Expanding The Horizons

Objection, Your Honour… What’s the Point?

June 1st, 2025

There’s a strange thing about victories. You wait for them. You prepare for them. You put your blood, your time, and your breath into chasing them. And then, when you finally hold them in your hand, they’re not quite what you expected.

As I sit down to write this, the thought is still forming. It’s not quite an article, not quite a diary entry—maybe just a mirror I’m holding up to myself. Maybe by the end of it, I’ll find an answer. Or maybe I won’t.

There was a time when I believed that the highest high I could ever feel would be clearing a competitive exam and becoming a judge. That image had become a kind of religion for me—waking up before the world, wrestling with law books, and imagining the day I’d be addressed as Your Honour.

Then I fell in love. Thought marriage would be the peak. I had someone in mind, someone from my college days. The story made sense in my head—two people who’d grown, evolved, and eventually found their way back to each other. That would be my “happily ever after.”

Then I held my newborn son in my arms. Life changed in that moment. His tiny heartbeat against my chest made me feel like everything had a reason. Surely, this was the ultimate high?

Turns out, life doesn’t work on a linear path of escalating highs. It isn’t a mountain with one glorious summit after another. It’s more like waves. They rise, they crash, they recede. And sometimes, you’re just floating, not knowing if the next wave will lift you or drown you.

Today was one of those “high” days. Four civil suits filed. Four injunctions granted. Everything went by the book. Sharp. Clean. Perfectly executed. I should’ve felt like a warrior coming back from battle. And for a moment—I did.

Then I sat in my car.

And just like that, a strange silence fell over me. The kind of silence that isn’t peaceful but empty. The kind that swallows applause, ambition, and even pride.

Suddenly, it felt like nothing mattered.

I don’t mean that in a cynical way. I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t depressed. I was just… still.

And in that stillness, a truth emerged.

The real difference today wasn’t made by me.

It was made by that judge.

Not just a person occupying a chair, but someone who truly deserved to be there. Someone who understood the essence of justice—not just its letters, but its spirit.

It hit me then—maybe there’s no grand purpose or inferior purpose. Maybe purpose isn’t something to find or chase. Maybe it’s just… doing your job. Honestly. Consistently. Quietly.

Maybe the only real thing in this profession, or perhaps in life, is the integrity with which you show up each day. That’s it. No music. No medals.

Sometimes, I joke to myself—maybe I should leave it all behind and become a hermit. Just disappear into the woods with a few books, a warm blanket, and silence.

But even that is probably just another high I’m dreaming of. Another summit in disguise.

For now, I’ll return to work. I’ll keep filing, keep arguing, keep hoping. And maybe, once in a while, I’ll write.

Because maybe, just maybe, there’s some purpose in that too.

Later.

Jd
How to Organize Your Finances (When Your Salary is Just a Suggestion)

May 24th, 2025

Let’s talk about financial planning. Or as I like to call it: “A tragicomic fantasy written by someone who has clearly never had to skip dinner to afford petrol.”

You see, I recently came across this beautifully organized financial chart titled “How to Organize Your Finances.” It looked like it was designed by someone who probably uses “legacy” as a verb and drinks smoothies that cost more than my monthly electricity bill.

The chart was a masterpiece. It broke down your paycheck into thoughtful categories like Fixed Expenses, Living Expenses, Long-Term Savings, Mid-Term Savings, and Short-Term Goals. Then it whispered sweet financial nothings like “Retirement Fund,” “Investment Account,” and “High-Yield Savings.”

Adorable.

But here’s the thing: This entire plan assumes one major thing—that you actually have money.

Which brings me to my point: What if your job is a tragedy and your salary is a joke?

Let me walk you through my version of this financial plan:

INCOME

Expectation: Monthly paycheck deposited.

Reality: Salary arrives with the emotional commitment of a teenage boyfriend—late, inconsistent, and full of excuses.

Retirement Fund: Just a polite way of saying “Die working.”

EXPENSES

Let’s get one thing straight—everything is an expense. Even staying alive.

