🐾 The Weekend Time Bomb and a Puppy Named Chance

🐾 The Weekend Time Bomb and a Puppy Named Chance

                                       A story of love, laughter, and one unforgettable reunion

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You know how some people call their spouse by sweet names like baby, honey, or jaanu?

Not him.

He always called her "She."
Simple. No frills. No filters. Just… She.
And if you ever asked him why, he would probably scratch his head and say,
“Because She is everything. She’s the sentence, I’m just the punctuation.”

🏡 New Beginnings in a Small House

As newlyweds, they started their life in a cozy rented house — small enough to hear each other’s stomach grumble and large enough to host two egos and one cooking experiment gone wrong.

“She” was a modern woman in every sense — bold, confident, and could switch from work emails to fixing a fused bulb like it was nothing.

“He”? A soft-spoken fellow with half-baked confidence, the kind of guy who’d stand in front of a mirror to rehearse how to ask for extra sambar.

But life, as we know it, doesn’t always need matching puzzle pieces — it just needs the willingness to fit.

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📆 The Weekend Protocol

Now, weekends in their house had only one rule. A dangerous, unwritten, unspoken rule.
And that rule was:
He shall plan the weekend.

No plan = Tick. Tick. Tick.

Not following the plan = Tick-tick-tick-tick...

Plan canceled = BOOM.

“She” believed weekends were for creating stories, not for scrolling phones under blankets. And if “He” forgot to plan? Let’s just say Monday came with burnt toast and the silent treatment special.

So he learnt — one love-filled fight at a time — to always keep a Plan A and Plan B. And a Plan C, just in case.

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🐶 A Detour to the Past

It was one such weekend. They were headed out for shopping, when just outside their gate, She suddenly froze.

She saw a scooter parked nearby. And on it, perched like a royal with a wagging tail — a dog.

Not just any dog. Her eyes widened. Her breath caught. She rushed forward like she saw a long-lost friend.

The man on the scooter looked startled as she blurted out:

“Is this your dog? Can I hold him for a second?”

He nodded, curious.

As She lovingly cuddled the dog, her eyes welled up.
This wasn’t just any dog.
This was him.
The same puppy she had rescued a year ago.

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🚖  Flashback: Hyderabad to Mysore

She turned to her confused husband — who was mentally calculating how close they were to another weekend blast — and said,
“I’ve told you this story, no?”

He squinted. “Uhh… is this the one with the bleeding dog and your filmy scarf moment?”

She nodded with a smile.

She was in Hyderabad back then. Every weekend, she’d board the Friday night train to Mysore.

One morning, just outside the Mysore station, she saw a tiny, bleeding puppy, whimpering near the footpath. Most would’ve walked past. She didn’t.

She made the auto stop. The driver argued, “Madam, stray dog… Someone else will take care.”
But She? No chance.

She tore her scarf, tied it around the puppy’s paw like some movie heroine, and demanded to be taken to a nearby vet.
First aid done, the next stop was a dog care center near Chamundi Hill. She paid, enrolled the puppy, and left with a heart heavier than her luggage.

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🌄 Fate Comes Full Circle

Now, a year later, fate parked that very scooter right outside their home.

“She” turned to the owner with teary joy.

“I remember this dog. The scar on his paw. The unique ears. The eyes. I know this is him.”

The man was stunned.
He smiled.
“You’re right. I adopted him from the Chamundi center. He’s been my travel partner ever since.”

She was beaming.

“Why didn’t you adopt him back then?” he asked.

“I was alone in Hyderabad. My job, travel… I couldn’t give him what he deserved. But I couldn’t leave him to die either. So I gave him a chance.”

And just like that, the puppy she saved had found his destiny — a second life and a second chance.

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💬 The Man with the Time Bomb

All this while, “He” stood a few feet away, still outside the gate.

Watching.

Smiling.

Relieved.

Why?

Because this time — the Time Bomb was defused… by a dog.

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💖 The Moral (with a Side of Love)

Sometimes, the smallest acts we do without expectations come back to us in ways we never imagine.

A bleeding puppy turned into a joyful reunion.
A scarf became a bandage of compassion.
A modern girl reminded her partner that courage is often quiet, love is often fierce, and empathy doesn’t need a plan.

And “He”?
Well, he now knows that some weekends don’t need planning — they just need listening.

