LOL: Life Of Leo

Image Source Bangalore, the city of my birth and countless memories, was once the reigning champion of urban allure. A place where every street, every corner, was stitched seamlessly into the fabric of my childhood. Back then, simply saying one was from Bangalore seemed like a badge of honor: an unspoken declaration of sophistication, warmth, and unbeatable weather. It’s impossible to forget the gentle breeze that greeted me each morning and the canopy of trees hiding shy rays of sun, making every day feel like spring’s dainty encore. Where else could you enjoy a walk at noon without sweat clinging desperately to your brow? I recall wearing sweaters to school, even during summer. Bangalore was literally 'cool' back then.

Image Source Here’s the thing: I love a strong female character. In fact, I thrive on them. Give me Ripley fighting xenomorphs, Furiosa steering that war rig through the wasteland, or even Lizzie Bennet verbally dismantling Mr. Darcy before she falls for him; I’m here for all of it. What I cannot get behind is the constant, almost desperate trend of gender-bending characters who were never meant to be women just for the sake of calling it “progress.” Turning James Bond into Jane Bond or Lord Voldemort into Lady Voldemort isn’t feminism, it’s laziness disguised as creativity. It’s like putting lipstick on a franchise and hoping we won’t notice it’s the same old story with a different pronoun.

Image Source September feels like the universe’s reset button. For some reason, I associate September with the beginning of the end of the year. It’s not summer anymore and it’s not winter yet, the rains make an appearance here and there, making one more pensive. As it just precedes my birthday month, it also asks the big question: So… what are you still clinging to, and why? The air is cooler, the trees are casually letting go of their leaves like they’re above drama, and I find myself staring at my own mental closet thinking, "Should I finally declutter this emotional chaos?"

Image Source Another birthday just passed, and as always, I found myself looking back as much as looking forward. Birthdays have a way of doing that; pulling you into a quiet, uninvited audit of your life. This year, though, I noticed something different. The reflection wasn’t weighed down by regrets or a running list of what-ifs. Instead, I saw the bigger picture: the lessons, the patterns, and the quiet ways in which I’ve grown emotionally. Maybe that’s what maturity is, when your past doesn’t sting the way it used to because you’ve finally made peace with the person you once were.

AI Generated Image There’s a quiet, beautiful kind of heroism in those who refill the coffee pot. Or the kaapi filter, for us South Indians. Or the Moka pot, for fancy coffee enthusiasts. Although the title suggests this, trust me, this post is not about coffee. It is about people. You know the type, those rare angels who, upon taking the last sip, pause, rinse, and refill so the next caffeine-deprived soul doesn’t suffer the heartbreak of an empty pot. It seems small, almost trivial, but to me, it’s a gesture that represents something bigger: the philosophy of “Make it easy for the next person”, something I firmly believe in. I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately - how the people I admire most, both in my life and in the world, are the ones who turn around and smooth the road for the person behind them, instead of walking away like it’s not their problem.

While I was in Japan this April, everything seemed to align perfectly - the weather, the blossoms, the rhythm of the days. For two full weeks, we traveled across cities and countryside, and the skies remained consistently clear and bright. Ironically, on the one day we had set aside to visit Mount Fuji, the weather turned. It rained steadily, and thick clouds rolled in, obscuring every viewpoint where Fujisan is usually seen in all her glory.

Image Source For the longest time, I scoffed at anything that smelled remotely spiritual. The idea of praying, meditating, or seeking a “higher self” felt like escapism to me; a crutch for people afraid to face the blunt, chaotic, meaningless void that life often throws at us. As an agnostic, I don’t believe in God in the traditional sense, but I do believe in Karma - a quiet force that balances our actions with unseen consequences. I find comfort in the idea that a higher power, not defined by religion, watches over us with silent wisdom. For me, being agnostic means choosing faith in energy, cause and effect, and the mystery of the universe rather than doctrine. I’ve leaned toward Nihilism most of my adult life, not in a destructive way, but more in the “nothing really matters” sense. It was oddly comforting, even liberating. If life has no intrinsic meaning, I’m free to create my own, or none at all. That gave me peace. Until, slowly, it didn’t.

Image Source In my teens, F.R.I.E.N.D.S was more than a television show. It was a warm, familiar escape that aired like clockwork on cable (remember Star World and Zee Cafe?), the background hum to my after-school evenings. I didn’t just watch it - I inhaled it. The theme song was practically a mantra, and the six characters felt like companions who made adulthood seem whimsical and liberating. For a teenager growing up in India, F.R.I.E.N.D.S was my first real peek into Western television, a world where twenty-somethings lived in quirky apartments, drank endless coffee, and navigated love and life with a certain lightness that was irresistible. After Sidney Sheldon's books, this is what opened my mind to the "real" world.

The road bends sharp, the sky turns grey Just when hope begins to sway A whisper in the soul declares You’re made to walk through storms this way