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Idea & Event Lead: Kanak Aggarwal Creative Support (Leaf Props): Anita Oberoi Organized by: EI Library, coordinated by Harinath A simple idea, a grateful heart, and a tree filled with messages reminded us that the greatest gifts often come in a few heartfelt words. This Father's Day, EI Library brought residents together through the Gratitude Tree—a beautiful activity where children and adults expressed their love for their fathers by writing heartfelt messages on leaf-shaped cards, creating a tree filled with appreciation and memories. The Story Behind the Tree Some celebrations begin with months of planning. Others begin with a simple idea and a willing heart. For Kanak Aggarwal, Father's Day has always been special. Being a true daddy's girl, she loves celebrating the occasion in meaningful ways. Inspired by the Mother's Day event organized earlier at EI Library, she wondered if fathers too could be celebrated through a community activity. "I always enjoy celebrating Father's Day," Kanak shared. "When I shared the idea with Harinath, he immediately trusted me to lead the event. That confidence gave me the motivation to make it a success." The concept was simple yet beautiful—a Gratitude Tree where residents could write messages for their fathers on leaf-shaped cards and place them on the branches, allowing the tree to slowly bloom with love and appreciation. Special thanks also go to Anita Oberoi, who helped prepare the beautiful leaf props that became the heart of the activity. When Gratitude Filled the Branches On the day of the event, children, parents, and grandparents stopped by the tree, picked up a leaf, and wrote messages that came straight from the heart. Each leaf carried a unique story. Some thanked their fathers for being their strongest support system. Some called them their superhero, their everything, or simply the best dad in the whole world. Others expressed gratitude for life lessons—teaching them to stay simple, kind, peaceful, and courageous. Some appreciated the little joys: chocolates, surprise gifts, family trips, ice creams, and the precious time fathers always find despite their busy schedules. A few messages wished only one thing: "Stay healthy." One beautiful note simply read: "Whatever I am today, it's because of my Dad." By the end of the evening, the once-bare tree had transformed into a vibrant canopy of gratitude, carrying dozens of heartfelt messages from across the community. A Father's Day at Home When I asked Kanak how she celebrated Father's Day with her father, her answer reflected the very spirit of the Gratitude Tree. With a smile, she shared that although she rarely cooks, she made French fries especially for him. Later, the family went out for momos—his favorite—and she gifted him ice cream. When I jokingly asked whether her father had given her a return gift, she laughed and said, "Yes... we're going out for dinner!" Sometimes, the most meaningful gifts aren't wrapped in boxes—they're shared over a simple meal, laughter, and time spent together. More Than an Event Reflecting on the day, Kanak shared that the happiest part wasn't organizing the activity—it was watching people participate. Seeing children and adults thoughtfully write messages for their fathers and proudly place them on the tree made the entire effort worthwhile. What began as one resident's idea became a beautiful community memory—one that reminded us that gratitude grows when it is shared. Looking at the Gratitude Tree covered in heartfelt messages, Kanak felt that every hour spent planning the event had been worthwhile. One simple idea had encouraged an entire community to pause, reflect, and say two words we often leave unsaid—"Thank you, Dad." Event Credits Idea & Event Lead: Kanak Aggarwal Creative Support (Leaf Props): Anita Oberoi Organized by: EI Library, coordinated by Harinath

Harinath Story Teller EI Outlook Editor, Linkedin Profile, Blog Part 1: Describe The Rain The world they imagined together. Part 2: Describe Sight The world that pulled them apart. Sight brought possibilities neither had imagined. Yet while Aarav found purpose in building, Mira found joy in exploring. Somewhere between shared dreams and separate journeys, they stopped introducing themselves to each other. Describe Memory The separation happened quietly. No dramatic goodbye. No final declaration. No moment that could later be blamed. Just fewer calls. Fewer messages. Fewer attempts to explain things that neither seemed able to explain anymore. Then one day, they simply stopped trying. For a while, both felt relieved. Which surprised them. Aarav no longer had to wonder why Mira felt distant. Mira no longer had to wonder why Aarav seemed unable to understand what she was trying to say. The constant tension disappeared. Life became simpler. And both mistook that for peace. Years passed. Aarav built the life he had always imagined. He worked with visually impaired children. Trained mobility instructors. Helped families navigate fears he understood better than anyone. The work mattered. Every evening he returned home feeling useful. One afternoon, a young student asked him: "Sir, were you always this patient?" Aarav laughed. "No." "What changed?" Aarav thought for a moment. Then smiled. "I met someone who asked too many questions." The student looked confused. Aarav decided not to explain. Some stories take too long. Meanwhile, Mira built a very different life. Her work took her everywhere. Delhi. Jaipur. Ladakh. Kochi. Kathmandu. The world she once imagined through descriptions now unfolded before her own eyes. She photographed festivals. Markets. Mountains. People. Stories. Every city offered another horizon. Every horizon revealed another one beyond it. Exactly as she had hoped. One evening, standing on a mountain trail, someone asked her: "What's your favorite view?" Mira looked toward the valley below. Then surprised herself with her answer. "A train station." The person laughed. "A train station?" Mira smiled. "It's a long story." And left it at that. Over time, new people entered their lives. Good people. That was the difficult part. Neither found villains. Neither found mistakes. Aarav met someone kind. Someone dependable. Someone who admired his work. Someone who listened carefully. Mira met someone adventurous. Someone curious. Someone excited by the same possibilities she chased. On paper, everything made sense. The relationships were healthy. Comfortable. Adult. And yet. Now and then, something strange happened. Aarav would hear a question. A genuinely interesting question. And instinctively think: Mira would have loved this. Then remember she wasn't there. Years later, the habit still remained. Meanwhile, Mira would see something unusual. A street performer. A sudden rainstorm. A child asking impossible questions. And her first thought would be: Aarav would have had an answer for this. Then remember he wasn't there either. Neither spoke about it. Neither considered it important. Just an old habit. Nothing more. At least that was what they told themselves. The real surprise came later. Not from loneliness. Not from regret. But from comparison. Because their new partners understood them. They understood who they were. What they liked. What they wanted. What they feared. Yet something still felt different. One night, while returning home after dinner, Aarav realized what it was. His partner knew the man he had become. But not the boy who had once described red as a train arriving too fast. The thought arrived unexpectedly. And refused to leave. Hundreds of kilometers away, Mira arrived at a similar realization. Her partner knew the traveler. The photographer. The woman who chased stories across the country. But not the girl who had once spent an entire monsoon arguing about the sound of rain. For years, both had searched for people who understood them. Only to discover something unexpected. Understanding who a person is... is not always the same as understanding how they became that person. And some histories cannot be recreated. No matter how much love follows afterward. Describe the Rain Rain tapped softly against the restaurant window. Aarav looked at Mira. Twenty years had passed. Yet somehow the question felt unchanged. "Describe the rain." When she had asked it a few minutes ago, he had frozen. Not because he didn't know the answer. Because suddenly there were too many answers. Twenty years earlier, the question would have been easy. Back then, they had spent entire evenings describing rain. Arguing about rain. Laughing about rain. Trying to understand rain. Then life happened. Sight happened. Dreams happened. Distance happened. And somewhere along the way, they stopped describing things to each other. The strange part was that neither had noticed when it happened. Mira waited. Patient as always. Outside, rainwater raced down the glass. Headlights stretched into golden streaks. Mumbai hummed beneath the storm. Finally Aarav smiled. "Do you remember Churchgate Station?" Mira laughed immediately. "The platform that smelled like wet newspapers?" "And bad tea." "The tea was excellent." "It was terrible." They both laughed. For a moment they were sixteen again. Then silence returned. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just familiar. Aarav looked toward the rain. "You know..." "What?" "I used to think we spent all those years trying to describe the world." Mira tilted her head. "And now?" Aarav took his time answering. Because some answers need decades. "I think we were trying to describe ourselves." The rain continued falling. Neither spoke. The sentence settled gently between them. A memory finally finding the right name. Every conversation about fear. Every conversation about success. Every conversation about loneliness. Every conversation about home. They had never really been discussing those things. They had been showing each other who they were. Mira smiled. "We were terrible at explaining the world." Aarav laughed. "We were." "We kept getting everything wrong." "The color red." "The sea." "Sunsets." "Relationships." That last one made both of them smile. Outside, a train rattled somewhere in the distance. The sound barely reached the restaurant. Yet both noticed it. Some habits survived the years. Mira wrapped her hands around her tea cup. "Do you know what I finally understood?" Aarav shook his head. "When you got your sight, I thought you had changed." He listened. "When I got mine, I thought you couldn't understand me anymore." Aarav looked down. Neither statement felt untrue. Neither felt completely true either. Mira continued. "I spent years thinking we drifted apart because we became different people." "And?" She smiled. A sad smile. A peaceful smile. "I think we drifted apart because we stopped introducing those people to each other." Aarav stared at her. Of all the explanations they had considered over the years... that one felt closest. Not because it solved everything. Because it didn't. It simply explained enough. The rain grew heavier. For a few moments they watched it together. Just two people sitting beside the lives they had chosen. No regrets. No grand declarations. No impossible dreams of returning to the past. The past had already done its job. It had made them who they were. Mira smiled again. "You still haven't answered." Aarav looked outside. Rain slid down the glass exactly as it had twenty years ago. He listened. Not to the rain itself. To everything hidden inside it. Churchgate Station. Marine Drive. The Description Game. The promises. The arguments. The silences. The laughter. The years. Then he smiled. "It sounds like home." Mira didn't ask him to explain. She understood immediately. Outside, trains arrived. Trains departed. Rain continued falling across a city that had witnessed every version of them. The blind children. The dreamers. The lovers. The strangers. The people they became. Inside the restaurant, neither was trying to explain the world anymore. They were simply listening. And perhaps that had been the point all along. Read the Complete Journey Part 1: Describe The Rain The world they imagined together. Part 2: Describe Sight The world that pulled them apart. Part 3: Describe the Memory The world they finally understood.