So next time your partner tells a story, don’t scroll your phone.

That story might just be the reason the weekend bomb doesn’t go off.

After all, every “She” has a story that made her who she is.
And every “He” learns to love her, one weekend at a time.

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🌿
A Final Note:
Like most of life’s best tales, this one too is a blend — of imagination, memories, and those tiny moments that leave a lasting pawprint on our hearts.
Some parts are fictional, others gently borrowed from real life — but every word was written with love. ❤️

🛵 The Ride to a Memory Called Malampuzha

           🛵 The Ride to a Memory Called Malampuzha

                              Because some rides are more than just journeys—they’re time machines.

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😓 That Weekend Feeling We All Know...

You know that feeling?
Lunch is done, the plate’s still on the table, your stomach is full, and your mood? Undefined. It’s a weekend, you should be relaxed—but instead, you feel… sad?

I sat there staring at the computer. Nothing made sense.
Work fatigue? Screen fatigue? Or just the post-lunch blues?

Whatever it was, I knew one thing for sure—

“This is not how I want to spend my weekend.”

So, what did I do?

I cracked open my trusted folder—my time capsule—labeled:
“Old Photos – 2010”

And just like that, I found my way back.

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⏳ The Time Machine Starts With One Photo

I opened a photo — and BOOM! I was back in Palakkad.

It was just an ordinary photo.

Me. Cousin. Bike. Dam backdrop.

But the moment I saw it, it wasn’t just a picture anymore—it was a portal.

That year, 2010—life was full of energy, work was great, and personal life was dancing to the right tunes.

And in that snapshot was a trip I’d nearly forgotten, but never stopped feeling.

More about that beautiful town soon in another blog, but for now, fasten your helmets. We’re going on a joyride.

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🚌 Friday Nights and Nano Vibes

Back in those days, we didn’t plan months in advance. A simple Friday night was enough.

I’d finish my shift, pack a small bag (really small—I believed in minimalism before it became a hashtag), and hop onto a KSRTC bus.

Music? My trusted iPod Nano.
First song? Probably “Dil Chahta Hai.” That was my bus anthem.

I don’t remember falling asleep. All I remember is waking up with the conductor yelling,

“Palakkad! Palakkad!”

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👬 A Cousin, a Bike, and 106cc of Freedom

There he was—my cousin, fresh out of college, waiting with the biggest grin and an even bigger plan.

His ride? A sleek red Yamaha Libero.
Not a powerhouse. Not a showstopper. But oh boy, did it have personality!

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🍽️ The Breakfast That Deserves a Statue

Home sweet home. Aunt was already awake, in the kitchen, weaving magic.

Puttu and Kadala Curry.
The kind of breakfast that makes your stomach clap and your soul do backflips.

With every bite, I remembered why I kept coming back.
Not just for the food—but for the feeling.

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We sat in the sit-out—a spot that deserves its own Instagram page.
From that single bench, I could see life unfold.
The temple across the street, private buses revving up for the day, the occasional bullock cart. All under the lazy watch of coconut trees swaying in approval.

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My cousin came out with his coffee.

“What’s the plan?” he asked.
“Your place, your lead,” I replied.

He grinned. “Malampuzha?”

My heart smiled before my face could.

“Let’s ride.”

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🧳 Checks, Cameras, and a Red Roar

Pre-ride checks:

• Helmet: ✅

• Petrol: ✅

• Tyre Pressure: ✅

• Bike Mirror Position (for posing later): ✅

I was the co-pilot, with a camera slung around my neck like a war medal.
We zipped past Mercy College Circle, cruised through Melamuri, and joined the Palakkad–Malampuzha main road.

What a route! Fewer buildings. More sky. Fewer people. More trees.
Each turn brought us closer to the Western Ghats, rising like gentle giants in the distance.

I swear, it felt like nature herself was calling:
“Come closer, child. I’ve got something to show you.”

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🏞️ Malampuzha — More Than Just a Dam

Let’s get this straight—Malampuzha is not just a dam.
It’s a mood. A vibe. A proper emotion.

Built in 1955, it’s the largest reservoir in Kerala. But for me, it was the first time I realized silence could have a voice.

We didn’t go to the main dam area just yet. Instead, we wandered toward the backwaters, where tourist buses don’t reach and silence still lives.

Cameras out.
Random poses.
Tree-hugging (literally).
One weird “deep thinker” pose by me that still haunts me.

