Fourteen years of marriage isn’t just a number—it’s seasons turned, lessons learnt, and moments deeply lived. This post reflects on love, growth, and what it truly means to journey together.
After months indoors, Cassiobury Park felt like a gentle return to life. A simple picnic became a quiet moment of healing and reconnection with both nature and each other.
This isn’t just a website...it’s a canvas of identity. A curated lens through which I archive thoughts, share reflections, and invite the world into the layered chapters of my life.
In marble silence, civilizations whispered. The British Museum isn’t just a gallery… it’s a dialogue of plunder and preservation, of empire and awe. I walked, I wondered… and I questioned deeply.
Quaint is not cliché. A British village is a still-life in grey stone, green lawns, and unspoken customs. Behind its postcard calm, I saw the rhythm… of a people perfectly reserved.
Amsterdam in spring is more than tulips… it’s colour and commerce blooming together. Each bulb carries a legacy… of trade, obsession, and beauty that once shook the world economy.
From dog-eared pages to Bluetooth earphones, I’ve read in every way. What matters isn’t format...it’s surrender. A book is a mirror, no matter the frame.
They not only raised their voice ( norm of that millennials) but they also raised the standard. In their gaze, I found calm. In their habits, a compass. And in their flaws… my own reflection.
Some people live… some people write. I do both at once. This piece reflects on my habit of letting life unfurl slowly through words… a mirror… a rhythm… a reckoning.
The Bhadralok is not an outdated relic. He is me… and many like me. A man of Oxford and Kolkata… erudition in speech, warmth in manners, and dhoti in spirit.
Time doesn’t walk… it sprints. One moment he was crawling… today, he’s in grammar school. A father’s quiet celebration… of growth, pride, and the ache of letting go.
St Vincent’s wasn’t just a school… it was a rhythm of whistles, prayers, and playground dreams. These Bengali reflections trace the roots of a boy who’d one day write them down.
They debated like poets, challenged like monks, and comforted like old friends. We weren’t just students...we were seekers. This is where we found each other.
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