Harinath Story Teller EI Outlook Editor, Linkedin Profile, Blog What does rain sound like? Can a train be impatient? And why would anyone describe a mango as sunshine? Aarav and Mira have spent years arguing over impossible questions, terrible answers, and cups of tea that always seem to arrive at exactly the right time. Describe The Rain Mumbai was drowning again. Rain slid down the restaurant windows in crooked lines, blurring headlights into streaks of green, gold and red. Outside, people hurried beneath umbrellas that seemed far too small for the evening. Inside, the restaurant was warm, crowded, and noisy in the familiar way Mumbai always was during monsoon. Aarav arrived ten minutes early. Some habits survive longer than relationships. He chose the table by the window and immediately smiled at the irony. Years ago, he would never have cared where he sat. A window had meant nothing to him then. Now he found himself watching raindrops race each other down the glass. He checked his watch. Then checked it again. Then laughed quietly at himself. Some habits survive longer than pride too. The waiter arrived. "Sir, would you like to order?" Aarav shook his head. "I'm waiting for someone." The waiter nodded and disappeared. Aarav turned back toward the rain. He had imagined this meeting many times over the years. In some versions, it was awkward. In others, emotional. In one particularly dramatic version, she threw a glass of water at him. Fortunately, Mira had always been far too sensible for that. The restaurant door opened. A gust of damp air entered with it. Aarav looked up. And forgot every version he had imagined. She stood near the entrance, folding her umbrella. For a moment she scanned the room. Then her eyes found him. Neither smiled immediately. Neither waved. Neither moved. They simply looked at each other. It was strange. For years they had recognized each other instantly. Not by sight. By footsteps. By breathing. By the rhythm of a sentence. By silence. Now they sat there like strangers, using eyes for something that once required none. Mira walked toward the table. The same steady pace. The same slight tilt of her head when she was thinking. Some things survived longer than time. "You're early." She said Aarav smiled. "And you're still late." She pulled out the chair opposite him. "Three minutes isn't late." "It is when you've kept someone waiting for eight years." Aarav teasing her For the first time, she laughed. The sound landed somewhere deep inside him. Familiar. Dangerously familiar. The waiter appeared. Menus were offered. Ignored. Tea was ordered. Automatically. Neither needed to ask. The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It was crowded. Filled with things neither knew how to begin saying. Outside, rain hammered the city. Inside, two people who once knew everything about each other searched for a place to start. Mira looked toward the window. "Still raining." Aarav followed her gaze. "Some things never change." She smiled. "That's not true." Neither of them said anything after that. Because both knew exactly what she meant. The tea arrived. Neither of them touched it immediately. Outside, the rain had become heavier. Water streamed down the restaurant windows, turning the city into a blurry painting. Mira watched it for a moment. Then she smiled. "Do you remember the rain game?" Aarav looked up from his cup. Of all the things he expected her to mention, he hadn't expected that. "The rain game?" "You know exactly which one." Mira replied Aarav laughed. "The day you spent two hours arguing that rain sounded lonely?" "Because it does." Mira protested "It doesn't." "See? Eight years later and you're still wrong." Outside, thunder rolled across the city. Then she turned toward Aarav. "Describe the rain." Aarav stopped moving. The teaspoon froze halfway to his cup. For a moment he simply stared at her. Not because he didn't understand the question. Because he understood it too well. A smile appeared on Mira's face. Small. Sad. Knowing. Aarav looked back toward the rain. And suddenly he was no longer sitting inside a restaurant. He was sixteen years old again. Standing on a crowded station platform. Listening to rain. Listening to laughter. Listening to a girl who always had one more question. Twenty years earlier... Describe a Train The platform smelled of wet concrete and chai. Rain hammered the metal roof overhead so loudly that station announcements dissolved into static. Aarav sat on a cold steel bench, listening. That was one of his favorite things to do. Listen. The city always revealed more through sound than people realized. Footsteps. Train brakes. Vendors. Arguments. Laughter. Everyone was telling a story without knowing it. Somewhere nearby, a train arrived. Aarav smiled. "Borivali slow." A voice immediately answered. "No." Aarav sighed. "You're late." The voice laughed. "You're wrong." Mira sat beside him, folding her white cane. "Churchgate fast." "It is not." "It is." "It's Borivali." Aarav repeats "It's Churchgate." They sat silently for a moment. The train doors opened. Passengers poured out. A few seconds later, the announcement finally arrived. Churchgate Fast. Mira grinned. "I win." "You cheated." "How?" "You probably heard someone say it." "I did not." "You definitely did." She nudged his shoulder. "You just hate losing." "I don't hate losing." "You do." "I hate being wrong." "That's the same thing." Aarav opened his mouth to argue. Then stopped. Because she was right. Unfortunately. Rain crashed against the roof above them. For a while, neither spoke. Then Mira suddenly asked, "Do you think rain sounds the same to everyone?" Aarav groaned. "There it is." "What?" "The impossible question of the day." "It isn't impossible." "It is." "No." "Fine. Ask." Mira tilted her head slightly, listening to the storm. "Do you think it sounds the same to everyone?" Aarav thought about it. "No." "Why?" "Because people hear different things." "What do you hear?" He listened for a moment. The rain struck metal. Concrete. Train tracks. Umbrellas. The city answered in a hundred different voices. "It sounds busy." Mira laughed. "Busy?" "Yes." "Rain can't be busy." "Why not?" "It just falls." "Exactly." "That doesn't explain anything." Mira puzzled "It sounds like Mumbai." Mira considered that. Then shook her head. "No." "What does it sound like to you?" She waited a few seconds before answering. "Lonely." Aarav nearly choked. "Lonely?" "Yes." "How can rain be lonely?" "Because it keeps falling." "So?" "And nobody ever catches it." For a moment, Aarav didn't know what to say. Only Mira could listen to a thunderstorm and feel sorry for it. He laughed. "That's ridiculous." "It isn't." "It absolutely is." "It isn't." "It is." "It isn't." They continued arguing until a train arrived and drowned both of them out. Neither noticed. Neither cared. The argument was never really about rain. Not that they knew it then. Years later, Aarav would remember that evening differently. Not because of the station. Not because of the storm. Not even because Mira had won the train argument. He remembered it because it was the first time someone had shown him that two people could stand in the same place, listen to the same rain, and still live in completely different worlds. For reasons he couldn't explain, that made him want to know hers. Describe Red The game started by accident. At least neither of them could later remember who invented it. One evening, while waiting for a delayed train, Mira asked: "Describe a mango." Aarav frowned. "A mango is a mango." "That's not describing." "Then what is?" "You have to make me understand it." "You've eaten mangoes." "That's not the point." Aarav groaned. Mira laughed. "Go on." He thought for a moment. Then said, "It's like sunshine that became a fruit." Mira smiled. "See? That wasn't so hard." The next day she came prepared. "Describe a train." "A train?" "Yes." "A metal animal that's always in a hurry." Mira nodded approvingly. "Better." A week later, the game had rules. No obvious answers. No repeating descriptions. And no giving up. The game followed them everywhere. Train platforms. Tea stalls. Bus stops. Marine Drive. Hospital waiting rooms. Sometimes they played for five minutes. Sometimes for hours. "Describe the sea." Aarav listened to the distant waves. "It sounds like a giant breathing." Mira tilted her head. "A tired giant or an angry giant?" "A tired one." "Good answer." "Describe fear." This time Aarav answered immediately. "Missing your station and not realizing it." Mira became quiet. For reasons he couldn't explain, that answer felt true. A few days later he got his revenge. "Fine. Your turn." Mira smiled. "Ask." "Describe loneliness." The confidence vanished from her voice. She took longer than usual. Finally she said, "Talking when nobody is listening." A train thundered past. Neither spoke for a while. As months passed, the game became less about objects and more about people. "Describe success." Mira answered, "Reaching a place you once thought was impossible." "Describe home." Aarav thought for a moment. Then shrugged. "The place where nobody asks you to explain yourself." For the first time, Mira had no joke ready. Somewhere along the way, they stopped noticing how much time they spent together. Their families noticed. Their friends noticed. The tea vendor near the station noticed. Everyone except them. To Aarav, Mira was simply the first person who made ordinary things interesting. To Mira, Aarav was the first person who treated her questions seriously. One evening they sat beneath the shelter of a closed shop while rain battered the streets. The city smelled of wet earth, diesel, and tea. Mira was unusually quiet. Aarav nudged her shoulder. "Your turn." She smiled. "Fine." A long