So, how does one know it’s the calling they’re looking for?

Do you get recurring dreams?

Do butterflies start swirling around your head like a Disney princess?

Do you get a miracle postcard from the universe saying, “Hey Jay, drop everything — destiny’s waiting”?

Well, spoiler alert — I didn’t get the postcard. I didn’t even get the WhatsApp forward.

I did, however, have this very noble calling once:

I wanted to sit on that high chair. Not the baby one — the Judge’s Chair.

You know the one. Big, tall, wooden. Someone says “All Rise!” and boom — you glide in like a boss, robe flapping, gavel ready.

But no. Life had other plans. I still sit. But mostly on revolving chairs, navigating revolving cases. And the only “All Rise” I hear is my son rising up to demand biscuits during client calls.

This year, I had another calling. A spiritual one.

Gomukh.

Yes, the origin of the Ganga. Snow. Silence. Sadhus. Soul-searching.

I imagined myself walking with a stick, whispering Sanskrit verses to the wind, reaching Gomukh, and finally figuring out the point of it all.

Instead?

I went to the National Rail Museum.

Also to the Nehru Planetarium.

And let’s not forget the local mela — where I ate a suspicious-looking corn on the cob that felt more like Rajma on a stick (no offense to Rajma), and almost lost my child near the trampoline.

Wait — no, that didn’t happen. Who am I kidding?

I’m way too anxious to take my eyes off him even for a second. I practically track his movements like a highly trained commando — only less agile and slightly more sleep-deprived.

Still spiritual, I suppose. In a very parenting-is-karma kind of way.

Now don’t get me wrong — I’m not sad I didn’t become a judge.

Nor am I sad that Gomukh is still pending. (though, I may have watched a YouTube vlog about it in bed while eating chips).

Because in between these missed callings, I’ve been securing some amazing court orders, writing fierce legal notices, and winning surprise battles with life — sometimes with briefs, sometimes with baby wipes.

But still…

There’s this tiny little flute inside me. A wind flute. And every time I try to play it, life throws furniture in my path.

Deadlines, dishwashing, Delhi traffic, and dinosaurs (ok, toy ones — parenting again).

And instead of a soulful tune, it’s more like squeak-thud-oof.

So here I am — not at Gomukh, not in a courtroom, but scribbling in the middle of the night while trying not to wake the toddler or the dream that’s snoring softly in the corner.

And maybe that’s life in general.

Not always the calling.

But often, the misdial, the hold music, and the voice in your head saying — try again tomorrow.

And… All Rise… for the guy who went to Mela instead.

Later.