That’s what I’ve been told. In history books. In dinner-table lectures. And perhaps, even in some previous life, I was the vendor handing out a paper cone full of Jhalmuri to a Portuguese man who didn’t know what hit his palate.
You see, while others traded pepper, cardamom, or cinnamon, I, true to my entrepreneurial spirit was probably the guy saying, “Bhaisaab, le lo ekdum chatpata Jhalmuri! Masala extra, emotion free.”
Somewhere, I feel, that’s still who I am.
What is so great about Jhalmuri?
Everything and nothing.
It’s puffed rice, onions, mustard oil, green chillies, peanuts, some bhujia, coriander, tomatoes if you’re fancy, and lemon juice that tastes better when squeezed with existential dread. There is no recipe only instinct. No proportion only impulse. No balance, just chaos in a cone.
And it tastes divine.
My life, lately, has become Jhalmuri.
Too much chilli in the wrong place. Too little crunch. A lot of mustard oil floating on top, trying to pretend it’s holding things together. Every now and then, a surprise bite hits you, hard peanut, burnt rice, or something spicy that shouldn’t be legal.
It’s unstructured, imbalanced, overwhelming, and yet somehow… I keep munching.
People ask, “What’s going on?”
I say, “Life is Jhalmuri, boss.”
You may wonder, what do Europeans have to do with all this?
Absolutely nothing.
But I needed someone to blame. The British took Kohinoor, and I’m taking poetic license. It’s only fair. The bigger question is if we all sold our spices for silk and silver, what did we keep for ourselves?
My answer: Jhalmuri.
Unpackaged. Unbranded. Untamed.
Because when the world feels too much when plans crumble, routines dissolve, and people surprise you with their odd mix of sweetness and spice I don’t crave order. I crave Jhalmuri.
Maybe, just maybe:
Life is not meant to be a neatly plated continental course. It’s meant to be a roadside snack. Messy. Spontaneous. Eaten standing up while dodging traffic, opinions, and one’s own expectations.
So here’s to Jhalmuri.
May your life be as unapologetically unpredictable, mildly crunchy, and beautifully imbalanced.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Have you ever stumbled across something so absurdly perfect that it made you laugh out loud? Well, meet Exhibit A: this tree. A coconut-palm-banana-jackfruit hybrid masterpiece, this marvel of nature looks like it rolled out of the dreams of someone who took the phrase “why have less when you can have it all” a bit too literally.
The tree is a hilarious metaphor for life. It’s everything we expect life to be: a limitless buffet of success, prosperity, and happiness. Look at it! Bananas for your health goals, coconuts to quench your thirst for exotic vacations, and a massive jackfruit symbolizing that one giant dream you’re sure will make you “complete” (or at least make Aunties at weddings stop asking when you’ll achieve “something meaningful”).
But then comes reality, and oh boy, does it hit hard. Let’s break it down:
1. The Bananas of Hope
Ah, bananas—reliable, sweet, and perfect for Instagram fitness posts. But in life? These bananas are that early-career confidence where you think, “I’m destined for greatness.” Yet, much like when you try to store bananas for too long, things quickly start to rot. Promotions? Delayed. Side hustle? A side flop. Suddenly, the bananas aren’t golden anymore—they’re black, squishy, and attracting metaphorical flies called “EMIs.”
2. The Coconuts of Endless Possibilities
Coconuts represent those daydreams about the “perfect” life: sipping fresh coconut water on a beach while your passive income rolls in. Except, just like real coconuts, life makes you WORK HARD to crack it open. Instead of paradise, you’re stuck wrestling with Excel sheets and wondering why your boss emailed you at 2 a.m. Meanwhile, your vacation fund has evaporated faster than the water in said coconuts.
3. The Jackfruit of Lofty Ambitions
Now let’s talk about the jackfruit. That giant, spiky symbol of our wildest, most audacious dreams. It’s the career-changing startup idea, the dream house, the six-pack abs. But here’s the thing about jackfruit: it looks cool from afar but is insanely hard to deal with up close. Sticky, smelly, and requires the patience of a saint to enjoy—yep, that’s your mid-life crisis summed up.