pause followed. Then she asked: "Describe red." Aarav laughed. "How am I supposed to do that?" "You always complain first." "Because your questions are impossible." "That's why they're fun." He listened to the rain. The traffic. The distant train. The heartbeat of a city neither of them had ever seen. Then he said softly, "Red sounds like a train arriving too fast." Mira laughed. "That's terrible." "It's brilliant." "It isn't." "It is." "It isn't." The argument continued all the way until her bus arrived. Years later, neither of them would remember who won. But both would remember waiting for the next question. Because somewhere between describing rain, trains, fear, loneliness, and colors, they had started doing something neither of them understood. They weren't just describing the world. They were slowly learning how the other person lived inside it. Describe Home The older they grew, the harder it became to find time. There were classes. Assignments. Part-time jobs. Family responsibilities. The endless list of things adulthood seemed determined to add to every day. For the first time since they had met, there were days when Aarav and Mira didn't speak. Then weeks when they met only once. Neither complained. Neither needed to. The absence did the complaining for them. One Saturday evening, they found themselves sitting on the promenade at Marine Drive. The sea was unusually calm. Waves rolled toward the rocks and retreated again. The city buzzed behind them. Cars. Conversations. Footsteps. Vendors. Mumbai never truly became quiet. It simply changed the sounds it used. Aarav handed Mira a paper cup of tea. She accepted it. "You're late." "You've become impatient." "I've always been impatient." "No," Mira said. "You've become impatient with me." Aarav laughed. "You are impossible." "I know." The conversation drifted away. As it often did. Silence never felt uncomfortable with Mira. Most people filled silence because they were afraid of it. With her, silence felt like part of the conversation. After a while, Mira spoke. "Describe home." Aarav sighed immediately. "There it is." "What?" "The impossible question of the day." "It isn't impossible." "It absolutely is." She smiled into her tea. "Answer it anyway." "I already answered this." "When?" "Months ago." "I've changed since then." Aarav laughed. "You're exactly the same." "No one stays exactly the same." He thought about that. The sea continued breathing in front of them. Finally he asked, "What's your answer?" Mira didn't hesitate. "Home is where I can be annoying and nobody leaves." Aarav burst out laughing. "That explains a lot." "It does." "What about the people around you?" "What about them?" "They deserve compensation." Mira nudged his shoulder. "Your turn." Aarav leaned back. The breeze carried salt through the air. For once, he took longer than usual. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. "Home is where I don't have to explain myself." Mira stopped smiling. Not because the answer was sad. Because it wasn't. It was true. She knew exactly what he meant. There were people who listened. And there were people who understood. The difference mattered more than most people realized. The sea filled the silence between them. Somewhere nearby, a child laughed. A vendor shouted. A motorcycle roared past. The city continued exactly as it always had. Yet something felt different. Neither could explain why. Eventually Mira spoke again. "You know what's strange?" "What?" "We've spent years describing the world to each other." "That's because your questions are terrible." She ignored him. "I have no idea what you look like." Aarav smiled. "Probably handsome." "Confidence is attractive." "That's fortunate." "Why?" "Looks clearly aren't helping me." Mira laughed. The sound lingered longer than the joke deserved. Then she became thoughtful. "I wasn't wondering what you look like." "What were you wondering?" She turned her face toward the sea. "If we'd met any other way..." She paused. "Would we have noticed each other?" The question hung between them. For the first time in years, Aarav didn't have a clever answer. He thought about crowded trains. Busy streets. College classrooms. Thousands of strangers passing each other every day. Then he thought about Mira. The impossible questions. The arguments about rain. The descriptions. The endless conversations. The feeling of never needing to explain himself. "No," he said honestly. Mira smiled. "Neither would I." Strangely, neither of them sounded disappointed. They sat there for a while, listening to the waves. Two people who would probably never have noticed each other. Yet somehow had become part of each other's idea of home. Neither called it love. Neither needed to. Some things become true long before they are spoken aloud. Describe Tomorrow The idea came from a newspaper article. Mira found it first. Which was unusual. Most things in their friendship arrived through questions. This time it arrived through hope. They were sitting at their usual tea stall near Churchgate station when Mira unfolded a newspaper and placed it between them. "Listen to this." Aarav was suspicious immediately. "Every time you say that, my day becomes complicated." "That's because your imagination is weak." "My imagination is excellent." "You once described red as a train arriving too fast." "It was a brilliant answer." "It was terrible." "It was art." Mira ignored him and began reading. The article was about a young man who had regained partial sight after an experimental procedure. Neither spoke while she read. The sounds of the city continued around them. Trains. Conversations. Tea glasses. Life moving forward. When she finished, silence settled between them. Not uncomfortable. Just thoughtful. Aarav broke it first. "Do you think it'll happen?" "What?" "Something like that." Mira folded the newspaper carefully. "I don't know." Another pause. "Do you?" Aarav listened to a train arriving in the distance. The familiar screech of brakes. The rush of passengers. The rhythm of a city he knew better than most sighted people. For years, he had imagined what seeing would be like. Not often. But enough. Enough to wonder. Enough to dream. Enough to be disappointed whenever the dream felt impossible. "Sometimes." Mira smiled. "Only sometimes?" "I'm trying to sound mature." "You've never sounded mature." "That's fair." The conversation drifted away. But the idea remained. Lingering. Quietly occupying the space between them. That evening they walked to Marine Drive. The sea breeze was stronger than usual. Waves crashed against the rocks below. People filled the promenade. Families. Couples. Vendors. Tourists. Everyone watching a sunset neither of them could see. Mira sat on the seawall. Aarav beside her. For a while, neither spoke. The city felt larger than usual. Full of possibilities. Then Mira asked softly, "If you could see for one day..." Aarav smiled. "There it is." "What?" "The impossible question of the day." She laughed. "Answer it." He thought carefully. "What would I see first?" "Yes." The answer came surprisingly quickly. "You." Mira became quiet. Aarav continued before he could think too much about what he'd just said. "I've spent years listening to you." A smile appeared on her face. "That's a dangerous amount of patience." "It really is." "What about after that?" Aarav considered it. "The sea." "Why?" "Because everyone keeps talking about it." "Reasonable." "What about you?" Mira didn't answer immediately. The waves filled the silence. Finally she said, "Everything." Aarav laughed. "Everything?" "Everything." "That's not possible." "I know." "But I'd try." The answer didn't surprise him. It was exactly the kind of answer Mira would give. The city lights slowly came alive behind them. Though neither knew it. The air became cooler. The crowd began thinning. After a while Mira spoke again. Quieter this time. Almost as though she were talking to herself. "If it ever happens..." Aarav turned toward her. "If what happens?" "If either of us gets to see." The breeze carried her words away for a moment. Then she continued. "Promise me something." "What?" "Promise me we'll experience it together." Aarav smiled. The request felt unnecessary. The kind of promise that didn't need making because it was already true. "Of course." "No." Mira shook her head. "I mean it." For once there was no teasing in her voice. No joke. No impossible question. Just sincerity. "If one of us sees before the other..." She paused. "We wait." Aarav frowned. "Wait?" "For each other." "Why?" Mira smiled. Because if anyone else had asked that question, she would have struggled to answer. But Aarav already knew. "Because then who would I argue with about it?" The waves crashed below them. The city breathed around them. And somewhere inside Aarav, something shifted. Not dramatically. Not enough to name. Just enough to remember. He extended his hand. "Fine." Mira laughed. "That's your serious face?" Aarav feeling her face "You can't see my face." "Exactly." She took his hand anyway. "Deal." "Deal." Years later, both of them would remember that evening. Not because of the promise. But because of how easy it had been to make. Some promises are difficult because they ask too much. Others are difficult because they seem impossible to break. At the time, neither Aarav nor Mira could imagine a future in which they would want different things. The possibility never even occurred to them. And perhaps that was the most beautiful part of being young. End of Part 1 Continue Reading... Part 2: Describe Sight Part 3: Describe the Memory What Lies Ahead? A miracle arrives, followed by possibilities neither imagined. As sight expands their worlds, Aarav and Mira begin discovering something far more complicated than darkness—change.