“Why did I look like I was solving climate change?”
No one knows.

 

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🐍 The Snake Park Shenanigans

Okay. Now the Snake Park deserves its own paragraph.
Mostly because we walked in expecting drama and walked out laughing.

A few snakes were asleep. One python was halfway into a nap and a stretch.
One cobra gave us side-eye like,

“Another camera? Bro, please…”

Still, it was entertaining. Not the reptiles—the reactions of people.
One guy dropped his water bottle because a lizard moved.

Lesson: The humans were the real wildlife.

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🕒 Back Through the Breeze

By 4 PM, it was my turn to ride.
The Libero hummed like it was happy to have me back in control.

The ride back was magical. That warm evening light, the roads half-empty, and the Ghats waving goodbye behind us.

By the time we reached home, it was 5:30 PM. We were two things:

1. Tired.

2. Extremely, record-breakingly hungry.

☕ Tea and Semeya = Hug in a Plate

Aunt had saved the day again.
Hot Semeya (vermicelli) upma with coconut flavor, and freshly brewed tea.

Honestly, Michelin stars mean nothing here. This was five-star in every way that mattered.

Post snacks, we slipped into comfy clothes and jumped into our last plan of the day—movies on his desktop.

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🎬 Cinema, Cousin Banter, and Sleep

We didn’t watch the movie properly.
It was mostly:

“Remember that guy…”
“Oh, did you see how you posed like SRK?”
“Bro, your hairline was better back then.”

Laughter. Sarcasm. Good-natured roasts. And then, slowly… sleep.

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🌍 Why This Memory Came Back Now?

Because maybe my soul was asking me,

“When was the last time you felt fully present?”

Those days, we respected where we went.
We didn’t leave garbage. We didn’t scream into nature.
We just became part of it—humbly, quietly, joyfully.

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“Be a visitor, not an invader.
Let every place you go remember your silence, not your selfie stick.”

💭 A Final Thought

So yeah, maybe you’re feeling low today.
Maybe nothing feels exciting.

Open that old folder.
Find that cousin.
Plan a ride, even if it’s just around your block.

Because joy isn’t expensive. It’s just buried beneath the rush.

And when you go somewhere beautiful next—
Don’t just click a photo. Leave behind a smile. 🌿

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From Floppy to Cloud: A Dusty Discovery and a Digital Tale

 From Floppy to Cloud: A Dusty Discovery and                                 a Digital Tale

              — A Nostalgic Tech Journey That Starts with Cleaning and Ends in Cloud Storage

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🧹 The Weekend Cleaning That Uncovered a Memory

Marriage teaches you many things—like the mysterious ability to locate socks you swore you never owned and, more importantly, the art of cleaning things you forgot existed. It was one of those weekends. While my better half was on a mission to Marie-Kondo the wardrobe, I decided to declutter my digital assets.

Now, by "digital assets," I don’t mean cloud backups or email folders. I mean that black plastic box under the table. The legendary dumping ground of every old, unused gadget that once had purpose and pride.

As I dug through tangled wires, broken chargers, dusty mouse pads, and ancient USBs, I stumbled on something that instantly pulled me back in time.

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🧠 Guess What I Found?

It was square. Flat. Familiar.
You’re already thinking it, aren’t you?

Yes. The floppy disk.
Our tech lifeline back in the day. It sat there like a sleepy old uncle at a family reunion—tired but still proud.

I pulled it out, blew off the dust, and couldn’t help but smile. This 1.44 MB piece of plastic once carried my entire world—assignments, Flash games, and saved music (I know, with 1.44 MB, it was difficult to take all the songs my friend had in his system, and I took a selected ones).

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👧 “Appa, What Is This?”

And just as I was in my memory bubble, came the inevitable question.

“Appa, what is this? Is it a toy?”

Ah. The joys of parenting in a generation that thinks the "Save" icon was just designed to look cool.

So I sat down with my daughter and began a little story…

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💾 The Rise of the Floppy Disk

I told her about how the floppy disk was introduced in 1971 by IBM.
How it came in three generations:

• 8-inch floppy: Used in mainframe systems. Could store just 80 KB.

• 5.25-inch floppy: Became common in personal computers in the late ‘70s.

• 3.5-inch floppy: The superstar of the '90s. Sleek, compact, and could store 1.44 MB.