4. Reality Check: The Missing Fruits
And of course, you’re left wondering—where are the mangoes? Isn’t life supposed to be sweet and juicy? Well, spoiler alert: the mango tree is two blocks over, and it belongs to your neighbor who just bought a Tesla.
The funniest part of this tree is how it reflects our belief that life will give us everything all at once, all perfectly ripe and ready. In reality, though, it’s more like an awkward salad: some sour, some sweet, and a lot of random bitterness thrown in for good measure.
So, what’s the takeaway here? Life’s a tree—but not this overachieving mutant. Most of us are just out here with our scraggly little saplings, praying for one ripe fruit that isn’t snatched away by squirrels (aka rent, inflation, and bad luck). And that’s okay! Embrace the chaos, laugh at the absurdity, and enjoy whatever falls from your tree—even if it’s just a bruised banana.
After all, even a quirky tree like this one is a reminder: life might not give you what you want, but it sure gives you one heck of a story!
In every Indian family, there’s an invisible rulebook that no one gives you but somehow expects you to follow religiously. These cultural norms aren’t written down anywhere, yet they govern everything from how much food you should eat to how many gifts you should give. It’s like you’re constantly participating in a family Olympics where everyone else already knows the rules. So, let’s take a lighthearted look at some classic cultural expectations that are bound to leave you both puzzled and amused.
1. “Arey Beta, Thoda Aur Lo” – The National Anthem of Family Meals
You’ve just finished your second plate of poori and sabzi, feeling like you’ve eaten enough to feed a small village. But the moment you lean back and say “Bas, ho gaya,” your aunt gives you a look like you’ve just committed a sin. Enter the most common phrase in Indian households: “Arre beta, thoda aur lo!”
Refusing food is practically forbidden. You say “no” three times, but on the fourth time, the food magically appears on your plate anyway. There’s no escape. And don’t even think about saying you’re on a diet—because the next thing you know, your plate will be filled with extra ghee and love.
2. व्यवहार – The Mandatory Gift Exchange Ritual
Let’s talk about व्यवहार, that unsaid rule when a married daughter and her husband visit the parents’ house. It’s almost like a hidden clause in the Indian Family Contract. Whether it’s a mithai ka dabba, cash, or sarees, something must change hands. And it doesn’t matter if the son-in-law politely protests; there’s always that one aunt or uncle who sneaks an envelope into his pocket.
Of course, the son-in-law’s refusal is part of the dance. “Nahi, nahi, yeh toh bahut zyada hai!” he says, while graciously accepting. This ritual is as much about maintaining family bonds as it is about creating the perfect setting for post-visit gossip.
3. The Never-Ending “Shaadi Kab Hai?” Question
Every family gathering has a mission: finding out when you’re getting married. You could be 22 and just starting your career, but that doesn’t stop the relentless stream of questions: “Aur beta, shaadi kab kar rahe ho?”
If you’re already married, don’t think you’re safe. The next barrage will be about babies. And if you have one kid, they’ll ask when the second one is coming. It’s like an endless relay race where the baton is passed from one life event to the next. You’re never allowed to just… chill.
4. Touching Feet: A Full-Body Workout in Disguise
You think you’re fit? Try surviving a family function where you’re expected to touch the feet of every elder present. It’s not just a gesture of respect—it’s an impromptu workout. You bend, they bless, and you smile. Repeat this 10 times and you’ll realize that gym memberships are overrated.
The best part? Half the elders don’t even recognize you. “Kaun hai yeh?” they’ll ask your parents, and you’ll just nod along, grateful that the ritual is at least keeping you in shape.
5. The Wedding Gift Tug-of-War
Attending a wedding isn’t just about celebrating love—it’s also about navigating the delicate art of gift-giving. You give too much, and the recipients will feel awkward. Give too little, and you’ve just triggered a family scandal. Wedding gifts are tracked with the precision of a finance report, and trust me, people remember.
