Sit by the Ganga long enough and you’ll feel it. The river flows endlessly.
You sit silently. And suddenly your mind whispers “We are nothing. Temporary travelers.Our fights, ambitions, relationships, achievements are all pointless.”
You nod slowly, pretending you didn’t just think about quitting your job and becoming a minimalist.
People nearby assume you’ve reached enlightenment. Because apparently, location matters more than logic.
Now imagine the same thought arriving elsewhere.
You’re sitting on the commode.
Door locked.
Phone in hand.
Life paused.
And the exact same realization hits:
“Everything is useless.”
But this time there’s no river.
No breeze.
No chanting.
Only an exhaust fan screaming like it regrets being born. Suddenly, it’s not spirituality anymore. It’s “bro, are you okay?”
At the ghat, this thought is called awakening. In the bathroom, it’s called depression with Wi-Fi.
Funny thing is that the thought doesn’t change. Only the aesthetics do.
The universe doesn’t care where you sit. It sends truth wherever you’re most defenseless.
Ganga gives you poetry.
The toilet gives you honesty.
At the river, your ego dissolves slowly. In the bathroom, it collapses violently. There, stripped of dignity and social performance, you don’t feel divine. You feel replaceable.
Your career? Optional.
Your anger? Meaningless.
Your enemies? Probably asleep.
Your legacy? One forgotten password away from deletion.
That’s when it hits hardest. Not “we are part of something bigger.” But:
“No one is keeping score.” And that’s terrifying. Because if nothing really matters… then all the stress you carry every day was self-inflicted.
We romanticize suffering only when it looks aesthetic.
Pain with sunlight = philosophy.
Pain with tiles = mental breakdown.
Yet both reveal the same truth. You don’t need holy water to feel small. Sometimes a bad stomach is enough.
Turns out, enlightenment doesn’t come from the Ganga, it comes when even your ego can’t survive the flush.
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.”
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.”
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.
I have always avoided books that make me feel heavy. Stories that linger after the last page is turned. Characters who breathe down your neck long after the book is closed. Truths that feel a little too familiar. I have skipped sad movies and walked away from brooding documentaries. I have leaned toward stories that leave me lighter. I prefer fictions that do not press too hard.
But then, I picked up The Trial by Kafka because my elder brother was reading it.
I do not know why. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was something I could not name. But it did not take long for the absurdity to seep in. Not just the absurdity of the plot. That, in itself, is classic Kafka. But the absurdity of how familiar it all felt. A man trapped in a system, accused without explanation, waiting endlessly for justice while the machinery of the institution grinds forward without a face. As a lawyer, I felt it in my bones.
There is a kind of quiet collapse Kafka writes about. It is not loud. It is not even dramatic. It is just a slow erasure of logic, of fairness, of dignity. And it mirrors what I sometimes witness in real life. Courtrooms echo with purpose, but often carry exhaustion. Files are heard, but not always read. Systems work, but not always for those who need them the most.
I did not plan to carry the book with me, but I did. I took it out for a walk.
It was drizzling. Just enough rain to blur your vision but not enough to stop you from walking. I walked about a kilometer with Kafka in one hand and today’s unread Indian Express folded and tucked inside the book as a bookmark. It was not a literary decision. Just habit. A pause in the absurdity. The paper sagged slightly from the rain, trying to stay relevant for one more hour.
I wanted to walk more. Maybe a couple more kilometers. Let the greyness soak in. Let the words settle, not just in thought but in my limbs. But the day had been long. Court had drained me. Conversations had pulled. So I turned around. My shoes were wet and my mind felt heavier than usual. I came home hoping the mangoes were ripe.
That is the thing about days like this. You carry Kafka in one hand and a newspaper in the other. You walk through the rain with questions that do not end. You feel the weight of institutions and inefficiencies and invisible systems. And yet you come home hoping that there is something soft and sweet waiting in the fridge.
I still do not know why I picked up The Trial. But I know why I will keep reading it.
Not because I want to feel sad.
But because I want to understand why I avoid feeling it.
Let’s talk about wisdom. Not the kind etched into temple walls or whispered by monks on mountaintops. I’m talking about the real, gritty, painfully accurate wisdom that usually shows up after you’ve eaten too much chilli or replied “sure, let’s catch up” to someone who drains your soul.
This kind of wisdom doesn’t glow. It doesn’t trend. It isn’t curated by an influencer in Bali sipping green juice on a bean bag. It’s the annoying voice in your head — the one that says, “You know this is a bad idea, right?” And we, being human and tragically optimistic, go ahead and do it anyway.
Chapter One: That Inner Voice We Treat Like Spam
Every time you’re about to do something dumb, like buy a juicer to ‘start fresh’ even though you’ve never juiced anything in your life, there’s a voice. A small one. Kind of like the mental version of your mom clearing her throat behind you.
