 7-day, multi-city, pan-India wedding journey. Noida → Jaunpur (Flight) → Nagpur (Train for Wedding Week) → Noida (Flight Back).

A trip long enough to qualify as a US visa interview answer.

You’d think packing for a week-long family wedding is straightforward. It isn’t. It’s a spiritual test.

The weather app says 14°C in Noida. Google says Nagpur is 31°C. Holy land of Jaunpur is somewhere in between, confused like the rest of us.

So now the question is:

Do we pack sweaters, jackets, shawls, monkey caps, sunscreen, shorts, vests, or swimming trunks?

We have reached a point where we are packing woollen socks and sunglasses together like a fashion disaster waiting to happen.

Packing with a toddler is a sport.

We folded clothes and he unfolded them. We packed toys and he launched them across the room like IPL fielding practice. We zipped the bag and he climbed on top like Simba claiming Pride Rock.And then, in the middle of total chaos, the little hero coughed twice, looked at us dramatically, and passed out asleep diagonally across the bed like a retired Bollywood villain.

Instant panic.

“Should we pack more medicines?”

“Nebulizer?”

“Steam machine?”

“Thermometer?”

“Portable air purifier?”

“Nikaal deodorant wali battery wala oximeter?”

Suddenly the bag started looking less like luggage and more like a mini ICU trolley. Along with clothes and chargers, the real decisions now include: Cough syrup, Paracetamol, Nasal drops, Vicks, Portable air purifier (yes, we actually considered it) Cooking oil?? (Because someone said Nagpur oil tastes different and now nobody is emotionally stable.)

And of course… The poetic masterpiece that somehow belongs in every suitcase: “…ek aadhi padhi novel – ek ladki ka phone number – mere kaam ka ek paper…”

For context this is not an Ambani wedding. No drone shows, no international performers, no chartered jets. This is a Middle-Class EMI-Bharat wedding featuring:

– DJ Chotu & Team

– Plastic chairs with attitude

– Room-temperature soft drinks

– Cousins practicing dance steps in lobby mirrors

– A midnight committee meeting about budget

Emotion: High.

Money: Low.

Decibel level: Dangerous.

And Then… The Plot Twist

Just as I was writing this b blog,

the missus looks up and says:

“Why don’t we go to Kashi Vishwanath for darshan first?

We can join the crew later , Saanu has to return her hoodie anyway.”

A hoodie.

A whole travel plan being redrawn around a hoodie.

In that moment, I looked at:

My toddler, sleeping diagonally like a squashed octopus The bags that barely agreed to close The medicines scattered like war leftovers My already-thin emotional stability

And all I could picture was:

My parents waiting back at village house at noon, with lunch and expectations… and us arriving at 11:45 PM saying “hoodie return tha.” 😐

My heart sank. My soul left my body.

I saw my future: a courtroom-style family meeting with me as main accused.

Women, man. Blessing and cyclone in the same packaging.

Final Boarding Call

Toddler snoring.

Suitcase locked.

Medicines packed.

Air purifier still under debate.

Hoodie diplomacy in progress.

And with zero clarity and full faith, we begin:

THE GREAT BUDGET BARAAT EXPEDITION

✈️🚆🎺🍼💸

If we reach on time, I will write Part 2 from the wedding.

If not, I will write “How I Explained to My Parents Why We Arrived at Midnight.”

Later.
Diwali Chaos

October 21st, 2025

As I sat with my legs dipped in a bucket of lukewarm water mixed with Epsom salt, pretending I was in some kind of luxury spa and not my own bathroom with half-burnt diyas outside, a thought struck me. Every festival is just a well-decorated chaos.

We call it Diwali vibes. But what it really means is an emotional traffic jam with lights.

There is always that one person who wants to do everything. They want to clean the house, decorate, make sweets, host guests, light diyas, burst crackers, click aesthetic photos, and somehow also save the planet. Then there is another person, usually in the same family, who wants to do absolutely nothing and has already declared that “Diwali is overrated” while eating the sweets made by the first person.

Between these two categories live the rest of us. We are the people who just wanted a peaceful long weekend but ended up in a battlefield of expectations, WhatsApp family groups, and burnt phuljhadis.

The thing about festivals is that they begin with excitement and end with an existential question. You start by buying candles and end by asking yourself why you have so many relatives.

Somewhere between wanting to celebrate and wanting to escape, we end up doing both. We click photos for social media pretending we are having the time of our lives while secretly wondering if everyone else is also this tired.