Harinath Story Teller EI Outlook Editor, Linkedin Profile, Blog Previously in... Part 1: Describe The Rain They spent years describing rain, colors, fear, and home to each other. What began as a game became friendship, then something deeper. Before life could change them, they made a promise about the future. Next Part.. Part 3: Describe Memory Describe Sight The phone call came on a Tuesday afternoon. Aarav was helping his father at work when it arrived. An unknown number. Normally he ignored those. For reasons he would never fully understand, he answered this one. The call lasted less than five minutes. Yet it divided his life into two parts. Before. And after. There was a new procedure. The doctors were cautiously optimistic. Nothing was guaranteed. The surgery could fail. The improvement might be limited. There were risks. Many risks. Aarav heard almost none of it. One sentence kept repeating in his head. There is a chance. That evening he called Mira. "What happened?" She immediately knew something was different. His breathing had changed. His voice had changed. Years of friendship had taught her to hear things others missed. "They called." Silence. "The hospital?" "Yes." The silence stretched. Neither wanted to be the first to say it aloud. As though naming the possibility might scare it away. Finally Mira asked, "Is there a chance?" Aarav smiled. The exact same words. "Yes." For a moment neither spoke. Then Mira laughed. Then Aarav laughed. And suddenly they were both talking at once. Questions. Possibilities. Fears. Dreams. Hope. Years of hope. That night neither slept much. Months later, the surgery happened. Aarav remembered very little about it. Hospitals have a way of making extraordinary moments feel ordinary. Forms. Machines. Instructions. Waiting. More waiting. The real memory began days later. When the bandages finally came off. The room was quiet. A doctor stood nearby. A nurse. His parents. Everyone waiting. Aarav blinked. Once. Twice. At first there was nothing. Then confusion. Then shapes. The world arrived slowly. Like a radio finding the correct frequency. Blur. Light. Movement. Color. Color. For years people had described colors to him. Mira most of all. Red was supposed to sound like a train arriving too fast. Blue was supposed to feel calm. Yellow was supposed to feel warm. None of them had been right. And somehow all of them had. Tears rolled down his face before he realized he was crying. The doctor was speaking. Someone else was speaking. His mother was crying. Aarav barely heard any of it. Because for the first time in his life, there was simply too much to look at. The following weeks felt like being born late. Every ordinary thing felt impossible. Traffic lights. Trees. Shop signs. Clouds. Faces. Faces fascinated him most. For years he had built people from voices. Now he could see them. And nothing matched. One evening he stood outside during the first rain of the season. Drops struck the pavement. Cars hissed through puddles. The familiar sounds remained unchanged. Yet everything felt different. For years rain had been something he listened to. Now it filled the sky. Endless. Moving. Alive. He stood there for almost an hour. Simply watching. That night he called Mira. Immediately. "Describe it." Mira laughed. "Describe what?" "The rain." "You've heard rain your whole life." "Not like this." Aarav Said He searched for words. The same way they had done a thousand times before. But something strange happened. For the first time in his life, words felt insufficient. "It's..." He stopped. "What?" Aarav looked at the dark clouds. The streetlights. The silver streaks falling from the sky. "It's impossible." Mira laughed. "You've finally started asking my questions." He laughed too. But the feeling remained. Because for the first time, he had experienced something he couldn't fully describe. And for the first time, Mira couldn't experience it with him. Neither noticed it then. It was too small. Too subtle. Just a tiny crack. A tiny distance. A tiny shift in the way they understood the world. The kind of thing nobody notices when it begins. The kind of thing people only recognize years later. When they are trying to remember where everything changed. Describe Change At first, everything felt better. That was what made it so difficult to notice the change. Aarav called more often. Visited more often. Described more often. For years, he had imagined what it would be like to see the world. Now that he finally could, he wanted Mira to experience every bit of it. The first sunset. The first rainbow. The first time he saw the sea stretching endlessly into the horizon. The first time he watched rain fall against a streetlight at night. He described everything. Every detail. Every color. Every shape. Every expression. Mira listened patiently. The way she always had. One evening they sat at Marine Drive. A place that had witnessed most of their important conversations. The sea was restless that day. Waves crashed hard against the rocks. Spray drifted through the air. Aarav was unusually excited. "The sky is orange today." Mira smiled. "Is it?" "Not just orange." He pointed instinctively before remembering. "There's purple too." "Purple?" "Near the clouds." Mira listened. "And the sea looks silver." "Silver?" "Yeah." Aarav paused. For a moment he searched for words. "It's beautiful." Mira laughed softly. "You sound like everyone else now." "What does that mean?" "Nothing." Aarav continued. Describing. Explaining. Sharing. Everything he could see. Yet something felt different. Though neither could quite name it. Years earlier, the Description Game had always started with a question. Describe rain. Describe fear. Describe home. Describe loneliness. Now the questions appeared less often. The descriptions arrived before they were asked for. The game had changed. Quietly. Almost invisibly. Neither noticed. A few weeks later, Aarav brought Mira a small gift. A music box he had discovered while wandering through a market. When opened, it played a simple melody. Mira listened carefully. Then smiled. "It's lovely." Aarav felt relieved. He always felt relieved when she liked something. Lately he had been bringing her things more often. Books. Music. Recorded documentaries. Audio tours. Anything he thought she might enjoy. Everything came from love. Yet after he left that evening, Mira sat alone holding the music box. Listening to the tune repeat itself. Something felt missing. Not because of the gift. The gift was thoughtful. Not because Aarav had changed. He hadn't. At least not intentionally. The feeling was harder to describe. She missed being part of the discovery. She missed asking questions. She missed wondering. Most of all, she missed contributing. A week later they met again. This time at a small café near Churchgate. Halfway through their tea, Mira suddenly asked: "Describe success." Aarav laughed. "We're playing that game again?" "Just answer." He leaned back. Thinking. A few years ago he would have answered immediately. Now he took his time. Finally he said, "Seeing things I never thought I'd see." The answer felt right. At least to him. Mira became quiet. "What?" "Nothing." "No. What?" A faint smile appeared on her face. "A few years ago, you said something different." Aarav frowned. "Did I?" "Yes." "What did I say?" Mira looked down at her tea. "Reaching a place you once thought was impossible." Aarav tried to remember. Couldn't. The conversation moved on. But the answer stayed with Mira. Not because it was wrong. Because it revealed something. Success had changed. And perhaps Aarav had changed too. Just a little. Or maybe he hadn't. Maybe life simply looked different from where he stood now. That evening, Aarav walked her to the bus stop. The city was crowded. The air smelled faintly of rain. As they waited, Aarav asked: "Are you happy?" Mira smiled immediately. "Of course." And she meant it. Mostly. The bus arrived. People began boarding. Mira stepped forward. Then stopped. For a brief moment, she almost said something. Something important. She wasn't sure what. Only that it had been growing quietly inside her for months. A feeling. A distance. A question she couldn't quite put into words. But the bus conductor shouted. The crowd moved. The moment disappeared. "See you tomorrow?" Aarav asked. "See you tomorrow." She boarded. Aarav stood watching the bus disappear into traffic. Certain everything was fine. Mira sat beside the window. Certain something was changing. Neither was wrong. Neither was right. And neither yet understood that relationships rarely break because of a single moment. More often, they drift. One unspoken thought at a time. Describe Wonder The call came three years later. On a Thursday. At 11:17 in the morning. Aarav remembered the exact time because Mira screamed into the phone before he could say hello. "They called." Aarav froze. For a moment neither spoke. Neither needed to. The meaning arrived before the words did. "The hospital?" "Yes." The silence that followed felt familiar. A memory. A reflection of another phone call years earlier. Except this time, the hope belonged to Mira. And somehow that felt different. Months later, she sat in a hospital room holding Aarav's hand. The same hospital. The same uncertainty. The same impossible possibility. Only the roles had changed. "Are you nervous?" Aarav asked. "Terrified." "Good." "What?" "You make better decisions when you're terrified." Mira laughed. "That might be the worst encouragement in medical history." "You're welcome." The surgery happened. Then recovery. Then waiting. More waiting. Mira hated waiting. She had always hated waiting. Finally, the day arrived. The bandages came off. Light entered first. Not sight. Not understanding. Just light. Then color. Movement. Shapes. The world arrived slowly. Aarav watched from the corner of the room. Trying not to watch. Failing completely. He remembered his own first day. The confusion. The wonder. The exhaustion. Mira blinked repeatedly. Then suddenly laughed. Not because anything was funny. Because the world existed. And somehow that felt absurd. A nurse stood nearby. Mira stared at her for several seconds. "People are much smaller than I imagined." The nurse burst out laughing. Aarav smiled. That sounded exactly like Mira. A week later, they met outside Churchgate station. The city was loud. Busy. Chaotic. Beautiful. For the first time in her life, Mira could see it. Aarav had prepared an entire plan. Marine Drive. The Gateway. The sea. The sunset. All the places they had dreamed about. "What do you want to see first?" he asked. "The station." Aarav blinked. "The station?" "Yes." "Why?" Mira looked around. People rushed past them. Trains arrived. Announcements echoed overhead. Life moved in every direction at once. For years she had imagined Churchgate. Built it from sound. Constructed it from footsteps. Announcements. Memories. Descriptions. Now she wanted to compare imagination with reality. For nearly an hour she wandered around the station. Touching railings. Looking upward. Watching crowds. Watching trains. Watching people. Watching possibilities. Aarav noticed something. When he had first gained sight, he had looked for familiar things. Mira looked for unfamiliar ones. Every time something caught her attention she moved toward it. A bookstore. A street artist. A flower vendor. A billboard. A stray dog sleeping beneath a bench. The city seemed endless. And Mira wanted all of it. That evening they sat at Marine Drive. The sea stretched across the horizon. Orange light covered the water. The city slowly prepared for night. Aarav waited. Eventually he asked, "Well?" "What?" "You've seen the world." Mira laughed. "One day is not the world." "Fair." "So?" She thought for a moment. Then smiled. "It's bigger." "Bigger?" "Much