It says, “Are you sure?” And you say, “Let me live!”
That voice has been honed by generations of human stupidity. It’s survived wars, heartbreak, and Black Friday sales. But now, its job has been taken over by… algorithms.
Chapter Two: Algorithm Gurus and Their Unshakable Faith
Enter the modern breed of wisdom, the people who are 110% convinced that their algorithm knows them better than their mother, therapist, or bank account.
These are the folks who say things like “The Universe sent me this Reel and I just knew I had to break up with him.”
Or, “My feed is so aligned right now. It’s like, healing.”
They follow accounts that post pastel quotes like, “You are the sun, babe. Burn for no one,” and then proceed to ignore their credit card bill and text someone named Karan at 2:17 AM.
They believe the universe is speaking through TikTok. They get their nutritional advice from astrology memes and use phrases like “retrograde made me do it” while eating nothing but air-fried zucchini chips.
And here’s the kicker, they are so sure. So absolutely confident that their algorithm, their curated bubble of content and confirmation bias, is smarter than centuries of lived human experience. They think they’ve cracked life, love, parenting, finance, and digestion. Meanwhile, the rest of us are quietly Googling, “Can one die from excessive emotional intelligence?”
Chapter Three: The Chilli, the Mistake, the Lesson
Despite all this algorithmic enlightenment, some wisdom never changes. Like the lesson that too much chilli will eventually humble you, no matter how spiritual or gluten-free your diet is.
You can follow all the gut health influencers in the world. You can watch thirty-seven Reels about the benefits of cumin water. But if you eat that extra-spicy paneer tikka because your ego said, “You’re built different,” you will still find yourself holding onto the sink for dear life the next morning, whispering, “Why me, God?”
That, my friend, is when real wisdom shows up. And it’s not in the form of a life coach in Ibiza. It’s your colon saying, “I told you so.”
Chapter Four: The Comeback of Common Sense
After a certain age, usually somewhere between your first heartbreak and your third probiotic… you start hearing the truth again. Not from an algorithm. But from within. The wisdom that says, “Drink water,” “Don’t text him,” and “You don’t need another plant.”
You realize that wisdom isn’t supposed to be sexy or viral. It’s supposed to be useful. Quiet. Annoying. Inconvenient. And deeply, unfailingly true.
It reminds you that kids don’t need martyrs for parents, they need emotionally stable adults. That staying in a relationship out of guilt is like keeping spoiled milk in the fridge “just in case.” And that sometimes, self-care isn’t a face mask. It’s saying no, sleeping early, and unfollowing that one person who makes you feel like you’re failing at life.
Final Thoughts: It’s Okay to Be Dumb (Just Don’t Make It a Habit)
We all have our moments of brilliance and our seasons of idiocy. That’s what being human is. The goal isn’t to be perfectly wise. It’s to be less stupid next time. To recognize when your gut is right, even if your Instagram Explore page is screaming otherwise.
So yes, follow your heart. But maybe cross-check it with your liver. Eat the chilli, but keep some curd nearby. Trust your algorithm, but also remember it thought you were into dog grooming videos for three months because you accidentally watched one pomererian being shampooed.
And when that ancient, boring voice in your head speaks up again? Pause. Breathe. Maybe listen this time.
Because the real wisdom? It’s not trending. But it’s waiting for you. Usually with a glass of jeera water and a slightly judgmental smile.
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 theStock 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.
Yesterday, I submitted my dissertation, marking the triumphant end of my LLM journey. As I pressed that submit button, my heart thumped so hard I thought it might leap out, then, just as suddenly, it plummeted into the abyss of nothingness. What followed was not the grand, life-altering moment I had envisioned. Nope, no fireworks, no confetti. Just… nothing.
You see, I had built up this moment in my head—one hand gripping a steaming coffee mug, the other deftly steering a Ferrari down some scenic highway. This, I had decided, was what success felt like. But as the dust settled, my Ferrari dreams spiraled into the wind, leaving me with the uncomfortable realization that the only steering I’d be doing was on a two-wheeler… if I’m lucky.
I blame this on all the melodrama we’re fed daily—those grand depictions of success that we don’t even like anymore (not that we ever did, but you get the point). They’re just distractions, really. A way to keep us from noticing the mundane reality that comes with achieving something significant.
And let’s be honest—steering anything with a coffee mug in hand is a bad idea. Whoever came up with that trope clearly hasn’t experienced the trauma of coffee spillage at high speeds.
So here I am, post-dissertation, no Ferrari in sight, but at least my coffee is safe. It’s a funny kind of anti-climax, but it’s mine, and that’s okay. Now, I just need to figure out what to do with all this free time… maybe I’ll finally watch one of those melodramatic shows again—just to remind myself why I don’t like them anymore.