FIXED EXPENSES

Bills: Mostly reminders of poor life choices.

Debt: Yes. Next question. Subscriptions: Netflix and denial. Health: God bless generic paracetamol. Insurance: Only thing more invisible than my savings.

LIVING EXPENSES

Food: Maggi is a food group, right? Fun: What’s that?

Clothes: Hope the holes in my socks count as ventilation.

Gas: Pray, ride, repeat.

SAVINGS

Short-Term: Emergency fund? You mean like that ₹70 I keep in my sock drawer?

Mid-Term: Vacation fund? Yes, I take daily mental vacations to the Maldives during 5 minutes of poop time.

Long-Term: Retirement savings? Sure, I’ve saved enough to buy myself a chocolate bar in 2047.

Ongoing Funds: My only ongoing fund is “Pretend This Isn’t Happening Fund.”

INVESTMENTS

In Myself: Questionable return.

In the Stock Market: I once put ₹500 in a mutual fund. It’s now ₹472.38.

In Hope: Currently trading at an all-time low.

You see, it’s not that I don’t want to follow this beautifully crafted budget—it’s just that my paycheck comes, waves a sad little hello, pays rent, and disappears faster than my self-esteem during appraisal season.

But hey, we’re not giving up. We’re just…financially flexible. We don’t have a “retirement account”—we have vibes. We don’t invest in stocks—we invest in coping mechanisms. And we don’t save for emergencies—we ARE the emergency.

So here’s to financial planning in the time of emotional damage and economic heartbreak.

Because when your job is a tragedy and your salary is a joke—laughter may be the only thing you can afford.

P.S. I put this blog on a high-yield savings account. It earned two likes and a pity comment from my mom.

Later.

Jd
Confessions

April 28th, 2025

Guys, I have a confession to make.

I don’t hate eavesdropping —

but I don’t encourage it either.

Let’s just say, sometimes life throws a juicy dialogue your way and you’re just… there.

Minding your own business (mostly).

A couple of weeks ago, I took my son — my 28-month-old whirlwind — to see the fountain in our society.

(He calls it the “water pool”, with that twinkle in his eye that says he’s very seriously considering jumping straight into it.)

There I was, being a responsible adult, keeping an eye on my little daredevil, making sure he didn’t turn into a fish…

when I overheard something.

Two school-going girls were chatting nearby, and one of them said,

“Arre, now Siddharth is here and you’re not talking to him. But when he’s not around, you keep crying for him!”

I caught the quick exchange of glances when they realized I’d heard them.

I pretended to look extra concerned about my son — because, frankly, I was concerned.

He was inching way too close to the water with the energy of a caffeinated squirrel.

A few moments later, the same girl turned to “Siddharth” and said,

“Arre no, he’s just a friend. Don’t think anything else.”

And that’s when it hit me.

Nothing has changed.

Not even a little bit.

Friendzoning — that old, stubborn, inevitable rite of passage — still lives on.

Even after all these years, after all the exposure, smartphones, reels, podcasts, dating apps, AI, ChatGPT (hi),

young people are still getting tangled in the same old ‘just friends’ mess.

Just like we did.

As I scooped up my son before he could stage-dive into the fountain, I couldn’t help but smile.

The players have changed.

The slang has evolved.

The memes have gotten way cooler.

But the game?

The game remains exactly the same.

At that moment, it hit me harder:

Social media may have accelerated a lot of things (especially how quickly teenagers get into relationships — and out of them)

but it hasn’t managed to fix the basic formula:

People still don’t know what they want, but they desperately want it anyway.

And somewhere between stopping my kid from auditioning for Finding Nemo and overhearing the next line of drama, another realization dawned:

Wait… am I seriously standing here thinking about teenagers getting more action than adults?

Am I…

turning into an uncle?

Maybe I am.

Maybe growing older is just realizing that every generation thinks they’re inventing life for the first time —

while the older ones are standing on the sidelines, quietly chuckling,

“Beta, we invented that confusion long before Instagram made it glamorous.”