bigger." "Than what?" "Than us." Mira amazed The answer lingered between them. Years ago, Aarav would have immediately asked another question. Describe bigger. Describe possibility. Describe wonder. But he didn't. Instead, both sat quietly watching the sea. For the first time. Not listening to it. Watching it. Neither noticed the difference. Neither noticed that they were no longer describing the world to each other. They were simply looking at it. And sometimes the most important changes are the ones that feel completely natural while they are happening. Describe Success The first year after Mira gained sight felt like a celebration. There was always somewhere to go. Something to see. Something to learn. Something they had both spent a lifetime imagining. They visited museums. Watched sunsets. Took ferry rides. Got lost in parts of Mumbai neither had explored before. Sometimes they laughed at how wrong their imagination had been. Sometimes they laughed at how surprisingly accurate it was. One afternoon, standing near the Gateway of India, Mira stared at a flock of pigeons taking flight. Hundreds of wings rose together. For a moment, the sky seemed alive. "That's unfair," she said. "What?" Aarav asked. "The world." "The world is unfair?" "Nobody told me there was this much of it." Aarav laughed. "That's because nobody knew how to describe it." Mira smiled. But her eyes remained fixed on the sky. For the first time, Aarav noticed something. Whenever they went somewhere new, Mira always walked slightly ahead. Not far. Just enough. As though the world was pulling her forward. At first he found it charming. Later, he found himself noticing it more often. Months passed. Then years. The excitement of seeing slowly became ordinary. As all extraordinary things eventually do. The difference was what happened next. Aarav began looking inward. Mira began looking outward. Aarav started volunteering with an organization that trained visually impaired children. Teaching them mobility. Helping them navigate train stations. Helping them believe that blindness did not have to limit their lives. He loved it. Every evening he came home with stories. "There is a boy who can identify every train by sound." Mira laughed. "So, a younger version of you." "He is much more annoying." "Impossible." Aarav smiled. The work made him feel useful. Grounded. Needed. Meanwhile, Mira seemed to be collecting experiences. Photography. Travel workshops. Storytelling courses. Weekend trips. New friends. New ideas. Every time Aarav met her, there was another story. "I met someone from Ladakh." "I'm thinking about applying for a fellowship." "There is a workshop in Delhi." "There is an exhibition in Bengaluru." "There is a travel program in Nepal." The world seemed to keep opening doors. And Mira wanted to walk through all of them. One evening they met at their usual spot at Marine Drive. The city lights stretched along the curve of the bay. The sea was calm. Aarav handed her a cup of tea. "There's a workshop in Pune next month." "Oh?" "You should come." Mira hesitated. "I can't." "Why not?" "I'll be in Delhi." "For what?" "A photography course." Aarav laughed. "You've become impossible." Mira smiled. "I've always been impossible." The answer sounded familiar. Yet somehow different. They sat quietly for a while. Then Aarav suddenly asked, "Describe success." Mira looked surprised. "We're playing again?" "Maybe." She thought for a moment. Then said, "Standing somewhere you've never been before." Aarav smiled. "That's success?" "For me." "What if there is nothing there?" Mira laughed. "Then I'll find somewhere else." The answer amused him. But it also stayed with him. Because a few years ago, Mira had described success differently. Back then it had been about reaching a place she once thought impossible. Now it seemed less about arriving. And more about continuing. The sea breeze carried silence between them. Comfortable. Familiar. Yet underneath it, something neither acknowledged had begun to grow. Aarav wanted to build. Mira wanted to explore. Neither dream was wrong. Neither dream excluded the other. But neither was exactly the same. As they got up to leave, Mira pointed toward the horizon. "You know what's funny?" "What?" "When we were blind, I thought the world was small." Aarav looked out at the dark sea. "And now?" Mira smiled. "Now I think it's endless." Aarav nodded. He understood what she meant. Or at least he thought he did. Years later, both of them would remember that conversation. Not because of what was said. But because of what wasn't. Neither asked the question hiding beneath everything. When two people begin walking toward different horizons... how do they make sure they are still walking together? Describe Distance The conversation began with celebration. Which made everything that followed feel unfair. They were sitting in an old café near Churchgate. One of the few places that had survived all the changes around it. The same wooden chairs. The same chipped cups. The same impatient waiter. Mira arrived ten minutes late. For once, she looked nervous. Aarav immediately smiled. "What did you do?" "What makes you think I did something?" "You only look innocent when you're guilty." Mira laughed. Then placed an envelope on the table. "What is this?" "Open it." Aarav unfolded the letter. Read the first line. Then the second. Then looked up. "You got it." Mira nodded. Unable to stop smiling. "You actually got it." "I did." The fellowship was one of the most competitive programs in the country. A year-long opportunity. Travel. Photography. Storytelling. Research. Everything Mira loved. Aarav stood up and hugged her. Without hesitation. Without thinking. "I'm proud of you." Mira smiled. For a moment, everything felt exactly the way it used to. Then Aarav looked back at the letter. "When did you apply?" The question sounded harmless. Mira looked away. "A few months ago." Aarav blinked. "A few months?" "Yes." "You never told me." "I wasn't sure I'd get selected." The answer made sense. Yet something inside him remained unsettled. "A few months is a long time." Mira stirred her tea. "I didn't want to make it a big thing." Aarav laughed softly. Not because it was funny. "You didn't think I'd want to know?" The smile disappeared from Mira's face. "I knew you'd want to know." "Then why didn't you tell me?" The waiter arrived. Placed two cups of tea on the table. Left. Neither touched them. The café suddenly felt smaller. I don't know." Mira answered honestly. Aarav looked at her. The honesty somehow hurt more than an excuse. Because it meant she truly hadn't thought to tell him. Not immediately. Not first. Not the way she once would have. Outside, trains came and went. People hurried past. Life continued. Inside, something old and fragile was beginning to crack. "You tell me everything." Mira looked up. "No, I don't." "You used to." The words escaped before he could stop them. Silence. A dangerous silence. The kind that arrives when both people suddenly realize they are talking about something larger than the conversation itself. Mira leaned back. "A lot has changed since then." "Has it?" The question sounded sharper than he intended. Mira noticed. "Yes." Aarav looked away. Toward the station. Toward the city. Anywhere except her. "Sometimes I feel like I hear about your life after everyone else does." Mira frowned. "That's not fair." "Isn't it?" For the first time, irritation entered her voice. "No." "Why?" "Because you're keeping score." The words landed heavily. Aarav immediately hated hearing them. Because a part of him knew she was right. Yet another part knew that wasn't the whole story. "This isn't about keeping score." "Then what is it about?" The answer came too quickly. "I miss you." Everything became quiet. The anger disappeared as suddenly as it had arrived. Because neither of them had expected that answer. Least of all Aarav. Mira looked down at the table. "I haven't gone anywhere." Aarav smiled sadly. "That's exactly what scares me." The sentence lingered. Neither fully understood it. Yet both felt it. After a long silence, Mira finally spoke. "When we were blind..." Aarav looked up. "When we were blind, I never had to explain myself to you." The café disappeared. The city disappeared. Everything disappeared. "Now I explain everything." Her voice remained calm. "And somehow you understand me less." The sentence landed harder than anger ever could. Because it was not an accusation. It was grief. Aarav stared at her. Searching for a response. Searching for the right words. Nothing came. Finally he spoke. "Nobody will ever know you the way I know you." The moment the sentence left his mouth, something felt wrong. Not the words. The meaning behind them. Mira's expression changed. Not anger. Not hurt. Disappointment. "Then why do I feel so unseen?" Aarav had no answer. For years, answers had come easily between them. Now they sat on opposite sides of a table. Separated by a distance neither knew how to cross. The tea had gone cold. Outside, evening was arriving. Finally Mira stood. "I should go." Aarav nodded. Neither apologized. Neither asked the other to stay. Because both sensed the conversation wasn't ending today. It had begun years ago. In small silences. Small assumptions. Small things left unsaid. Mira picked up her bag. Then paused. For a moment, Aarav thought she might say something. Something that would fix everything. Instead she smiled. A tired smile. A familiar smile. And walked away. Aarav remained at the table long after she left. Watching people move through the station. Watching trains arrive and depart. Watching a city that never stopped moving. For the first time in his life, he wished the world would stand still long enough for him to understand what had just happened. But the world kept moving. And so did they. End of Part 2 Previously Published Part 1: Describe The Rain Continue Reading... Part 3: Describe Memory What Lies Ahead? A miracle arrives, followed by possibilities neither imagined. As sight expands their worlds, Aarav and Mira begin discovering something far more complicated than darkness—change.

Anay Rathi 9 Years If I Could Invent Something If I could invent something, it would be something different which no one on Earth would think of. It would be a fully functional boat with very advanced safety features. First, I would ask people for scrap metal, which they would give me easily. Then, using half of the scrap metal, I would craft a boat large enough for two to four people to sit inside. Then I would make a battery which would fully charge in one minute but could run for twenty hours. I would then connect the battery to the engine of the boat which I would make. I would also put a C-type charging port outside the boat and connect it to the battery. At the same time, I would take another board and connect the wires from the engine to the motherboard. After that, I would take my iPad and connect its motherboard to the boat’s one. I would also code the iPad in such a way that it controls and monitors the boat’s functions, making the boat smarter and safer to use. Also, there would be options for speed boost, stability control, navigation options etc. Furthermore, I would take a propeller and connect it to the engine using wires and place it behind the boat. I would now make a key compartment and connect it to the engine again using wires. I would also attach a steering wheel to turn right and left. At last, using the remaining scrap metal, I would cover all the wires and the engine, and my fully functional boat would be ready. This invention would help people travel safely on water and make boating easier and more advanced. I would then test-drive the boat, and if it came out successful, I would be elated. How I wish I could invent something like that!