And yet, in the middle of all this drama, there comes a small moment. Everyone sits together, the house smells of incense and fried snacks, someone cracks a lame joke, and laughter fills the room. That is the moment you realise that this chaos is the point.

Festivals are never about perfection. They are about doing everything together, loudly, imperfectly, and with far too much sugar.

So yes, as I sit here soaking my legs in Epsom salt, feeling like I deserve a national award for surviving another festive season, I cannot help but smile. Because no matter how much we complain, we will still do it all over again next year.

Only this time, I will invest in better slippers.

Happy Diwali
An Advocate’s guide to emotional accounting

October 10th, 2025

I never know how much I’m going to earn in a month. Some months feel like God personally handled my billing. Some months feel like I’m on God’s blocked list.

Being an advocate does that to you.

You never really “make money.” You just occasionally receive it.

And those who say, “but you’re your own boss,” have clearly never waited for a client who says, “Sir, amount transfer kar raha hoon abhi.”

I had always seen people getting salaries. Same date. Same SMS. Predictable. Peaceful. And here I am, part of the urban poor who are still trying to understand how cash flow is managed, mismanaged, and completely dependent on mood.

Feelings, it turns out, are the worst financial advisors. When you’re in a good mood, you treat yourself like Ambani.

When you’re anxious, you start calculating GST on samosas.

But if you ever feel lost, just remember what Iliaas Bhai said in Aankhen (2002), “किस्मत पे रोने का नहीं, कैलेंडर बदलते रहने का.”

That line has more financial wisdom than half the self-help books in the world.

Every time a case doesn’t convert or a client ghosts me after saying “will call you tomorrow,” I repeat it like a mantra.

It’s my monthly reset button.

When rent is due, and nothing is due to you, change the calendar.

When you open your wallet and it sighs back at you, change the calendar.

When you start believing the next month will be better, congratulations, you’re financially stable in spirit.

This profession has taught me that luck doesn’t arrive with notice, and payments don’t either.

So stop crying over fate. Tear the old page.

Start the next month.

Because sometimes, the only difference between despair and hope is a new date printed on paper.

And Iliaas Bhai was right.

If nothing else, calendars do change.

And that’s enough reason to keep going.

Later.

Morning Walks Are Great!
Hello Pain My Old Friend

October 2nd, 2025

You know what’s funny about pain? It’s the most punctual guest in your life. Never late, never forgets your address. Hurt your back? Boom, it’s here. Lost someone? Double boom. And unlike relatives, it doesn’t even wait for Diwali to show up.

Rajesh Khanna sahab once said in a Hrishikesh Mukherjee film: “Khushi phooljhadi jaisi hai, turant bhadakti hai aur turant bujh jaati hai. Gham agarbatti jaisa hai, dheere-dheere jalta hai aur lamba chalta hai.”

Translation: happiness is like a sparkler, sadness is like incense.

(P.S. Sparklers burn your fingers fast. Incense sticks burn your curtains slow. Both teach lessons.)

So where does pain fit in this firecracker vs. incense theory? Let’s call in Buddha for guest commentary.

According to Buddha, pain comes in two flavors:

Arrow One: The actual pain. Like hitting your pinky toe on the corner of the bed. Arrow Two: The drama we add: “This always happens to me! Why does God hate me? Maybe my house has a grudge.”

Sadness? That’s usually the second arrow. Pain stabs, sadness writes a tragic novel about it.

Buddha also said everything is temporary (anicca). So yes, your heartbreak, your migraine, even your mother-in-law’s taunts eventually, all fade.

But while it’s here, pain acts like a free therapist:

Reminds you you’re human. Forces you to sit down when you wanted to party. Teaches compassion: “Ouch, I stubbed my toe. May all other stubbed toes in the world heal quickly.”

Honestly, if you think about it, pain is just unpaid HR staff, trying to conduct “team-building exercises” between your body and mind.

So maybe:

Sadness is incense slow, smoky, makes your room smell weird. Pain is that over-enthusiastic cousin either comes screaming (sparkler mode) or overstays quietly (incense mode). And you? You’re stuck learning Buddhism, Netflix-pausing every two minutes to say, “This is impermanent. This too shall pass.”

Takeaway?

Next time you’re in pain, try seeing it the Buddhist way. Notice it, don’t fight it, and definitely don’t invite it for dinner.