And you know what?

I don’t mind it.

Because someday, my own little “water pool diver” will grow up.

He’ll probably friendzone someone or get friendzoned himself.

He’ll think it’s the end of the world.

And I’ll just smile, hand him a cold drink, and tell him —

“Bhai, it’s a phase. Stay dry — literally and emotionally.”

Until then, I’ll be here.

Guarding the fountains, observing the dramas, and slowly — but surely — graduating into Uncle Mode.

Life’s weird like that.

But it’s also kind of beautiful.L

Later.
INDIA THY NAME, SAHARA THY FEELS: WALKING THROUGH APRIL IN A BLACK COAT

April 9th, 2025

There was a chapter in a game once—Endless Summer, in Bully. I remember finishing it and thinking—this wasn’t fun. You may disagree, game indeed was fun, but relentless sun, and chasing shadows once game is finished rarely spell joy.

Aa Now, decades later, that fictional summer seems to have leapt out of the screen and onto the streets of India. And let me tell you—it’s not fun to play.

As a lawyer, my daily uniform is a black coat. A fine choice in winter, a professional necessity in spring—but in April 2025? It feels like I’m cosplaying as charcoal. I’ve surrendered. Not to the heat alone, but to air-conditioning and a tall glass of chilled lassi. My only rebellion is that I haven’t started commuting by camel yet. But give it time. With India mirroring sub-Saharan temperatures, maybe that’s the next logical step.

This isn’t just dramatic prose—this is data-backed dread. According to the Climate Change Institute, University of Maine, the temperature map from April 7, 2025, paints a sobering picture. India is blazing, glowing red-hot like it’s auditioning to be the new Sahara. And it’s not even peak summer.

Climate change has a peculiar way of sneaking up on us—first as headlines, then as heatwaves, then as altered routines. We shrug, we adapt, we install another AC. But adaptation isn’t a solution, it’s a sedative. And while we cool our homes, the planet continues to warm.

There’s a cruel irony in all this. The earth is getting hotter and hotter—but not in the Salma Hayek way. It’s not Chris Hemsworth hot. It’s hemisphere-on-fire hot. The kind that makes you rethink dress codes, urban planning, public transport, and planetary priorities.

Maybe the answer isn’t just in policy or protest. Maybe it’s in satire, awareness, and sweaty, honest conversations. Maybe it’s in writing this post, somewhere between courtroom rounds and a glass of buttermilk, hoping someone reads it and thinks: This isn’t normal. This shouldn’t be normal.

Till then, I’ll keep my black coat, my lassi, and perhaps order a Saharan robe—because if I can’t save the planet, I can at least survive it in style.

Later.

Later, in case we survive.
Boardhemian Rhapsody

April 8th, 2025

It’s 3:47 AM.

The world is asleep.

My toddler is finally snoring like a baby dragon.

The EMIs are snoozing quietly in my netbanking tab.

My phone is on silent.

The kitchen is cleaned and waiting for a peaceful morning brew.

And I’m sweating like I’m in the Sahara because I just dreamt that my 12th board exams start in 23 minutes and—surprise!—I haven’t studied a single chapter of organic chemistry.

Why?

Because clearly, my subconscious thinks the only thing standing between me and “being a responsible adult” is my inability to balance a redox reaction or draw the graph of sin²x. Not the fact that I haven’t had an emergency fund since 2015 or that my idea of a workout is chasing my toddler with half a sock in his mouth.

Two decades. Two whole decades since I last touched a Class 12 textbook.

Since then, I’ve learned how to do my taxes, write emails that start with “Hope this finds you well” and end with “Thanks & Regards,” and calculate discounts while shopping like a NASA scientist on a budget.

But nope—my brain still thinks “life preparation” means memorizing the periodic table.

And you know what’s worse?

These dreams don’t strike when I’m solving life crises.

No, they arrive when I’m at my happiest.

Planning a long weekend. Finally about to sit on the couch and sip the coffee made by my lovely wife.