Harinath EI Outlook Editor, Linkedin Profile, Blog The places we never fully leave behind Editor’s Note The houses we remember are rarely made of bricks alone. Sometimes they are built from the smell of a grandmother's kitchen, the quiet corner where we escaped with a book, the courtyard where festivals unfolded, or the small habits that slowly became part of who we are. Long after the walls disappear, these places continue to live within us. For this edition, residents were invited to revisit a space they still carry in their hearts—not necessarily a house, but a memory-home that shaped them. What follows are three very different journeys. Yet each reminds us of the same truth: We may leave our childhood homes,but they never truly leave us. A Small Note from the Editor Every month, this magazine becomes meaningful because people choose to participate—not as writers, but as human beings willing to share a part of themselves. Thank you to everyone who wrote these letters, and to everyone who continues to read, encourage, and support EI Lifestyle with warmth and sincerity. A community is not built only through buildings and events. It is built through conversations, memories, kindness, and the quiet ways in which people show up for one another. This edition reminded me that gratitude often exists silently in our hearts—waiting for a moment to be expressed. Thank you for making this space feel alive. — Harinath, EI Universe Chief Editor SECTION 1 Corners of Wonder The smallest spaces often hold the biggest memories. Shachii Manik, T9 Playing with words, creating wonder The Reading Loft “Where has she gone now?” bellowed Mum, right when the clock struck one. It was time for lunch on a hot summer afternoon. But I was oblivious to the heat or the hubbub and lost in another adventure in Kirrin Bay or a beautiful country house in England. Since the day school closed for the summer, Mum had noticed that she was missing a few things. Her pink, floral bedsheet, a beautiful cushion from the sofa, and a bunch of books from the rack next to my bed! Little did she know that one by one, each of these items had snuck in with me into my grandpa’s empty room, to the far window, clambered up the six horizontal bars, caught on to the edge of the cupboard and bounded up to the flat surface that was just the right size to hold me and my favourite books. It wasn’t easy to find me unless you knew exactly where my secret reading loft was. I’d used the bedsheet and cushion to make the space comfortable enough to spend hours up there during the summer vacations. To this day, the mere thought of this cosy cupboard-top corner conjures up memories of all the little things that brought so much joy when we were kids! SECTION 2 Summers We Still Carry Some memories return not through photographs, but through a taste, a smell, or a season. Harish Dixit The smell of summer, the thrill of mischief, and the comfort of belonging. The Mangoes That Tasted of Summer There is something quietly extraordinary about the way a childhood memory can find you when you least expect it. Not through photographs or stories told at dinner tables, but through a smell, a sound, or the sight of someone you love doing something wonderfully unselfconscious. Last week, I was on a family vacation in Dapoli, Ratnagiri, when it happened to me. We had woken early that morning to the fluting calls of the Indian Blackbird and set off on a morning walk through the resort’s magnificent Aamrai, a grove of over 3,000 mango trees sprawling across 55 lush acres. The previous night’s storm had been generous. Mangoes lay scattered across the ground. That is when my wife abandoned all adult composure, and started gathering them with the unbridled joy of a seven-year-old. Watching my wife gather fallen mangoes from a rain-soaked path in Dapoli, brought back a childhood memory, bright and whole, like a childhood song you never quite forgot. Every summer, when the schools closed and the city of Mumbai grew hot and restless, our family would make the long journey to our native village in Uttar Pradesh. For a child, that train ride alone felt like the beginning of a grand adventure, full of passing fields, and the slow, magnificent widening of the sky. The village was everything Mumbai was not. Quiet. Green. Unhurried. And best of all, it had the mango orchards. On one particular golden afternoon, a band of us children had slipped away for our favourite forbidden sport of harvesting mangoes by lobbing stones at the branches. One boy stood guard, watching for grown-ups. The mangoes were ripe and heavy, and the air smelled impossibly sweet. We felt like the cleverest children in the world. Then the alarm was raised. The orchard caretaker was coming. What followed was the most dramatic sprint of my young life. Small legs pumping, heart hammering, I ran until the village temple appeared before me and my lungs simply refused to carry me further. I bent over, breathless, and waited for my fate. The caretaker arrived. And then he did the most unexpected thing in the world. He laughed. He offered me water from the hand pump nearby, asked me gently why I was running, and walked me all the way home. My father was waiting at the door. The two men exchanged a few words and then both burst into laughter that I could not understand at all. My father knelt down and explained, still smiling, that the orchard was ours. Every last tree. There had never been anything to fear. He even asked the caretaker to bring me the finest mangoes he could find the very next day. I stood there feeling wonderfully, gloriously silly. It was a comforting memory to recall. The human mind is an amazing thing and so is our childhood! SECTION 3 The Workshop Within Sometimes the rooms that shape us exist entirely inside ourselves. Simar Bedi, T5 Driven by purpose, grounded in gratitude Gold In The Cracks Growing up, the world inside my home wasn’t built from store-bought luxuries but from the hidden treasures others had overlooked. This shaped my inner world by a unique magic; seeing beauty and potential in things the world had cast aside. Lacking a school best friend, my childhood solitude became my studio. I found sanctuary in the quiet alchemy of creating "best out of waste”- crafting photo frames from discarded cardboard and trees from ordinary stones, weaving yarns & making vases from coal tar. In those days, if you ran out of a material, you couldn't simply order it online with a click. You waited for days. That anticipation taught me the true anatomy of dedication and focus. To my parents, this seemed like a worthless waste of time. "It’s not worth it," they would say, unintentionally planting limiting beliefs about value. But our inner nature knows what we need before we do. That childhood loneliness, once a heavy void, became the foundation for a fierce, unshakeable independence. It taught me focus, dedication, and how to stand alone. It also taught me that ‘some beautiful pieces’ takes time, determination, a lot of passion and patience. For years, life took over, and I thought I had left that creative girl behind. But this past May, everything came full circle. Life gave me the opportunity to teach children the very “Art & Craft’ that saved my own childhood. I seized it with all my heart. I planned each & everything that gave me joy when I was a kid. For a recent Summer Camp, I spent four months excitedly curating twenty-five distinct art and craft activities from scratch. I proudly, lovingly, and very passionately designed each one around mindfulness and emotional intelligence. I wanted everything built from scratch. Most importantly, I insisted on "take-home crafts." Remembering how my own childhood creations were dismissed, I wanted every child to carry their tangible pieces of joy home, feeling entirely validated and proud; like once I did after creating my own, unique pieces. The ultimate plot twist? The very passion I was once told was "worthless" became profoundly rewarding. By honoring my inner nature, this project earned me more this month than I imagined possible. Parents love us, but their fears can create boundaries we aren’t meant to keep. The girl who sat alone, meticulously gluing broken pieces together around the world, accidentally built an adult who doesn't need a crowd to feel complete. She didn’t realize that while she was fixing those discarded scraps, she was quietly fortifying her own spirit, sealing the cracks of her isolation with gold. My message to the world is simple: Follow what brings you joy from the inside out, even when others call it a waste. The house we carry within isn't built on the approval of others; it is built on the things that make our souls feel alive. SECTION 4 The Village That Lives On Some homes are not remembered room by room, but feeling by feeling. Harinath, T15 Building paths where none existed I Left Home… But Home Never Left Me I left home… but home never left me. It lingers in my mother— a restlessly busy bee, weaving us into beautiful butterflies. I remember the worship— long, tiring, endless as a child. Eyes on the clock, heart on the delicacies waiting, each served with its own SOP of love. Back then, I wished it over. Now, I wish it back. I remember the lawns— daily dressed in Rangoli, gardens blooming in every home, and us, tangled in hammocks woven from nothing but imagination. We were close to nature, and closer to each other. And oh, the festivals! The madness of Holi, the laughter, the unstoppable joy— all stitched together into a kichadi of memories. These moments made me. They live in me. I may be far from home… but home is never far from me. Closing Reflection What Remains The houses we carry within are rarely marked on a map. They live in old rituals, secret corners, unfinished craft projects, summer afternoons, festival colours, and the people who filled those spaces with meaning. Years pass. Cities change. Families move. Yet somehow, when we close our eyes, we still know exactly how to find our way back. A Final Thank You To everyone who wrote these letters—thank you for your honesty. And to everyone who inspired them without even knowing— thank you for being the kind of people others feel grateful for. Somewhere in these pages, a community remembered itself.