“Aree, humne toh unke bete ki shaadi mein ₹5,001 diya tha, lekin unhone humare yaha sirf ₹4,501 diya!” This one-sided economic downturn will be discussed at family gatherings for years to come.
6. Festival Fashion: Getting the Colors Just Right
Festivals in India come with an unspoken dress code, and heaven help you if you don’t get it right. Show up at Holi in the wrong shade of white or forget to wear the traditional yellow on Vasant Panchami, and suddenly everyone’s looking at you like you’ve upset the balance of the universe.
And of course, there’s that one relative who will always remind you that black is inauspicious. If you forgot this fact and dared to wear a black kurta, brace yourself for whispers about how you’ve single-handedly jinxed the entire festival.
7. Unsolicited Health Advice: The Lifelong Battle
No Indian family function is complete without someone commenting on your weight. If you’ve lost a few kilos, you’ll hear, “Beta, kuch khaya karo.” If you’ve put on a little weight, it’s, “Beta, thoda sambhal ke khao.” The irony, of course, is that this advice is often dished out while the aunt or uncle in question is devouring their third plate of samosas.
It’s a lifelong battle. No matter how hard you try to look your best, there will always be someone reminding you that you could do better. Welcome to the world of perpetual body commentary.
8. RSVPs Mean Nothing in Indian Weddings
Weddings in India are an event of epic proportions, where the number of guests always exceeds expectations. You send out 200 invitations, but somehow 400 people show up. There’s always an army of distant relatives you’ve never heard of, but who make their grand appearance like VIPs at the red carpet.
And let’s not forget the food. You start with some chaat and pani puri, but by the time you’ve reached the biryani and gulab jamun, you’ve entered into a food coma. But no, you’re not done yet—because declining food at a wedding is a crime worse than missing the bride and groom’s first dance.
Conclusion:
Cultural expectations in Indian families are like the invisible threads that hold everything together. Sure, they can be confusing, sometimes exhausting, and occasionally hilarious. But at the end of the day, they’re what make family life so unique and memorable. So the next time you find yourself in the thick of it, just remember to smile, say “no” four times before accepting that extra paratha, and enjoy the ride—because this is what family is all about.
Imagine this: You’re sitting at your desk, sipping coffee, scrolling through your regrets — I mean, your memories. Maybe you shouldn’t have eaten that suspicious Chaap in 2016. Maybe you shouldn’t have taken up that “one-size-fits-all” parachute deal. Or, perhaps, just perhaps, you should have passed on texting your ex at 2 a.m. after that 4th beer. (we’ve all been there).
What if you could signal your past self to avoid these catastrophes? And not in some heavy, dramatic “time-travel-gone-wrong” sci-fi way, but with a casual, “Hey, past me, maybe skip that third slice of cake, yeah?”
Welcome to the wacky world of parallel Earths—where every bad decision you’ve ever made can be neatly avoided. But here’s the kicker: you don’t get to benefit from the good decision. Nope. That privilege goes to your alternate self, living in some other reality, laughing at how they totally dodged the cringe moments you’re still haunted by. Nice.
So, how does it work, you ask? Let me paint a picture of what it’s like to send messages across timelines.
1. Step One: Admit You Screwed Up (Again)
You wake up at 3 a.m. in a cold sweat, remembering how you thought investing in crypto dog-themed coins was a “genius” move. You realize your alternate self could be right now on the verge of making that same, glorious financial nose-dive. It’s time to help a parallel brother out. Fire up the Time Message App (because obviously that exists in this universe), and type out, “Dear Past Me: No, buying Doge 2.0 won’t make you a millionaire. Trust me.”
Send. Now go back to scrolling through Zillow listings of houses you won’t be buying.
2. Step Two: The Art of the Perfect Warning
Now, here’s the thing about warning your past self: You’ve got to be subtle. After all, you’re dealing with someone who thought wearing socks with sandals was perfectly acceptable once. You can’t just scream, “DON’T DO IT” or your past self will definitely do it out of sheer spite. You have to be smooth.