And remember: happiness may be a sparkler, sadness may be incense but pain? Pain is that friend who keeps showing up uninvited, but somehow leaves you wiser every single time.

Later.

Polo – IYKYK
Father-Boy!

September 27th, 2025

(Notes from a man who is 35, feels 11, has too much information in his head, and permanent back pain)

Becoming a father is like getting promoted without training. HR never calls, there’s no induction session, and yet suddenly there’s this tiny CEO at home who dictates your sleep schedule, your wallet balance, and even your bowel movements. And at 35, while my spine sounds like bubble wrap every time I bend, my brain still feels like I’m 11 except now I know how to to say sorry to my wife in three different ways when I still don’t know how to do my taxes.

Here’s what fatherhood has really taught me:

1. Friendships Save You From Drowning

Nobody told me fatherhood is lonely. Most dads just quietly vanish into work, bills, and routines until they become background furniture at home. Building friendships outside my marriage and kids saved me from that slow fade. Laughing with other men, talking nonsense, or just sharing silence gave me oxygen. And when I return, I show up stronger for my family because I’m no longer carrying the weight alone.

2. Work-Life Balance is a Lie

Forget “balance.” Life comes in seasons. Sometimes you’re Superdad, at school functions pretending you care about clay models. Sometimes you’re Corporate Gladiator, chasing a bank balance like it’s Pokémon. Both roles collide, and you mostly end up being a tired man in formals eating half a biscuit at 11 PM.

3. No YouTube Dad Tutorials

There’s no “Top 10 Hacks to Be a Perfect Papa” video that works. Every day is improvisation. It’s jazz with diapers. You invent your own version of controlled chaos, and if the kid is alive, fed, and hasn’t renamed your iPhone to “Poopoo,” you’re doing fine.

4. Grief, Pain & Coffee

Therapy tells you what you want to hear. Coffee tells you what you need to hear: “Shut up, drink me, and move.” Pain – emotional, financial, physical just doesn’t leave. You just learn to walk with it, like an annoying relative who refuses to go home.

5. You Can’t Fix Everything

You can’t cure people’s addiction to drama. You can’t stop your expensive gadget from committing suicide exactly one day before payday. You can’t prevent relatives from asking, “Beta, when’s the second one coming?” Sometimes, you just raise your hands and whisper, Jai Mata Di.

6. Apologize Even When You Don’t Want To

Peace is expensive. Apologies are cheap. So even when you’re right (and let’s be honest, you rarely are), saying “sorry” saves you from being renamed to “The Silent Guy in the Bedroom” for three days straight.

7. Be Proud of Yourself

Seriously. Amidst chaos, cracked screens, midnight crying sessions, and that constant back pain if you showed up, fed your family, and didn’t sell your child to a circus, pat yourself on the back. You’re doing better than you think.

At the end of the day, fatherhood is less about being the perfect role model and more about being a relatable human with terrible jokes and strong shoulders. And while I may be 35 on paper, deep down I’m just an 11-year-old boy who now pays EMIs.

Later.

Jd
Hold the Fort, Neville

September 6th, 2025

You know what happens on September 1? Wizards who have turned eleven board the Hogwarts Express for the very first time. For most Potterheads, that date lives like a bookmark in memory, the promise of a beginning, of adventure, of leaving the ordinary world behind.

For me, September 1 is more than just a line on the calendar. It’s a reminder of how Harry Potter grew alongside me, how my elder brother became my companion through the magic, and how those books turned into a mirror of my own growing years.

My Hogwarts Express didn’t leave from King’s Cross. It began in the form of books passed down by my brother. I didn’t have a circle of friends to huddle with over theories or heated debates. Instead, I had one person. my elder brother.

I would passionately rattle off my thoughts, predictions, and bewildering theories, while he, with infinite patience, listened. He humored my nonsense, and in doing so, gave me something precious — the feeling that my excitement mattered. That was my own ticket through the barrier.

Some memories of that era are etched into me with unusual clarity. I still remember begging my brother to take me to watch Order of the Phoenix again even though I was terribly sick with jaundice. Nauseated and weak, I should have been in bed. But magic doesn’t wait for fevers to subside.

Just two weeks later, Deathly Hallows released. This time, I was back in bed, still recovering. But the book itself became my medicine. I devoured it cover to cover, fever and all.