Kaalika-The Rise of Raktbeej Poonam Desai Author In the previous chapters, we saw Hiranya Kashyap and his aide Swarbhanu discover the resurrection stone at Kalimath and manage resurrect demon Raktbeej while Sharvari, Dhaigham, Kasar and Dilan fail to stop them. As Raktbeej comes to power, chaos reigns in the entire country. Mr. Raghav Sinha from the disaster management office is contacted by Hiranya under guise of Bija financials. The PM asks Mr. Sinha to contact DIG Pandey. Sharvari and Kasar brief Mr. Sinha and DIG Pandey about their discoveries and the duo is shocked to learn about Raktbeej. They are now banking on Dilan and Dhaigham to find a solution. Meanwhile Hiranya and the demon Raktbeej have raised the bar. Dilan finds Durga’s lost weapons. Chapter 17 Sharvari had a restless sleep that night. As slumber took over, she found herself standing in the corner of a room. Hiranya was kneeling before Raktbeej, and they were speaking but their voices were muffled. She slid closer, remaining in the shadows. “Master the preparations are underway. We will strike hard. Once the head is gone, the country will fall to its feet.” She heard Hiranya saying. Raktbeej smiled satisfied. “How is the enzyme coming along?” “It is ready to be tested my lord.” “What best place to start than the defences of the country.” “Any particular department you have in mind, Master.” Raktbeej looked up and stared straight into Sharvari’s face. “The one who is investigating, the nosy one, the one to whom the lady bows.” Sharvari gasped and was awake. She looked around panicked. Only when she was sure that she was at Dhaigham’s house did she release the breath she was holding. She rushed to Kasar’s room and knocked hard. “Coming,” came his reply. On seeing Sharvari he said, “Can’t sleep?” “Hiranya and Raktbeej plan to take out DIG sir.” She spoke in a rush. “What? How do you know that?” “Will explain on the way. Let’s get going.” In 15 minutes, they had changed, woken Dhaigham and Dilan and they all left for Delhi. On the way Sharvari explained what she had dreamt of. Kasar pointed out, “You sure he is not distracting us. If he knew you were listening, why would he divulge his plan?” “I thought so too. But then I realised he is a self-absorbed b****rd and was wielding his power. It is a challenge and he is testing me. He even sounded like he knew I am the Durga sent to fight him and he wanted to show me he wasn’t worried and I was dispensable.” “Call DIG sir.” “I tried, he isn’t reachable and neither is his residence reachable.” “Call Raghav sir.” “Right, he would be faster at reaching out to the police headquarters.” She dialled and briefed Raghav Sinha of the threat. “Don’t worry Sharvari I will immediately visit the police headquarters; I am in the building itself.” She cut the call and prayed that they were on time. Kasar turned away from the Jai Singh Road to Civil lines. “Where are you going?” Sharvari asked. “Sinha sir has the office covered, let us head to his residence.” They were stopped at the gate. Sharvari flashed her ID and explained the situation. “Dhaigham, Dilan I suggest you wait in the jeep,” Kasar instructed. The guards at the gate accompanied them. The house seemed quiet. DIG sir lived with his wife and two dogs, but the animals were no where to be seen. The guards unlocked the main door and they all walked in, guns drawn. “Sir,” Sharvari called. No response. Sharvari gestured the guards to check lower guestrooms and kitchen. She and Kasar took the stairs to the upper bedrooms. She knocked on the master bed door. “Sir are you in there. Sharvari and Kasar here.” No answer again. Kasar slowly turned the doorknob and stepped in. The DIG was sleeping in his armchair, and his wife lay asleep on the bed. Sharvari checked their pulse and they were breathing, just sleeping sound. “Looks like they have been drugged.” “Madam,” one of the guards called, “the dogs are in the kitchen and are sleeping.” “Call Sinha sir and let him know.” Sharvari pulled out the phone, and it started ringing. “Hello?” “DSP Sahiba, did you find the target, or did you think you found the target. You want to defeat the king; you kill the Vazir. You should play more chess…. hahahahahhaha.” “Hiranya, you son of a….” She cut the call. “He played us. Call Sinha sir, now,” she yelled at Kasar. “The number you have dialled is not reachable….” Kasar looked at her, worried. “His phone is switched off.” Sharvari was halfway down the stairs, when Kasar got a call. It was his friend from police headquarters. “Somebody blew off the DIG office. Sinha sir was in there. Kasar, we lost him.” Kasar gasped and stared at Sharvari. “They got Sinha sir; he didn’t make it.” “Shit!” Sharvari squatted on the stairs, her head in her hands. Image courtesy -

Mangoes and Kokum Harish Dixit Senior Infrastructure Manager – APAC Linkedin There is something quietly extraordinary about the way a childhood memory can find you when you least expect it. Not through photographs or stories told at dinner tables, but through a smell, a sound, or the sight of someone you love doing something wonderfully unselfconscious. Last week, I was on a family vacation in Dapoli, Ratnagiri, when it happened to me. We had woken early that morning to the fluting calls of the Indian Blackbird and set off on a morning walk through the resort’s magnificent Aamrai, a grove of over 3,000 mango trees sprawling across 55 lush acres. The previous night’s storm had been generous. Mangoes lay scattered across the ground. That is when my wife abandoned all adult composure, and started gathering them with the unbridled joy of a seven-year-old. Watching my wife gather fallen mangoes from a rain-soaked path in Dapoli, brought back a childhood memory, bright and whole, like a childhood song you never quite forgot. Every summer, when the schools closed and the city of Mumbai grew hot and restless, our family would make the long journey to our native village in Uttar Pradesh. For a child, that train ride alone felt like the beginning of a grand adventure, full of passing fields, and the slow, magnificent widening of the sky. The village was everything Mumbai was not. Quiet. Green. Unhurried. And best of all, it had the mango orchards. On one particular golden afternoon, a band of us children had slipped away for our favourite forbidden sport of harvesting mangoes by lobbing stones at the branches. One boy stood guard, watching for grown-ups. The mangoes were ripe and heavy, and the air smelled impossibly sweet. We felt like the cleverest children in the world. Then the alarm was raised. The orchard caretaker was coming. What followed was the most dramatic sprint of my young life. Small legs pumping, heart hammering, I ran until the village temple appeared before me and my lungs simply refused to carry me further. I bent over, breathless, and waited for my fate. The caretaker arrived. And then he did the most unexpected thing in the world. He laughed. He offered me water from the hand pump nearby, asked me gently why I was running, and walked me all the way home. My father was waiting at the door. The two men exchanged a few words and then both burst into laughter that I could not understand at all. My father knelt down and explained, still smiling, that the orchard was ours. Every last tree. There had never been anything to fear. He even asked the caretaker to bring me the finest mangoes he could find the very next day. I stood there feeling wonderfully, gloriously silly. It was a comforting memory to recall. The human mind is an amazing thing and so is our childhood! -chalatmusafir (HD)

Harish Dixit Senior Infrastructure Manager – APAC Linkedin For five years, a tiny, nine-coloured wonder had been giving me the slip. The first time I heard its cheerful two-note whistle on one of my morning walks, I ran towards the sound. But by the time I got there, the bird was gone. All I had was a sound recording and a heart full of hope. After that, friends and fellow birdwatchers kept spotting it in different corners of the city. It even entered people’s homes, primarily due to exhaustion and disorientation. Every single time, I was either out of town or when I rushed to the location, the Pitta had moved on, as if it knew I was coming. It began to feel personal. But I never gave up. I kept going out, kept listening, kept looking during its bi-annual migrations. This summer, I planned a family holiday in Dapoli, Ratnagiri. We chose a homestay, nestled inside a fifty-five acre “Aamrai”, a mango forest of over three thousand trees. My family wanted rest and beaches. I wanted one bird. The Ladghar beach was five kilometres away. The mango grove was right outside our door. It felt like the right place. The very first morning, the Indian Blackbird whistled outside the cottage window and woke us up before the alarm could. When I stepped out of the cottage, two Gold-fronted Leafbirds were chasing each other through the branches, darting and diving like children at play. I smiled. The forest was alive and generous. Then, at half past six, we set out for our morning walk, through the quiet mango grove, I heard it. That short, sweet, two-note whistle. My hands found my camera before my mind had finished thinking. My wife stood quietly beside me, saying nothing, sensing everything. We had walked barely a hundred metres when we stopped again. Indian Pitta (Pitta brachyura) There, not eight feet away, a small blaze of colour was moving along the forest floor. It held a dry twig in its beak, moving with calm purpose. My brain took a full second to believe what my eyes were already seeing. The Indian Pitta. Closer than it had ever been. Not fleeing. Not hiding. Simply going about its morning, building its nest, patiently. Neither of us moved. Neither of us spoke. Indian Pitta, starting a nest. The bird couple made trip after trip, gathering nesting material, completely unbothered by the two stunned humans watching from below. It was focused, peaceful and utterly magnificent. Interestingly, the Pittas never flew straight to its nest. Not once. Each time it returned with nesting material, it landed first on a random branch nearby, sometimes a metre away, sometimes a little further. There it would sit, perfectly still, eyes darting in every direction, scanning the trees, the ground and the air around it for any sign of danger. Only when it was completely satisfied that all was safe did it make that final short flight to the nest and get busy. It was as if the bird carried an unwritten rule, “Never lead trouble to your front door.” Indian Pitta on the lookout Watching this quiet ritual repeat itself, trip after trip, I felt a deep admiration. Here was a creature that paired its hard work with sharp wisdom, never once letting its enthusiasm override its caution. People often say, what wonderful luck. But I want to be honest. Luck had very little to do with it. That morning in the mango grove was the result of years of quiet, unglamorous habits practised with discipline. It was the result of training my ears as carefully as my eyes, learning the calls of Indian Pitta until it became familiar, because in thick forest you will almost always hear a bird long before you see it. It was the result of understanding how seasons move birds across the landscape, and choosing Dapoli not randomly but deliberately, knowing the Western Ghats in summer hold breeding Pittas. And above all, staying positive and saying quietly to myself, today could be the day, even on the mornings that looked grey and unpromising. Every birdwatcher knows that feeling of a day that seems destined to deliver nothing, only for a rarity to appear at the very next turn in the path. You just have to keep walking to reach that turn. Indian Pitta nest in final stages Five years of early mornings, missed sightings and long walks through empty forest paths had led to this one quiet moment. And standing there, camera raised, hands steady at last, I understood something simple and true. Patience is not about waiting and doing nothing. It is about waiting and still trying, every single day, until its enough. The Pitta did not come to me because I was lucky. It came because I never stopped looking for it. And that, I think, is the only secret worth knowing. Enjoy this video of the Indian Pitta couple busy with nest building: -chalatmusafir (HD)

Aarya Fahoum 8th Grade. NEXT school Participating in a beach clean-up drive at Prabhadevi Beach taught me that small actions can make a big difference to the environment. The experience increased my awareness of carbon footprints and how daily activities contribute to pollution. By conserving electricity, reducing waste, carpooling, caring for plants, and recycling responsibly, we can lower carbon emissions and protect ecosystems. If everyone adopts simple eco-friendly habits, we can create a cleaner, healthier, and more sustainable future. I understood the importance of having a healthy environment when I participated in a beach clean-up drive at Prabhadevi Beach with Beach Warriors India. During the drive, I helped collect plastic waste, wrappers, and other litter from the beach. This experience showed me that even simple efforts can create a positive change. By participating in the clean-up drive, I helped remove waste that could have harmed marine life and polluted the beach further. It also helped make the beach cleaner and safer for people to enjoy. Most importantly, the experience taught me that every small action matters when it comes to protecting the environment. After this experience, I became more aware of how our everyday actions affect the environment. In today’s world, protecting the environment has become more important than ever. One environmental issue that everyone should understand is the carbon footprint and carbon emissions. Although these terms may sound complicated, they are actually quite simple to understand. A carbon footprint is the amount of pollution created through our daily activities. For example, when we use vehicles, consume electricity, or waste resources, harmful gases are released into the atmosphere. These gases are known as carbon emissions. Carbon emissions can have a harmful effect on the environment. They contribute to global warming, affect weather patterns, and harm plants and animals, including birds, fish, marine life, and many other living creatures that depend on healthy ecosystems to survive. Pollution can also damage natural habitats, making it difficult for these creatures to live safely. This is why reducing carbon emissions and taking better care of the environment is so important. I follow the activities below regularly because I believe that small actions can make a big difference: I switch off lights and fans when I leave a room or when they are not needed to save electricity. If possible, I use the stairs instead of the elevator. I encourage carpooling with friends and family whenever possible to reduce vehicle emissions. I avoid wasting food and water. I help care for plants and trees, which improve air quality. I make sure waste is thrown into the correct bins so that segregation and recycling become easier. These actions may seem small, but when many people work together, they create a positive impact on the environment. Fewer carbon emissions mean cleaner air, healthier ecosystems, and safer environments for animals. Most importantly, they help protect our planet for future generations. The Earth is our shared home, and protecting it is everyone’s responsibility. By understanding carbon footprints and making thoughtful decisions in our daily lives, we can reduce pollution and create a cleaner, healthier future for ourselves and everyone around us.