Let’s say you’re about to warn 2010-you about that shady job offer you got from “CryptoSolutions Unlimited.” Instead of “Run away, fast,” you message, “Hey, maybe ask them what they actually do for a living before signing anything.” See? Classy.
3. Step Three: Laugh as Alternate-You Thrives
You’ve done it. You’ve sent the warning, and alternate-you has avoided disaster. Naturally, their life now becomes perfect. That past taco decision? They skipped it and never spent the night regretting it on the bathroom floor. They didn’t blow all their savings on NFT art of cartoon penguins, and now they’re probably relaxing on a beach somewhere, sipping piña coladas while you’re sitting at home googling “how to sell penguin NFTs for rent money.”
The upside? While they’re busy being fabulous, you get the pleasure of knowing that some version of you has figured it all out. The downside? This isn’t your reality. This is still the one where you thought bangs were a good idea.
4. Step Four: Handle the Unintended Consequences
There’s a catch, of course. Altering decisions in the past could have ripple effects—especially in parallel universes. So, while alternate-you is living their best life, their universe might be dealing with some unintended side effects.
Maybe your parallel self avoided eating that cake at a party, only to end up in an awkward conversation with a stranger that spiraled into a job offer in clown college. Now they’re a world-famous clown with a deep existential crisis.
Or worse: you warned them not to date that one person, and now that person ends up becoming a villain in their universe. Oops. That’s on you, buddy.
5. Step Five: Resist the Urge to Overdo It
The temptation to go full-on life-coach for your past self is strong. You start thinking: “What if I tell them to start working out earlier? What if I tell them to avoid watching Cats the movie?” Before you know it, you’re bombarding them with daily messages.
But here’s the deal: nobody likes a micromanager—not even your alternate self. So, chill out. Let them make a few bad decisions of their own. After all, where’s the fun in life if you can’t make mistakes and laugh about them later? Plus, maybe they’ll send you a message one day: “Dude, lay off the advice. I’m just trying to vibe.”
The Final Thought: Embrace the Chaos
So, is signaling your past self in a parallel Earth a foolproof way to fix your life? Nah. But it’s fun to imagine, isn’t it? Mistakes are part of what make us, well, us. They’re why we have good stories, questionable tattoos, and random trivia knowledge that nobody else cares about.
Sure, maybe some version of you somewhere else has everything figured out, but here’s the truth: This version of you? The one reading this right now? You’re doing just fine. Even with the bad decisions, weird haircuts, and questionable investment choices.
Because at the end of the day, if parallel universes exist, we’re all just making it up as we go—one plate masala chaap at a time.
And who knows? Maybe your alternate self is sending you a message right now. Maybe they’re saying, “Hey, you turned out okay. Don’t stress. And P.S., avoid ordering that masala chaap l”
Well, hello there! How are you doing? Have you been to London to see the Queen? Because if you have, I’m sure her corgis are probably happier than I am right now. I’ve been stuck in this feeling—you know, the one where you’re trying to convince yourself everything’s fine while simultaneously Googling “how to get a fresh start in life” like it’s a new salad recipe?
Lately, I’ve been feeling like one of those abandoned shopping carts at the back of a parking lot. You know, the ones that nobody bothers to return but everyone silently judges. Yep, that’s me! You see, I’ve been sad. And not just the I’ve-spilled-my-coffee sad—I’m talking about the deep kind, the one that makes you feel like you’ve let down every person who ever loved you, including that kid who waved at you from a school bus once.
Somewhere along the way, the vibrant connection I had with the people I care about has poof disappeared, like my enthusiasm after the third day of a new diet. It’s like we were this perfectly synced group, and now I’m the WiFi signal they forget to reset. And, just when I thought I was spending quality time with friends and family, guess what? I overheard them talking behind my back. Yes, I did the thing you’re not supposed to do—eavesdropped on a conversation that was clearly not meant for my ears. But in my defense, what am I supposed to do with all these unresolved trust issues? Go to therapy? Probably, but instead, I’m writing this blog.