To her, this sounded absurd. One PDF from her school project is over 4 MB!

But I reminded her that in those days, we worked with what we had—and made magic out of it.

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🧒 A Middle-Class Dream Machine

Being a Computer Science student back then meant learning languages like C, C++, and COBOL. We didn’t have laptops or home Wi-Fi. Even visiting a cyber café cost money. But my mother—soft-spoken, loving, fierce when needed—decided to get me a computer.

That little floppy meant the world to us. I still remember walking to the computer store with my mother and father—my two superheroes. I had asked them for a computer. It wasn’t just a machine; it was a dream. A big one.

For a middle-class family like us, even a floppy box was a calculated expense. But my mother, the epitome of patience and unconditional love, simply said yes. My father, silent but always supportive, walked with us to buy it. We didn’t get the fanciest system, but we got what we needed—an HCL Frontline desktop, launched in 2005. Running Windows XP. Complete with Winamp (remember that legendary MP3 player with those wild skins and visualizations?). And yes, that 5-pack floppy disk box. Like owning gold.

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🎮 Floppy Adventures: Flash Games & Winamp Days

Once the PC was set up, I wanted what every kid with a computer dreams of—Flash games. And my floppy disks became the transport trucks for joy. From friend’s houses to my PC, I’d copy tiny Flash games, compressed to fit that sacred 1.44 MB.

Alongside games, there was Winamp—the most stylish MP3 player of the time. Do you remember the wild skins you could choose? Every theme made it feel like a different app altogether.

Later came writable CDs. Then USB drives. Then external hard disks. Then SSDs.
And today? We live in the Cloud.

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☁️ From Plastic to Cloud

From floppy disks to cloud storage, the journey is almost poetic. We once treated a few megabytes like treasure. Now we scroll through gigabytes like we scroll through memes.

I showed my daughter a YouTube video about floppy disks. She watched it with a mix of curiosity and disbelief.

“We’ve come a long way, haven’t we, Appa?” she said.

Yes, we really have.

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❤️ What the Floppy Meant to Me

That little piece of plastic wasn’t just a disk.
It was a ticket to learning, a container of dreams, and a symbol of what my parents did for me. Every byte it stored carried my childhood, my ambition, and my parents’ love.

Now it sits on my shelf—not as junk, but as a reminder.
A reminder of how far we’ve come.
Of how little things once held the biggest value.

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📝 Final Thought

Next time you find an old gadget, don’t toss it right away.
Maybe, just maybe—it’s not junk.

Maybe it’s a story.

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My Floppy Disk  Pic

My Floppy Disk

Do you have any stories like this? 

When the Breeze Brought Back a Friend

    🌿 When the Breeze Brought Back a Friend

                                      A nostalgic reflection on friendship, time, and unexpected reunions

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🪴 Balcony, Breeze, and Bees

There’s something magical about a weekend afternoon. Especially when you’re sitting in your balcony, wrapped in the soft hum of a garden that’s alive — buzzing bees, nosy butterflies, and overconfident squirrels treating your guava tree like it’s theirs.

After lunch, the swing chair becomes a portal. The breeze tugs at your thoughts, your body relaxes, and your mind… well, your mind travels. Not forward — but backward.

So come, sit with me. Close your eyes. Hear the bees hop from hibiscus to jasmine. Somewhere nearby, a bird composes a melody. And if you’re really quiet, you’ll hear laughter — not today’s, but from years ago.

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💬 The Friendships We Thought Would Last Forever

There was a time when we thought our school best friends would be part of our forever. That we’d always call, always meet, and never lose touch. We promised to attend each other’s weddings, name our kids after each other, maybe even grow old in the same colony.

But life… life has other plans. Careers, cities, families, responsibilities — they stretch us out like butter on hot toast. Slowly, those daily conversations shrink to yearly greetings. And then — silence.

Until one day, something stirs the memory.

For me, it happened in a metro.

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🚇 A Metro Ride into the Past

It was one of those rare Bangalore afternoons when the metro wasn’t packed like a tiffin box. A true miracle. I could actually stand without someone breathing down my neck. Legs weren’t twisted like yoga poses. I had full body positioning! Trust me, in Bangalore metro terms, this is luxury.