Dr. Devyani Rozario Website “You’re on the verge of making a significant move – applying for a dream job, starting a creative project, or even just initiating a difficult conversation. Then, the whispers start. “But what if I’m not qualified enough?” “What if I fail? I’ll look like a fool.” “But what if the timing isn’t right?” In the world of psychology and decision science, these “ifs” and “buts” are the building blocks of Analysis Paralysis. While a healthy degree of caution is a survival mechanism, letting these conjunctions dominate your internal monologue can effectively ruin your ability to move forward. We mistake stillness for safety. In truth, the “if only” mindset is the most expensive luxury because it consumes the only currency you can’t earn back – which is time. You may treat ‘what if’ like a safety net. However, in reality it is a spider’s web. Make sure the “If/But” Distinction is clear: “If” is a fear of the future “But” is an excuse in the present. Here is how the “ifs and buts” cycle erodes your decision-making: 1. The Mirage of Certainty The primary reason we incline on “ifs” is our innate desire for certainty. We believe that if we can simulate every possible negative outcome, we can prevent them. However, this is a cognitive illusion. When you say, “If X happens, then Y will go wrong,” you are treating a hypothetical future as a present reality. This creates a feedback loop of anxiety. Instead of weighing actual risks, you end up battling ghosts. Decision-making requires a level of comfort with ambiguity; “ifs” are a desperate attempt to eliminate that ambiguity, usually resulting in total stagnation. 2. "But" as a Barrier to Growth “But” acts as a conversation eraser. “I want to start a business, but I don’t have enough capital.” “I know I should leave this situation, but it’s complicated.” The word “but” dismisses the preceding positive intention and highlights the obstacle as an immovable mountain. It shifts your focus from resourcefulness (how do I get the capital?) to restriction (I can’t do this). In essence, “buts” are the bricks we use to build walls around our comfort zones. 3. The Cognitive Load of Overthinking Every “if” and “but” you entertain consumes “mental bandwidth.” Human beings have a finite amount of cognitive energy to spend each day – a concept known as Decision Fatigue. When you spend hours contemplating on “What if they say no?” or “But I’ve never done this before,” you are draining the battery you need to actually execute the decision. By the time you have to choose, your brain is too exhausted to think clearly, often leading to “deciding by not deciding” – which is, in itself, a choice that usually yields the worst results. 4. Fear vs. Calculation There is a profound difference between Calculated Risk and Fear-Based Hesitation. Calculated Risk: “If the market drops 10%, I have a buffer to survive.” (Proactive/Strategic) Fear-Based Hesitation: “But what if the market drops and I lose everything?” (Reactive/Emotional) The “ifs and buts” habit forces us into a reactive state. It replaces objective data with emotional projections. This ruins decision-making because it prioritizes loss aversion -the tendency to prefer avoiding losses over acquiring equivalent gains – to an irrational degree. How to Break the Cycle To improve your decision-making, you don’t need to stop thinking; you need to change the structure of your thoughts. Replace “But” with “And”: Instead of saying “I want to go back to school, but it’s expensive,” try “I want to go back to school, and I need to find a way to finance it.” This simple linguistic shift turns a barrier into a problem to be solved. The 70% Rule: Borrow a page from Jeff Bezos’s playbook. Most decisions should probably be made with somewhere around 70% of the information you wish you had. If you wait for 90%, you’re likely to be a person who is too slow or takes no decision at all. Time-Box Your Rumination: Give yourself 15 minutes to list all the “ifs” and “buts.” Once the timer is up, you are no longer allowed to entertain hypotheticals. You must move to the “How” phase. This will allow you to be solution oriented and decide. Practice Micro-Decisions: Build your “decisive muscle” by making small choices quickly. Decide what to order from a restaurant in under 30 seconds. Choose what you will wear for an event instantly. This trains your brain to trust its intuition over its anxieties. In Essence: “Ifs” and “buts” are comfortable. They keep you safe from failure, but they also keep you away from success. Live life in the “ands” and the “dos.” The next time you feel an “If” or a “But” rising in your mind, recognize it for what it means, do not hesitate – just decide. Remember – a “wrong” decision often teaches us more than no decision at all. Your decisions should reflect your hopes rather than your fears, often requiring you to take bold action over perfection! What is one decision you’ve been ‘butting’ away this week? Challenge yourself to take a decision today!

Namya Aggarwal A runner, Writer and student (12th Class) LinkedIn A shortage of canned Diet Coke across major Indian cities has unexpectedly highlighted how global events affect everyday life. Geopolitical tensions around the Strait of Hormuz have disrupted shipping routes, increased freight costs, and raised aluminium prices, creating supply shortages. Despite available substitutes, young consumers remain attached to the unique experience of drinking Diet Coke from a can. The crisis has even inspired themed events, while reminding people that distant wars can have surprisingly local consequences. A couple days prior to writing this piece I found myself hopping from shop to shop, disappointed, by the perpetual rejections and head nods of shopkeepers when i asked, “Bhaiya, diet coke hai?” And now I’m writing this because I finally got an explanation as to why the entirety of Mumbai seems to be going through a diet coke famine. And as it turns out, geopolitical tensions and wars actually do have an impact on the economies and do cause demand-supply issues. Who would have thought that?? So, there’s a very apparant and a very ubiquotous shortage of what the kids nowdays are calling a “fridge ciggarette” i.e. diet coke. And this is primarily occuring in metropolies like Mumbai, Delhi NCR, Bengaluru, Pune, etc. Oh, but however does the drama between US/Israel and Iran affect my daily beverage, my indulgence, my very lifeline?! Yes, So firstly, the Strait of Hormuz is blocked due to geopolitical reasons and the whole war thingy. This means freight ships and import ships have to either take extremely long routes or they just sit pretty and don’t send their cokes to us. Additionally, the prices to ship stuff to India is so much more expensive now because if you’re using longer routes you’re using more fuel and lo and behold! Even fuel prices are higher than Snoop Dog! So you see how its almost a no-win situation, right? And thus, there’s a consequent deficiency in supply. Secondly, People are actually significantly crazier about the canned diet cokes rather than just sugarless cokes in general. Canned diet cokes are made of aluminium, the prices of which have, increased by 14–20%. Strait of Hormuz control 9% of aluminium production. At the same time, production of cans in India is operating nearly 20% below demand. Coke zero can be found in abundance, but canned one’s can’t. This emphasises what a staple canned diet cokes really are. Its not just coke, its an experience. Its the invigorating journey of pulling out a chilled can adorned with condensed droplets of water. Its the excitement ones feels from the top of their head till the end of their pinky-toe when they’re about to click open the lid. Its the euphoria one feels when they get to experience the otherworldly feeling of connecting one’s lips to the sharp but inviting edges of the can. Additionally, diet coke’s offer an overall elevated consumer experience. Their packaging is sleek, minimalistic and chic, which resonates with current aesthetic trends. The classic, silver contained with its elegant red writing is the most recognizable and wanted of all. On the other hand, Diet Pepsi, Thums-Up, and other similar beverages are sold in PET bottles. PET (Polyethylene Terephthalate) are the transparent bottles mostly used to back soft drinks. And these bottles just don’t have the same feel that the aluminium cans do. They offer a cheaper, ordinary, sub-par experience compared to what a diet coke does. And thus, even though there are several substitutes, the Indian youth remains visibly crazy about their diet cokes. However, this crisis, rather than downing spirits, is prompting the emergence of new concepts. In a Reuter’s article, Ninecamp CEO Chaitanya Mathur said “For the young people it’s about scarcity being a premise of the entire event. That’s where the fun is — the less there ​is of something is when they want more of it” This is further emphasised by Diet Coke themed parties that are being organised by GenZ’s as well as several ticketed events being offered by restaurants. To add to this, Coca-Cola has started packaging its beverage in 200 ml glass bottles. These are available on Indian quick commerce sites such as Zepto, Blinkit, etc at Rs. 100 or (1.05 USD). With lower cost and cheap plastic utilised in packaging, beverages in glass bottles are almost a thing of the past. This pivot by the company not only brought back nostalgic times but prevented shortage of stock as well. https://www.instagram.com/reels/DX_7dooThIR/ I feel that the Diet Coke crisis enabled the youth to truly comprehend the gravity of the situation. The effects of a war are being felt by us in real time and that has definitely sparked a sense of relatability. We all share collective frustration and angst. And that makes this war feel all too real.