Mondays, the universally dreaded day of the week, often come with a lingering fatigue from the weekend and a fleeting promise to take things easy. This Monday was no different. As I stumbled out of bed, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep, I made a mental note to keep things simple. Little did I know, the universe had other plans.
By midday, I was greeted not by a mundane workday, but by a virus. It crept up on me stealthily, taking my heavy meat suit down with it. My nose was blocked, my throat felt choked, and a heavy fever set in, making every movement a struggle. As I lay in bed, overwhelmed by the symptoms, a question loomed large in my mind: “What have I done to deserve this?”
This moment of self-reflection reminded me of an episode of “How I Met Your Mother” (HIMYM) where Marshall asks Ranjit when he could be crazy. Ranjit, with his usual wisdom, responds in the negative, emphasizing that sometimes, things just happen without any grand reason or fault.
As I lay there, under layers of blankets, it became clear that this virus was just one of those random occurrences. There was no grand scheme or cosmic punishment; it was simply my turn to face the common plight of humanity—getting sick.
In a world where we often seek meaning in every event, it’s sometimes comforting to accept that not everything is within our control. Illnesses come and go, often without rhyme or reason. What truly matters is how we respond. Instead of dwelling on the why, we should focus on recovery and self-care.
So, as I sip on warm tea and allow myself the rest I need, I embrace the simplicity of this realization. This virus, though unwelcome, is a reminder to slow down, to listen to my body, and to take life one day at a time. And perhaps, next Monday, the universe will greet me with something kinder than a blocked nose and a heavy fever.
Ahoy there, fellow water wanderers and landlubbers alike! Today, we’re about to embark on a toe-tally epic journey – exploring the art of dipping toes into the watery wonders of life. Grab your flippers, inflate your water wings, and get ready for a comical plunge into the world of toe-dipping antics!
Toe-Dipping: More Than Just a Footnote
Ever found yourself at the edge of a pool, contemplating the universe and the viscosity of the liquid abyss below? The age-old question looms – to toe-dip or not to toe-dip? It’s a toe-tally complex decision, involving a mix of scientific calculations and a dash of toe-tapping intuition. But fear not, dear reader, for we are here to unravel the mysteries!
Temperature Tango: Ice, Ice, Baby!
The sun is scorching, your swimsuit is begging for some action, and you’re ready to make a splash. But hold your horses! Is that water icy enough to induce involuntary polar bear impersonations? The toe steps in as the brave pioneer, taking on the role of temperature detective. If your toes react like they just stumbled upon the frozen aisle of an Antarctic grocery store, you might want to reconsider your aquatic escapade.
Pro Tip: When in doubt, blame it on the toes – they’re the unsung heroes of temperature reconnaissance.
Depth Drama: To the Toes, Our Unsung Heroes!
Ever taken what you thought would be a shallow leap, only to discover it’s more like a deep-sea plunge? Enter the toe, the unsung hero of depth perception! It’s like your toes are on a covert mission, bravely infiltrating the liquid depths to bring back intel on the water’s true nature. Who knew your toes were secret agents in the aquatic espionage game?
The Sensational Sensory Soiree: A Dance of Toes and H2O
Let’s talk about the toe-tally sensational sensory experience of dipping those phalanges into the watery unknown. It’s a dance, a tango, a waltz of water meeting skin – a symphony of sensations that rivals a Broadway production. The gentle caress, the subtle shivers, and the feeling that you’re part of a whimsical water waltz – it’s a toe-tally exhilarating performance!
Psychological Pool Party: Toe First, Mindset Next
Beyond the practicalities, toe-dipping is a mental warm-up, a pre-swim psych-up session for the brave souls ready to make a splash. It’s like dipping your toes into the sea of life before diving in headfirst. A moment to contemplate, gather courage, and mentally high-five yourself before taking the plunge – both in water and in life!
Embrace the Playfulness: A Splash of Whimsy
Last but not least, let’s not forget the sheer playfulness of toe-dipping. It’s a whimsical act, a tiny rebellion against the seriousness of adulthood. So, next time you find yourself toe-deep in water, embrace the childlike glee, wiggle those digits, and let the water be your partner in this aquatic comedy.
In Conclusion: Toe-Tally Worth It!
Whether you’re a seasoned swimmer, a casual water-dabbler, or someone who believes pools are just large bathtubs, toe-dipping is a universal experience. It’s a reminder that life, much like water, is best enjoyed when tested gently, embraced playfully, and entered with a splash of humor. So, dip those toes, my water-loving comrades, and let the aquatic adventure begin! Toe-tally worth it, every time. 🦶💦
Expanding The Horizons 