By the time Deathly Hallows landed in my hands, I was in my final year of school. Academically, later in that academic year, things didn’t go as well as I had hoped. I didn’t close that chapter of my life with shining marks or accolades. But strangely, the real sense of closure didn’t come from my exams anyway it came from those final pages.

Harry’s battles, his losses, his choices mirrored the struggles of growing up. For me, he wasn’t just a character. He was an alter ego, carrying lessons of resilience, courage, and belonging.

Even in college, Harry followed me. I remember going to see Delhi 6 with my mates. When Amitabh Bachchan and Abhishek Bachchan appeared on screen in that surreal conversation at terrace of Chandani Chowk house, I whispered excitedly, “That’s Albus and Harry talking at King’s Cross!” My friends stared blankly, they couldn’t comprehend what I meant, because the last book hadn’t been adapted yet.

It was one of those moments where fiction spilled out of the pages and into real life, but only I could see it.

The final two films I watched with my girlfriend who would later become my wife. She sat beside me, enjoying the spectacle, but couldn’t quite understand why the New Beginning Theme made me cry. For her, it was just music. For me, it was years of growing up, of farewells, of a chapter closing. Tears rolled down, and I couldn’t even explain it then.

When I turned the last page of Deathly Hallows, it felt like finishing a chapter of my own life. The books had grown with me, year after year, and suddenly, the journey was complete.

But nostalgia is stubborn. It doesn’t let go easily.

And now, the story doesn’t just belong to me anymore. I feel a heavy yet beautiful duty, to pass it on. I can’t wait to hand these amazingly illustrated Harry Potter books to my son when he finally learns the difference between tearing a book apart and truly reading one.

P.S. People sometimes give me that “are you serious?” look when I say “Hogwarts feels like home.” I get it, to them, it’s just fiction. Meanwhile, my friends still pump their fists at “Bring me Thanos!” But honestly? Harry walking back into Hogwarts will always give me bigger goosebumps than a giant purple villain and a Norse god with a hammer combined. If that makes me sound crazy, fine. I’ll proudly be that weird guy who treats September 1 like a holiday. After all, there are far worse places to call home than Hogwarts.

JD

06.09.2025
My Son, The Tiny Negotiator

September 4th, 2025

I never felt the same way about life after I held my son for the first time in 2023. Since then, everything has shifted family, relationships, priorities, and the strange amount of space occupied in my phone gallery by one very small human.

Now, at 32 months old, my son has evolved into what I like to call “a negotiator with diapers.” He doesn’t just ask for chocolate he structures his demands like a lawyer: “One more piece, then sleep. Promise.” If he had a LinkedIn, his headline would read: “Specialist in Snack-Based Diplomacy.”

I keep track of his every move like a CBI officer on a high-profile sting. Where he is, what he’s doing, which object he’s trying to dismantle, it’s all in my mental database. But then came the shocking reality check: the outside world doesn’t see him as special.

At his playgroup, he’s just another toddler. One of twenty sticky-fingered, glue-eating, block-throwing kids. No teacher whispers, “Here comes the prodigy.” They just shout, “Beta, sit down.” Honestly, it crushed me. I half expected him to be crowned “Toddler-in-Chief” by now.

That’s when it hit me, maybe it’s not the world that’s wrong. Maybe it’s me. Because the responsibility of shaping him into a decent man feels like it’s sitting squarely on my shoulders. And let’s be honest: I’m just a guy who believes no other child negotiates bedtime quite like mine.

Every parent thinks their kid is Shakespeare in training or Einstein with a Peppa Pig lunchbox. Reality check? Society doesn’t care. To them, our kids are crayons and biscuits, not Nobel laureates in diapers. And maybe that’s okay.

I’ve realized I’m not running a factory where I mold him into perfection. I’m running a garden. My job is to water, prune, protect from weeds (aka bad influences and excessive sugar), and let him grow in his own quirky, unpredictable way.

If I do my part right, maybe he’ll grow into a man who: Reads people well, because his snack-negotiating skills were sharpened at home. Feels secure, because he was always truly seen, even when the world overlooked him. Learns to adapt, because he’s practiced both blending in and standing out. And if nothing else, he’ll at least become the man who taught his dad patience.

So here’s the truth: my son is both the most extraordinary negotiator I’ve ever met and just another kid in the playgroup crying outside to go back home with his mother. And maybe that balance, “special at home, ordinary in the world” is exactly how it should be.

And who knows? If he ever runs for Prime Minister someday, remember it all started with icecream negotiations at bedtime.

Later.

Jd