Basically, just when I start to believe I’ve earned a moment of peace, boom!

“Kya Jayendra, is this the time to relax? Have you revised thermodynamics?”

I once tried to talk to a therapist about this. She said, “It’s a common dream. A metaphor for feeling unprepared.”

I wanted to say, “Ma’am, at this point, even my nightmares are repeating syllabus.”

But maybe ChatGPT was right when it said my dreams reflect my fear of being unprepared for life.

The problem is—what part of life can I even prepare for?

Marriage? There’s no chapter in NCERT titled “How to say ‘I’m sorry’ even when you don’t know why.”

Parenting? No worksheet prepares you for “What to do when toddler uses toothpaste as wall paint.”

Finance? I know trigonometry but I still don’t know where my PF account is.

So yes, I may not be ready for every twist and turn in life.

But I am ready to face one fact:

I will never escape the ghost of Board Exams.

And as long as I keep running low on sleep, insurance, and backup plans… my subconscious will always be that annoying invigilator in the dream who says: “Five minutes left. Attempt all questions.”

So, dear dream:

Let me live.

Let me sit.

Let me sip my coffee.

And please, for the love of caffeine and adulting…

let me forget the structure of benzene.

Later.
If Karma Is Real, Then Why Is My Wi-Fi Always Slow? (And Other Existential Questions)

April 6th, 2025

Let me begin with a confession: I once stole a pencil from my classmate in 4th grade. It was a Nataraj, freshly sharpened, with that glossy black body. Beautiful thing. I still remember the thrill — and the guilt — which lasted a whole 14 seconds before I used it to draw a mustache on my math textbook cover.

Fast forward two decades: I’m stuck in traffic, it’s 45 degrees outside, Spotify is buffering, and I haven’t had my coffee. That’s when it hits me: Karma. The universe is finally collecting payment for that pencil. And the mustache.

But here’s the twist — if karma is real, and it’s keeping track of every cosmic pencil theft and emotional drama, why do good people suffer? Why is my neighbor, Mrs. Sharma, who feeds stray dogs and prays more than Google listens, still dealing with arthritis and a leaking ceiling?

And why does that guy from school — the one who used to cheat in exams and steal lunch boxes — now own a startup, a BMW, and probably a yacht named “Destiny”?

The Cosmic Customer Complaint

If karma had a helpline, I’d call it.

“Hello, this is Karma Support. For English, press 1. To complain about suffering, press 2. To ask why your ex is thriving, press 3. To speak directly to your past-life manager, stay on the line…”

You wait for 12 lifetimes. Still no answer.

Turns Out, Karma Isn’t Amazon Prime

See, we’ve misunderstood karma. We want instant results. Bad action? Punishment by Friday. Good deed? Reward in 3-5 business days.

But karma isn’t a vending machine — it’s more like a very old, wise librarian with a really long queue and zero interest in your Instagram likes. It works on a time scale that makes glaciers look fast.

That headache you got this morning? Maybe it’s not from too much screen time. Maybe it’s your past-life self who ghosted someone in the 1800s. You just never know.

Suffering: Karma’s Weird Cousin

So why do we suffer, if we’re not all villains in disguise?

Some say it’s to balance things out. Some say it’s to learn. And some say it’s because we tried to eat roadside chole bhature at 11 PM. All valid theories.

But maybe, just maybe, suffering isn’t a punishment — it’s part of the human mess. Like uninvited relatives during wedding season, or that one friend who borrows your charger and disappears.

Maybe the point isn’t to avoid suffering but to go through it without becoming bitter. Maybe the point is to laugh at the absurdity of it all — like I did when I slipped in front of my crush and blamed the “uneven aura energy.”

In Conclusion (Because Every Blog Needs One)

Karma probably exists. So do traffic jams, heartbreak, power cuts during IPL matches, and neighbors who drill at 7 a.m. But while we wait for the universe to sort out our celestial report cards, we might as well:

• Be kind,

• Laugh often,

• Avoid stealing pencils (especially the good ones),

• And remember — the universe may be slow, but it never forgets. Not even that time you said you were “on the way” when you hadn’t left home.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to meditate, or at least pretend to — just in case the universe is watching.

