I’m writing this blog post in a sleep-deprived state. So, you could expect multiple declarations of love towards sleep.

The staggeringly gratifying feeling you get when your head hits the pillow at the end of the day—aahh

The amazing sensation of dwelling in slumberland as your anatomy relaxes after a tiring period—whoa

The tears of gratitude your exhausted eyes shed as you let them snooze—uplifting.

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Sleep is spiritual. We tend to take it for granted. For example, during the weekend, I watch movies endlessly and read books tirelessly, ignoring all sorts of pleads from my eyes. I go to bed feeling accomplished because yeah watching all my target movies and finishing the novel in hand are the primary goals of my life and they’re worth sacrificing the fundamental routine of my life.

So, what happens when I hit the hay late at night but have to wake up early in the morning?

It’s a battle of witless excuses that I give myself to feel less dumb and idiotic.

Okay, in my defense, the chapter ended in a cliffhanger.

The hero turns out to be the villain. How can I not watch a film like that despite the clock ticking to one?

I can be an hour late for work tomorrow. The company won’t shut down in crisis.

And the classic, Just five more minutes. 

I see myself doing that five hours from now.

But seriously, we take everything that comes to us easily with an air of negligence. Sometimes when there’s so much to do within so little time, I wish I were an insomniac. Just so I’d get a couple more hours. But ask an insomniac what it is to wait for that pure delight of daze that comes with sleep. Ask a wakeful student preparing for final exams, how it feels to be incapable of having a full night’s sleep before giving the test.

I should be careful what I wish for because clearly, I love sleep more than food and water. After a long, sleepless journey that lasted about eleven hours, I now want more to crash out rather than to eat or even perform ablutions.

We waste food, water, love, everything that we’re supposed to treasure. We perceive the most significant possessions in our lives as inconsequential.

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We are bestowed with the power to think. So spend a few minutes in retrospect and we’re bound to realize the mistakes we have made and have been making in terms of our choices and priorities. I did and became aware of the fact that there’s nothing and I mean nothing in this world that’s as important to me as sleep right now.


Hey, hey, hey, before you judge me, to each his own.

Jokes apart, I think we’re born with the nasty attribute of ignoring the important things in our lives. Parents, for instance, are blatantly disregarded by their children in spite of the limitless love they shower on them. We come to sense their ubiquitous influence only during their absence and nothing can bring them back to the present. We can only cover the distance through various means of communication but can anything equal the comforting touch of Mom’s hand and edifying support of Dad’s shoulder?

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It’s important to prioritise and recognize the significant aspects of our lives because just like we take them for granted, they could evade us too when the time comes.




A father is indeed a candle that melts in order to spread light to everyone.

Yes, I remember that today’s Sunday and not Thursday. But it’s also Father’s day. Here’s a post that’s a tribute to all the dads, who also double as superheroes.

Why is that there are innumerable quotes on the significance of mother but not many on the sacrifices of a father? Why is it that since childhood, we have been taught to regard a mother as God—as in the famous quote, ‘God could not be everywhere, and therefore he made mothers—but dads were relegated to the position of admonishers and disciplinarians? Why is a father’s love underrated?

A mother bears our weight for nine months whereas a father bears the collective weight of the whole family all his life. His sacrifices go unnoticed, his protection seems like suffocation, yet his love remains limitless. We rarely get to see our dads, as they’re always hard-pressed with work and responsibilities. We whine about how little time he devotes us but does he ever complain about the encumbrances that are compelling him to toil round the clock?


There’s the cabbie, who shifted to a different country, far away from his family, only to earn daily bread and pay his children’s tuitions; the menial labour working at a construction site, who can’t afford to move his family due to the maintenance costs and limitations; the Navy employee, who misses the birth of his child and doesn’t get to hold it in his hands for another six months. Their stories make my heart ache because they are forgoing their comforts for the sake of their families’ better future. Couldn’t they just find some low-paying job in their own country, be near their families, eat home cooked food and play cricket with their children? A father is indeed a candle that melts in order to spread light to everyone.

We just see the candies and chocolates he gets for us on his return from work but do we ever think of the miles he has to drive to get them and the harsh sun he has to battle in the mid-afternoon? He pays the bills, takes us shopping, treats us at our favorite restaurants, cracks “fat” jokes at the expense of mom, unfailingly sends us the first “good morning” message on Whatsapp, gives us silly monikers, has an encyclopedic brain and still . . . and still, allows us to boss around and even enjoys being dictated by his children.


He slaves and strives to provide but expects nothing in return. He is an epitome of patience and affection. An embodiment of love. He doesn’t show or express but his eyes betray the compassion.

My father, for me, is a security blanket. I need his presence, either in person or through phone, in order to feel protected. His jokes, no matter how inane they are, act as a break from monotony. His smile fills my heart with warmth and his laugh tickles me.

I’m an adult but will always be his little girl, seeking protection from the big, bad world. Please never leave my hand, Dad. I would be lost.

HAPPY FATHER’S DAY. I love you so much that no amount of words can describe it. I hope this post would make up for my wordlessness.


Oh, Mom, don’t get green-eyed already. I love you too and you know that.



Parents are gifts that should be treasured like priceless gems despite the mildly abrasive edges.

I’m gonna break off my Thursday routine this week.

On the occasion of Mother’s day, I’m writing the second blog post in “The Thing About” series. But it’s not going to be just about Mother.

Parents. Every one of us must have gone through or will go through the phase when we believe that parents make our lives a living hell and we would be better off without them. Then, comes a phase when we regret the lost moments and bruised hearts. Wouldn’t we give anything to reverse the time and mend the broken bridges? Fix the cracked bonds?

I’m sure we all must have hurt our parents at some point in time because each one of us inevitably goes through that diabolical phase. Would a simple sorry after all these years set right the damage? No. But it does give us some closure and would certainly convey to our parents that we didn’t mean what we did. Throw the blame on our hot tempers and raging hormones.

Now, we’re . . . well, I am ready to put up with my parents’ antics because they’ve endured worse. They could act like six-year-old kids, order me to hand them the glass of water that was within their hand’s reach, take control of the T.V remote and mess up with the order of my place. I would gladly embrace it all despite being slightly irked. I might whine a little bit just like they did when I was a child but they are my babies, aren’t they?


When my father does something annoying, my mom would say, ‘It’s not easy to handle your dad. He’s high-maintenance. It’s better if we visit you for less number of days.’

Every time she says that I want to explain, ‘You’ve seen worse from me. This is like a walk in the park when compared to what you guys have tolerated. So, don’t ever think of yourselves as a burden. You’re my gifts from God. So, what would anyone do with gifts? They would treasure them like priceless gems despite the mildly abrasive edges.’

Yann Martel, in his novel, “Life of Pi”, aptly describes father as a tree trunk that supports its branches and mother as the sun above us. I was so enamored by those few sentences that I ended up falling deeply in love with the whole book and it remains my favourite till date. Those sentences made my eyes water. Those sentences made my heart heavy. Those sentences filled me with the fear of . . . can’t even say it. “Pi” survived the loss. But I probably can’t and won’t.

I love my parents fiercely and limitlessly. I accept their virtues and welcome their mistakes because they are the only people in this world who aren’t selfish for their own sake. They’re selfish for their children to flourish and prosper and hence, sometimes end up criticizing our choices, which they perceive to be wrong.

It’s our responsibility to take them in our stride and understand the thing about parental love.