When the roots of a tree are growing, nobody notices. They work quietly beneath the soil, stretching through darkness long before branches ever reach the sky. The moon is never applauded while it is becoming full. It waxes in silence, asking for nothing until the night finally turns to look at it. Perhaps growth has always demanded stillness before celebration, solitude before success.

We are taught to admire the finished version of growth. The glamour, the transformation, the confidence, the glow-up. Social media packages becoming into neat montages and triumphant music, convincing us that growth is something that happens under bright lights.

But no one speaks about the quieter chapters.

The weekends spent alone because your priorities have changed. The unanswered phone calls that slowly become expected. The friendships that feel unfamiliar, not because anyone did anything wrong, but because you are no longer walking in the same direction or maybe have the same destination but different ways of reaching it. Growth is often less about adding new things to your life and more about making peace with what quietly falls away.

Isolation, however, is not always a punishment. Sometimes, it is preparation.

A tree sheds its leaves before spring asks it to bloom again. A sculptor patiently chips away at marble, removing more than they keep. Rivers carve through stone not with force, but with persistence. Nature has never mistaken solitude for failure, and perhaps neither should we.

The hardest part of growth is not learning something new. It is unlearning the familiar. It asks you to loosen your grip on old habits, old fears, old patterns, and even old versions of yourself that once felt like home. There is a peculiar grief in outgrowing a life that once fit you so well. It makes you uncomfortable.

For a while, you become a bridge suspended between two shores, belonging completely to neither. You are no longer the person you used to be, but you have not yet become the person you are trying to meet. It is an uncomfortable place to live, but it is also where the strongest foundations are built.

The more intentional your life becomes, the less your choices make sense to everyone else. You say no more often. You choose depth over distraction, discipline over comfort, quiet over constant noise. To others, it may look like withdrawal. To you, it is construction. Brick by brick, boundary by boundary, you are building a life that finally resembles who you are instead of who you were expected to be.

Perhaps that is the hidden cost of wanting to grow. Not everyone will understand the distance. Not everyone will recognize the silence as progress. Some will mistake your absence for indifference when, in truth, you are simply tending to root they cannot see.

And maybe becoming was never about finding people who could walk every step beside you.

Maybe it is about becoming someone worth walking with when, after all the silence, all the shedding, and all the seasons of uncertainty, you finally meet yourself.

After four years of studying at design school, I graduated yesterday.

My entire family showed up for this beautiful day. They always do. No matter how big or small the occasion, no matter how ordinary or extraordinary the achievement, they always show up.

The only missing piece of that day was my Nanaji.

He passed away a few years ago, and something inside me has never quite been the same since.

As a child, I was terrified of death. I would have panic attacks just thinking about what would happen to me after I died. Over time, with counselling and the unwavering support of my parents, I slowly learned to live with that fear. I spent a few years dancing through life again. I did everything I wanted to do. I even took small risks. The paranoia never disappeared completely, but I learned to quieten it.

Until one random day, when I watched someone I loved die.

I still remember the moment my father told me that Nanaji was gone. It felt as though someone had driven a knife straight through my chest. My heart refused to believe what my ears had just heard. Anxiety took over, but denial stayed longer. I remained in denial for hours. Perhaps even until I attended his funeral.

I grew up in a family where I had the privilege of knowing my great grandparents. I saw them live well into their nineties. I had seen them almost as much as I had seen my Nanaji. Maybe because of that, losing someone in the family always felt like something that happened to other people. It was a reality that lived somewhere far away from me.

Until it did not.

The shock stayed with me for a long time. And while I know grief never belongs to just one person, I cannot deny that it changed me. I struggled to process the fact that someone so deeply woven into my childhood had suddenly become a memory.

Nightmares have become regular visitors ever since.

What followed the grief was regret.

The regret of not calling him enough. Not checking in often enough. Not visiting him enough. Regret is a strange thing. It convinces you that love can only be measured by what you failed to do.

My regret consumed me.

Even today, I avoid certain family gatherings because one thought of him is enough to fill my eyes with tears. A few are falling even as I write this.

Yesterday was one of those days. I was happy. Truly happy. And yet, I missed him more than I have in a long time.

I remembered the day Nani and Nanaji came to my university when I received the Achiever’s Award. Nanaji was in complete awe of the campus. He looked around with the curiosity of a child and the pride of a grandfather. That face, full of quiet excitement, was all I could see when I walked onto the stage yesterday to receive my degree.