Later.
Life is a joke, but who’s laughing?

March 28th, 2025

Life, my friends, is like that one WhatsApp group you can’t leave because your aunt keeps sending “Good Morning” flowers made on Microsoft Paint. You don’t want to be rude, but also… you want out. That’s what life feels like sometimes—like an unskippable ad for something you didn’t order and never signed up for.

And oh, the thirst to escape? It’s not just there—it’s practically a personality trait now.

But let’s take a moment. Is this deep-rooted desire to disappear and become a potato in a Himalayan cave truly your own, or is it people-driven?

Maybe.

Not maybe.

Absolutely, yes.

It begins with your parents, who lovingly plant the seed:

“You were born to do something great.”

(Translation: You better top the class or don’t come home.)

Then comes school:

“Why can’t you be more like Sharma ji’s son?”

(Sharma ji’s son is now in Canada and sells crypto advice on Instagram.)

Then the astrologer chimes in with his unsolicited prediction:

“Jupiter in your fourth house means you’ll become famous.”

(You go viral once—for tripping over your own foot on CCTV footage. That’s it.)

And how can we forget that companion who looked into your eyes, cupped your cheeks and said:

“I love you for who you are.”

Spoiler alert: They now love someone else who’s mysteriously more of who you are but with abs and a dog.

So yes, this need to escape—to run away and start a new life as a barista in Manali or a monk in McLeod Ganj—is very much people-powered. You didn’t sign up for the pressure, the heartbreak, or the astrologer. You just wanted to live. Maybe eat some noodles. Maybe sleep in peace. Maybe not be compared to Sharma ji’s son every other day.

And don’t get me started on failures. The real MVPs of your escape fantasy. You try one startup, it fails. You post one reel, it tanks. You join a gym, your attendance card starts gathering dust like your ambition.

Each failed attempt turns into a voice in your head whispering:

“Maybe you were meant to herd goats in the mountains.”

In conclusion, escaping life isn’t really about life. It’s about the characters life introduces you to. The unsolicited advice givers. The lovers turned philosophers. The dreamers who became memes.

But here’s the thing: Even when you want to escape, you stay. Why?

Because deep down, you know the joke’s not over yet.

And maybe—just maybe—one day, you’ll be the one sending “Good Morning” Paint flowers… from your cabin in the hills, sipping tea, herding goats, and laughing.

At life.

At yourself.

At the astrologer.

And maybe, just maybe—with joy.

Later.
Montage-less

March 13th, 2025

Have you ever watched a movie where the protagonist embarks on a life-changing journey? One moment, they’re out of shape, heartbroken, or clueless, and then—BAM!—a three-minute montage later, they’re fit, successful, and radiating wisdom like they just unlocked the secret to life. Meanwhile, here I am, walking in circles to hit my step goal, waiting for my smartwatch to acknowledge my suffering, and wondering why my transformation isn’t happening in 180 cinematic seconds.

Lately, transition videos on social media have made me even more envious. You see someone put an onion on the counter, snap their fingers, and next thing you know, it’s perfectly chopped and sizzling in the pan. Meanwhile, I’m here wrestling with an onion that refuses to be peeled, wiping away tears like I just watched Kal Ho Naa Ho, and questioning all my life choices.

Wouldn’t it be amazing if real life worked like that? Imagine skipping all the hunger pangs while dieting—just snap your fingers and boom, you’re full. Or skipping the lower back pain from walking for weight loss—one quick hand gesture and you’re suddenly fit, with abs and all. No waiting. No suffering. Just results.

But, of course, life doesn’t work that way. Life wants you to feel everything—the soreness, the cravings, the failed attempts at cooking a “simple” meal that somehow turns into a disaster. Because, as much as I hate to admit it, that’s how real transformation happens. If we could fast-forward through all the struggles, would we even appreciate the outcome?