As we passed through the railway station, two elderly men — somewhere in their early sixties — boarded. They spoke Tamil, with a lilt that came only from Palakkad. Their laughter had no filters. Loud, honest, and filled with something pure — a time before smartphones, before Google, before everyone had LinkedIn but no one had time.

Let me translate what I overheard. Don’t worry — I wasn't eavesdropping. They were practically announcing their life stories over the PA system.

Friend 1: “Hey! You da? After so long!”
Friend 2: “Macha! I’m good! What are you doing here?”
Friend 1: “Going to a friend’s daughter’s wedding.”
Friend 2: “Which friend?”
Friend 1: “Vishwanathan’s daughter.”
Friend 2: “Eh! I’m going to the same one. He was my colleague!”
Friend 1: “What a small world! We were childhood friends. Haven’t seen each other since school.”

And just like that, the dam broke. Memories came rushing.

Friend 2: “Yes, yes. Life, da. Took us everywhere. Retired now. But see, destiny made us meet — in Bangalore metro of all places!”
Friend 1: “Remember the days we travelled from Walayar to Coimbatore for school?”
Friend 2: “How can I forget? And what about Rajesh Unni and Prabakaran?”
Friend 1: silent for a moment “Rajesh... passed away two years ago.”
Friend 2: “What? That health freak? The guy who drank bitter gourd juice like water?”
Friend 1: “Yes, macha. Life’s unpredictable.”

And then came the line that hit me like that one autorickshaw that always jumps the signal:

Friend 2: “When we were young, we chased jobs and money. Now, we have both — but no friends. The friendships we had in childhood were the purest. No ego. No expectations. Just hearts wide open.”

They exchanged numbers. The train arrived at their stop.

Friend 1: “Come da, let’s get down. We’ve got a marriage to attend and memories to relive.”

And just like that, they walked away, laughing, leaning on each other, into the city — and into their past.

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🏫 The School That Lives in My Head

I still had a few stops left. But my mind had already slipped back to those old school days — where the benches held secrets, the walls had witnessed dreams whispered between classes, and friendships were as simple as sharing a pencil or saving a seat during morning assembly.

So many friends. Some still around. Some drifting in and out like radio signals. Some only names on faded photographs.

They were classmates, lunchbox warriors, backbench philosophers, exam-time saviors, and those who stuck around long enough to become family.

Some were seasonal. Some, eternal. But each one? Real.

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🎒 Life, Laughter, and Letting Go

We often think friendship is about consistency. Daily calls. Weekly updates. Birthday reminders.

But maybe, it’s also about silent understanding. That even after years, when we meet — at a wedding, a bus stand, or a random metro — we can talk like nothing ever changed.

So to all my friends — whether we talk or not — thank you.

You were part of my story. A scene, a chapter, a bridge. You helped me laugh when I had no reason to. You showed up when I didn’t expect you to. And even if time pulled us apart, I still carry a little bit of you with me.

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💌 Until We Meet Again…

If you ever see me staring out the window, smiling quietly in a crowded metro, don’t be surprised. Maybe I’m not thinking about work. Maybe I’m just remembering you.

Because friendship never really leaves. It just takes the scenic route back.

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The Ant Whisperer of Dasara: A Slippery Tale from the Ghats

 The Ant Whisperer of Dasara: A Slippery Tale                                   from the Ghats

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We’ve all done crazy things in our childhood. Not the "my parents were so proud of me" kind. No, I’m talking about those things that don’t exactly earn you medals, but come back again and again as comedy blockbusters in your mind's private theater. They’re so out of the box that even the box says, “I’m out!”

Now, while scratching my head about what to write next—what people would like to read, or what would at least not make them hit the back button faster than a mosquito hits your ear—I suddenly remembered one of my all-time favorite childhood episodes.

It didn’t happen during the usual summer holidays, mind you. This was during Dasara holidays. Yes, that special time during October–November when schools close, and in our part of the world—South Canara—the world opens up.

You may ask, “Why now? Why do people suddenly step outside?”

Aah. Let me give you the secret recipe.

See, in the Western Ghats, from June to September, the place doesn't get rain—it becomes rain. Morning, afternoon, evening, night—there’s a non-stop concert by the Rain God. I’m talking Lollapalooza-level headliner rain, the kind that makes you forget the sun ever existed. The clothes refuse to dry, and the mosquitoes, leeches, and frogs decide it’s their time to shine.