Today is his birthday.

He would have turned seventy-five.

And I realized that the last memory I have of him is not the one I want to carry forever.

Growing up, I spent every vacation at my Nana Nani’s house. Nanaji had a few strict rules. Television had to be switched off after a certain time. As a child, those rules annoyed me. Looking back now, I realize he was teaching me something far greater than discipline. He was teaching me that freedom without balance slowly loses its meaning.

Nanaji was one of the most hardworking people I have ever known.

My mother often tells me how he quietly gave up countless comforts so that she and my Maama could receive a good education. Much of where my mother stands today is because of the sacrifices made by both my Nani and my Nanaji.

He was a mathematics scholar. Ironically, I hated mathematics.

Yet studying with him somehow made it enjoyable. Sometimes I would even sit beside him while studying subjects that had nothing to do with mathematics, simply because learning with him never felt like studying.

One of my favorite memories with him is from a trip to Konkan, where we went paragliding together. I was terrified. Every instinct in me wanted to back out. Somehow, just knowing he was there made the fear feel smaller. I still remember taking off, my heart racing, only to realize that I was smiling. His calmness became my courage that day.

He also taught me the importance of having values, while reminding me that values should never prevent growth.

He grew up with a fairly orthodox mindset, yet when my mother chose to marry my father in an intercultural and intercaste marriage that was strongly opposed within the family, he allowed himself to evolve. He did not abandon his principles, but he expanded his perspective.

That, to me, is one of the greatest signs of wisdom.

I often asked him questions simply because I was curious.

“Nanaji, why don’t you eat non vegetarian food?”

His answer was always simple.

“My parents told me not to.”

I would immediately begin arguing.

“But why should we always do what our elders say?”

He would smile and calmly reply that these were the values he had chosen to live by. Then he would add, “The day there is no vegetarian food left in the world, I will eat non vegetarian food.”

That answer has stayed with me for years.

It taught me that conviction does not have to become rigidity. You can have principles without becoming impractical. You can stand firm without refusing to bend.

I see so much of my Nanaji in my father.

My father does not consume alcohol, but he has never stopped any of us from making our own choices. Like Nanaji, his morals are quiet but unshakeable. They are both men whose words carry weight because they have always honored them.

Perhaps that is one of the many reasons my mother chose him.

For years, I have mourned my Nanaji’s death a little every single day.

But maybe it is finally time to remember him for the life he lived instead of the day he left.

He was a good human being. He helped people without expecting recognition. He stood firmly beside his family. He loved deeply and sacrificed silently.

Those are the things I carry forward from knowing him. Perhaps that is why he left this world so peacefully.

Today, on his birthday, there is only one thing I want to tell him.

I love you.

I regret not calling you one last time.

But I do not want that regret to become louder than the memories we created together.

From today onwards, I choose to remember you not for your absence, but for your presence. Not for the day you left, but for the years you lived.

You have shaped me in more ways than I realized while you were here. You have been, and you will always remain, one of the quiet foundations of my life. Wherever you are, I hope you know that I am still trying to become someone you would be proud of.

Happy birthday, Nanaji.

People say that dogs pick up the traits of the people they live with. Mine, unfortunately, has picked all the worst ones from all of us.

He inherited my need for attention and my sister’s avoidant personality. He sits in the same room, looks at me, and groans as though he is calling my name, asking me to come and sit beside him. But three minutes into cuddling and suddenly, physical affection is beneath him.

He has also inherited my paranoia. It takes just one unfamiliar sound to convince him that civilization is ending. The more I think about it, the more I realize how many unnecessary traits he has borrowed from me. My mood swings. My complete lack of emotional regulation. He hears his friend barking from the window of another building, gets instantly triggered, and charges towards the balcony as though he has been summoned to battle. His bark carries the confidence of a warrior and the logic of someone who has completely lost the plot.

Sometimes I wonder if he is our dog, or simply a mirror with four legs.

Life feels wonderfully absurd when I think about the fact that we have a furry little creature living in our house. My mother and I once used to be terrified of dogs, but today conversations about his poop have become a regular part of our dinner table. His three in the morning barks, his unconditional love for anything that contains chicken, the treats hidden around the house, his dramatic sneezes, all of it has quietly stitched itself into the fabric of our everyday lives.