So, while I’d love a montage or a magical transition, I suppose I’ll keep chopping my onions the hard way, taking my slow, painful steps toward fitness, and embracing the chaos of real life. Because when I do get there—wherever there is—I’ll know I earned it.

Later.

Jd
Life in 30 Seconds

February 1st, 2025

Hi there!

Have you noticed how social media has turned us into masters of brevity? It’s like we’re all trying to explain quantum physics while being chased by a bear – fast, panicky, and missing a few key details. Thanks to reels, shorts, and TikToks, we’ve achieved what centuries of philosophers couldn’t: summing up the meaning of life in under 30 seconds, often with a Bollywood remix playing in the background.

Take emotions, for example. Back in the day, heartbreak meant writing poetry by candlelight, wearing all black, and staring longingly out of the window until your neighbors started asking questions. Now? A 15-second reel with captions like “Me: I’ll never love again. Also me: 💃” does the job. If Romeo and Juliet had Instagram, they wouldn’t need three acts of tragic build-up. Romeo would’ve just slid into Juliet’s DMs with, “u up?” She’d post a sad reel with a Arjit Singh song after drinking poison. The end.

And let’s talk about dance. Remember when learning a new dance meant weeks of practice, awkwardly tripping over yourself, and eventually just giving up and swaying side to side? Not anymore! Now, choreography is boiled down to 3 seconds of arm flailing, a hip thrust, and an ending pose that makes you look like you just got electrocuted. Miss a step? Don’t worry, nobody will notice—they’re too busy wondering why you’re dancing in your kitchen wearing a bathrobe.

But the real MVPs of this short-attention-span era are life philosophies. People are now condensing decades of wisdom into a single sentence plastered over stock footage of waves. “Be the wave, not the sand.” What does it mean? Who cares—it got 2 million views. Aristotle spent years pondering the meaning of existence, but today’s sages just need Canva and a motivational quote generator.

The beauty (and chaos) of this 30-second world is that it leaves no room for complexity. Everything is either the best day of your life or a complete disaster. You’re either slaying or failing. There’s no middle ground anymore—no “meh” days, no “I’m just surviving on caffeine and hope” moods.

And yet, amidst the oversimplification, there’s something strangely magical about it all. Social media’s obsession with brevity has taught us to laugh at our pain, dance like nobody’s watching (even though everyone is watching), and find joy in the ridiculous. Sure, we’ve lost nuance, but we’ve gained memes. And who needs Aristotle when you have a cat doing a perfect backflip?

So here’s to life in 30 seconds—where your deepest existential crisis can be set to EDM, and your greatest triumph is a slow-mo jump in the air. Is it shallow? Maybe. But hey, at least it’s entertaining.

And if you don’t like this blog? Don’t worry, it only took you 30 seconds to read it.

Later …

Maybe Not.

Who knows?
Midnight Whispers

January 13th, 2025

For most, “midnight whispers” evoke mystery, romance, or quiet moments of reflection.

But for me, they’re something entirely different.

They’re my almost two-year-old practicing his newly learned words in the dead of night.

They’re the moments when he forcefully opens my eyes—never waking his mother—just to share his curious thoughts.

One night, he recited a poem in pure gibberish and then drifted back to sleep.

Another night, he played drums on my belly like I was his personal instrument, only to cuddle back into dreams.

There was the time he demanded a bhajan and fell asleep the moment I began singing.

Or when he insisted on seeing the Santa balloon -in the middle of the night.

Or the foggy night when he wanted to spot the water tanks from our 16th-floor balcony but couldn’t, so instead, he demanded we visit ninnu and soyi soyi.

And the most unforgettable—he woke me up just to sleep on his slide. Yes, middle of the night, opened my eyes, asked me to sleep on the slide with him, and then… peacefully fell asleep.

These moments are chaotic, hilarious, and exhausting. But they’re also the purest expressions of love and innocence.

These are my midnight whispers. And I wouldn’t trade them for anything in the world.

Later.