Isn’t it just wonderful? You think you’re having a good time, and suddenly you hear, “Oh, did you hear about so-and-so? They’re really just not as fun anymore.” Cue the internal screaming. And just like that, you start questioning everything from your personality to your hairstyle. But hey, what’s life without a little self-sabotage, right?
Now, I’ve been through a lot of things, but I never thought I’d miss feeling like myself the most. And let’s be honest: that’s the real kicker. Of all the things in life—good food, sunny vacations, Netflix binges—what you really miss the most is you. The you that didn’t overthink every glance, comment, or meme. The you that didn’t feel like a ghost at your own party.
But life has its funny ways, doesn’t it? Even in the sad moments, I find humor creeping in like that awkward friend who shows up at the wrong time. You can either laugh at it, cry about it, or do both at the same time. I highly recommend the third option—it’s great for multitasking.
So here I am, lost somewhere between feeling nostalgic for my old self and making a mental note to buy a pack of corgi-shaped cookies the next time I’m at the store. Maybe I’ll even visit London one day. Who knows, I might run into the Queen. And if she asks, I’ll tell her the truth: “Ma’am, I’m just trying to feel like myself again.”
Today, I witnessed melting situations at Greater Noida District Court. The campus is huge, with multiple buildings. In the main building, the Session’s Judge sits on the ground floor, while the magistrate and civil judge are on the first floor.
It was a boiling hot day, and the courtroom felt more like an oven than a place of justice. Everyone was sweating buckets. The only thing moving faster than the advocates’ arguments was the sweat dripping from their faces.
Enter: The Fan Club.
The ground floor had air conditioning in the Session’s Court, making it a cool refuge for advocates without listed cases. They lounged comfortably, enjoying the cool air, while their colleagues on the first floor battled the heat. Upstairs, under the ceiling fans, things were both comical and chaotic.
Advocates crowded around the fans, all trying to argue their cases without losing their cool (literally). It was hilarious: a bunch of black-coated lawyers jostling for position in front of the fans. One advocate, standing directly in front of the fan, was mid-sentence when his voice took on a funny warble due to the wind. Another advocate, trying to interrupt, leaned into the fan’s path, only to have his papers fly out of his hands and scatter across the room.
The judge on the first floor, sitting at his high bench, couldn’t help but smile. His usually stern face softened as he watched the parade of sweaty lawyers. “Counselor, if you could step aside for a moment, others would also like to feel the breeze,” he remarked, his voice tinged with amusement.
But the advocates were undeterred. They took turns arguing their cases while basking in the fan’s cooling breeze. The litigants, meanwhile, fanned themselves with files and papers, clearly enjoying the unexpected show.
As the session on the first floor ended, advocates made their way back to the ground floor. The transition was almost ceremonial. Emerging from the heat, they descended the stairs and stepped into the blissfully cool Session’s Court, where the air conditioning was a welcome relief. They paused for a moment, letting the cool air wash over them, before heading back to their chambers with smiles on their faces.
This hilarious day in court will undoubtedly be remembered as the day the advocates of Greater Noida formed their very own “Fan Club”—a day when justice was served with a side of laughter and a much-needed breeze. It was a day when the usual tension of the courtroom gave way to a lighthearted camaraderie, proving that sometimes, even in the most serious of places, a little humor can make a big difference.
Bonus Scene: The Pool Proposal
In one sweltering courtroom, everyone was visibly uncomfortable. The judge fanned himself with a stack of papers, the litigants used their hats and notepads as makeshift fans, and the advocate, in his black coat, was sweating profusely.
Midway through a particularly heated argument, the advocate wiped his brow and grinned. “Your Honor, I propose we move this session to the water park. I’m sure we’ll all make more rational decisions when we’re not on the verge of melting”
The courtroom erupted in laughter. The judge raised an eyebrow, trying to maintain his composure but ultimately cracking a smile. “Counselor, while your suggestion is… imaginative, I’m afraid we must carry on here.”
As the laughter subsided, the tension in the room eased. The advocate’s lighthearted comment had provided a much-needed moment of levity, making the unbearable heat a little more bearable.
Expanding The Horizons 