There was a time when I would die of embarrassment because of his habit of humping every unsuspecting guest. Today, it barely fazes me. In fact, I laugh before anyone else does.

What amazes me most is how this tiny creature has managed to rearrange the emotional architecture of our home. I see my father stealing a few moments between work calls just to play with him. I see my mother planning her day around his meals, his walks, and his naps, now that my sister and I are mostly away from home. It almost feels as though he was always meant to find us. Who would have believed that the woman who once refused to be anywhere near a dog would one day struggle to imagine a life without one?

There was also a time when I could not stand that unmistakable dog smell that greeted me every time I entered the house. Today, if my home does not smell like Rambo, something feels missing. Somewhere along the way, that smell stopped belonging to a dog. It started belonging to home.

We often joke that Rambo has inherited all our worst qualities. But the truth is that we have inherited some of his best ones too. Because of him, we laugh a little louder. We worry together. We find reasons to gather in the same room.

They say dogs become like their owners. I think the opposite happens too.

The house has changed. Our hearts have changed. Our routines now revolve around his. Somewhere between muddy paws, midnight barks, endless conversations about poop, and a smell that now feels like home, we became a little more like him.

And I think we are better off this way.

Eeha never liked her uncle. Not because he had done something terrible, but because he always looked angry and strict. He spoke very little, never smiled in family photographs, and answered every question with short, curt replies. To a child, his silence felt louder than everyone else’s laughter.

As children, we do not collect facts; we collect feelings. We do not investigate people, we imagine them. And from those fragments, we begin painting entire portraits. In Eeha’s story, her uncle had already become the villain. No evidence. No trial. Just appearance masquerading as truth.

He would disappear after festivals and return only once a year. Even then, he rarely spent time with the family. Instead, he buried himself in books about business or stepped away to answer work calls. To Eeha, every one of these moments became another brushstroke on a painting she believed was completely true.

Fast forward to when she turned seventeen.

One afternoon, Eeha’s school fees were due. Her parents were going through a financial crisis. She overheard a conversation between them and realized that it was not the “good” cousin or the “affectionate” aunt who had come to their rescue. It was the “angry” and “quiet” uncle who had quietly paid her school fees, never expected gratitude and never announced his kindness.

That day, Eeha did not just discover something about her uncle. She discovered something about herself.

She realized how easily she had mistaken silence for arrogance, distance for dislike, and stillness for selfishness. She had judged the cover and forgotten there was an entire story waiting behind it.

As humans, we are uncomfortable with unfinished patterns. Our minds crave conclusions. The moment we meet someone; we begin writing their biography long before we have read the first chapter. We judge.

We judge their smile, the way they finish their sentences, the clothes they wear, the opinions they hold, and whether a conversation with them feels effortless or awkward. Slowly, that first impression hardens like wet cement left untouched until it becomes the only version of that person, we are willing to see.

Why do these first impressions become so difficult to change?

Because changing them costs us something. Our ego.

It asks us to admit that we were wrong. And admitting that is often harder than continuing to believe a comforting lie. So, we stop looking for the truth and begin collecting evidence that justifies the story we have already written.

Sixteen years later, Eeha met her uncle differently. Not because he had changed, but because she finally found the courage to meet the person standing behind all her judgments. The man had always been the same. It was her perception that had been rewritten.

Perhaps the first impression is a lasting impression, not because it is true, but because we choose to keep carrying it.

I am sure many of you have a favorite genre. Mine, however, changes every fifteen minutes.

Between my grandfather’s harmonium, my grandmother’s powerful vocals, my dad’s band rehearsals, and the aggressively energetic club music my friends and I dance to on weekends, music has become less of a hobby and more of the language I think in. My brain doesn’t have thoughts. It has background scores.

One moment I’m listening to soft romantic songs, convinced life is a beautifully written coming of age film. Fifteen minutes later, Bollywood item songs take over. (I love the energy. Please don’t judge me.) By night, Spotify has somehow decided I’m going through a devastating breakup. The funny part? Half the time I’m perfectly fine. I just enjoy emotionally supporting fictional versions of myself.

Music has a strange way of repainting ordinary moments. My morning walks become movie montages. Grocery shopping suddenly feels cinematic. Even washing dishes can feel oddly poetic with the right playlist.