The vast open verandas—once used to dry arecanut and coffee beans—turn into temporary vegetable farms. The land becomes so fertile, even cucumbers start throwing parties.

Come October, just as the Rain God starts taking breaks between his back-to-back concerts, Dasara arrives like a sweet interval scene. And that’s when magic happens. You step out, and suddenly it's like someone painted the world with 500 shades of green. The ghats, the forests, the farmland—every inch sparkles in chlorophyll glory. Even the mossy path glows like it's been polished by a thousand tiny brushes.

Now let me pause this poetic nonsense before you think I’m auditioning for a nature documentary. Because what I really want to tell you… is a story. One that involves slipperiness, stupidity, and suspense.

The Slippery Stage and My Weirdest Pet Project

Our mid-term routine was simple: Wake up to thunder that sounds like God dropped a wardrobe. Eat idli, sip steaming coffee, and watch rain pour through iron window grills like a movie curtain. Lunch. Watch rain again. And then—on lucky days—a short playtime window when the rain took a tea break.

The walking path around the house was a world of its own. Covered in pachi (that shiny, slippery moss), it was an open invitation to perform all forms of dance. One foot on the wrong patch and boom—you’re in a live episode of India’s Got Accidental Talent. From classical to hip-hop to breakdance, the pachi didn’t discriminate.

But one day, amidst all this wet drama, a thought struck me. You know how people keep dogs, cats, maybe a parrot? Yeah, normal pets. Boring. Predictable.

I, the great innovator of my time, decided to raise… wait for it… giant ants.

Yes. Not those little ones that visit your kitchen without an invite. I’m talking about the majestic, slightly scary, red-black big ants that you only find in the lush wilderness of the Ghats. They were strong, had good work ethic, didn’t bark or poop everywhere. Perfect pets, right?

Wrong. Very wrong.

But I was convinced. I found an old Horlicks plastic jar—one that once held promises of "strong bones and sharp minds." I thought, “What better place to host my mighty ant kingdom?”

So here’s what I did:

• Made tiny holes for air.

• Caught about 10 of these ants (after a thrilling Mission Impossible chase).

• Dropped a spoon of sugar inside. (Ants = Sugar = Happiness. Basic biology.)

Voila! My first ever ant aquarium. Or maybe ant prison. But who’s judging?

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The Empire That Didn't Last

For the first day or two, I felt like a zookeeper. I’d talk to them.
“Hello General Ant, how’s the sugar supply chain today?”
I even named them—Antony, Antina, and so on.

They roamed, climbed, and acted all civilised. My cousins were curious. Some laughed. One even suggested I teach them to form words like “Hi!” inside the jar.

Then came Day 3.

They were… still.

Day 4: Still still.

Day 5: Funeral procession. Inside the jar. For all ten.

My mini ant republic had collapsed. I was heartbroken.

I’d like to say I cried. But no, I was still trying to poke and see if someone was just in a meditative state. Spoiler: They weren’t.

That day, a wave of guilt hit me. Like really hit me.

I had taken wild creatures who were free, who knew the dance of rain and leaf and soil, and I had trapped them—for my own entertainment. My ant farm was, in truth, a plastic prison. I wasn’t their friend. I was their jailer. And they paid for my experiment with their tiny lives.

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The Moral of the Mossy Story

Years later, as I sip hot coffee and look out at the rain hitting my balcony grill—just like those childhood days—I smile and sigh at the same time.

That memory is still funny. But it’s also a tiny bookmark in the diary of “things that taught me something.”

It taught me about curiosity.
It taught me about boundaries.
And above all, it taught me that just because we can do something, doesn’t mean we should.

Today, when I see ants walking in a line across my kitchen floor, I step over them gently. No more ant hotels. No more sugar traps. Just quiet respect for lives far smaller, but no less important, than mine.

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Final Thought

Childhood makes us do strange things. Sometimes funny, sometimes foolish, sometimes downright facepalm-worthy. But each one teaches us, shapes us, and gives us stories to laugh at... and reflect on.

So next time you slip on moss, rear ants, or think you’ve got the next big idea—remember, it’s okay to experiment. But it's even better when your experiment ends with life, not a lesson in loss.

And if anyone asks, “What was the craziest thing you did as a child?”—you can proudly say, “Well, I ran an ant hotel during Dasara. Didn’t end well for the guests, but hey, the check-in process was smooth!”