And when I have to avoid someone while looking effortlessly confident? Doja Cat and Cardi B immediately clock in for duty. They have successfully convinced me that walking past someone without making eye contact is the most empowering thing.

Classical music, though, occupies a completely different corner of my heart. It feels like home.

My grandparents have been singing since they were very young, and some of my earliest memories are of my grandfather sitting with his harmonium during his daily Riyaaz. As a child, I would sit beside him while he patiently taught me little pieces of the music he loved. Those mornings smelled of tea and somehow felt slower than time itself.

As I grew older, another world quietly opened up. Thanks to my dad, I discovered Pink Floyd, Michael Jackson, and an entirely new universe of Western music. My Heart Will Go On from Titanic became the first English song I ever learnt to play on the piano. Somewhere between all this, I slowly developed my own music taste.

Or perhaps I didn’t.

Because I eventually realized that I don’t really have a “type.” I listen to almost everything. My playlists are less of a carefully curated collection and more of an identity crisis.

Sometimes I wonder if this has something to do with how indecisive I am.

A few years ago, my mother told me something that has stayed with me ever since. She said that if I notice a pattern in one part of my life, chances are I’ll find it everywhere else.

She wasn’t wrong.

I’m a little careless. It reflects in my money management, in the way I handle things, sometimes in my relationships, and occasionally even in how seriously I take my health. In exactly the same way, my music taste reflects my constant curiosity. Every genre feels like a new room I want to step into.

Which, now that I think about it, explains my hobbies too.

I write.

I act.

I direct films.

I dance.

Every few weeks I somehow convince myself that I should probably pick up another artistic hobby because apparently none of this is enough.

Maybe I don't struggle with commitment. Maybe I'm just fascinated by possibility. By the idea that one lifetime is too short for everything I want to become, so I keep trying to become a little bit of everything.

So, please don’t ask me questions like, “What are you doing in life?” or “What’s your favorite genre of music?”

The answer to both is probably the same.

“I don’t know.”

I have never learnt to live in moderation. I either make people my homes or start searching for the nearest exit. There has never been a middle ground. It is unfortunate how easily my heart turns simple relationships into labyrinths.

I have heard of migratory birds returning to the same sky every year, roots growing blindly into the earth in search of warmth, rivers surrendering themselves to oceans without asking what waits beneath the surface. But my mind plays tricks on me. I cannot simply let things be. I cannot surrender. I crave control over situations that were never mine to command, as though certainty were something that could be negotiated.

It feels like standing on the edge of a sea.

I love beaches. I love water. I love the rhythm of waves folding into themselves. Yet my fear of being stung by a jellyfish is so immense that I hesitate to let the water kiss my feet. I become an architect of excuses.

Inside me, my mind and my heart are arguing over the same sea. My mind tells me to stop being irrational, to let go, because whatever happens, happens. My heart remembers the afternoon my feet bled after I stepped on a broken seashell. One remembers possibility. The other archives pain.

Sometimes I convince myself that distance will help. That if I stop replying, silence my notifications, disappear for a while, I will finally feel lighter. But absence has never been quiet inside my head. Even when my phone falls silent, my mind does not. It keeps replaying songs, conversations, laughter, unfinished sentences, every ordinary moment that somehow became sacred in hindsight.

Even when I know I want to leave the sea, I cannot help wondering if I am walking away from the coral, the sunrise reflected on the waves, the quiet miracles hidden beneath the surface. But I am equally afraid of stepping into it.

New friendships excite me. I love the season of discovering another person, when every conversation feels like opening another window in a house you have never entered before. But the deeper I know them, the more unfamiliar they begin to seem. It is not because they have changed. It is because they have become real. And reality frightens me far more than mystery ever could.

So I begin longing for the beginning. For the effortless version of us before expectations arrived. Before vulnerability unpacked its suitcase. Before affection became something that could be lost.

I feel like a pendulum that has forgotten it was built to measure time, not spend its entire existence swinging between extremes. Forever moving. Never arriving.

What is the point of all this?

I wish I could tell you I am figuring it out. I am not even close.

Even today, I find myself reaching for someone’s hand while another part of me is already preparing to let it go. Maybe someday this tsunami inside me will remember that not every shoreline hides a jellyfish. That not every wave is a warning. That not every open sea is waiting to swallow me whole.

Maybe one day I will stop mistaking safety for surrender. But for now, coming close still feels like being consumed.