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

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

AI Generated

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!”

The Unknown Person Who Became Part of Our Mornings

       The Unknown Person Who Became Part of Our Mornings

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The other day, my wife suddenly asked me, “Oyee! Some time back you were telling me about that person you used to meet every morning, right?”

I said, “Who? The one I used to talk about? That unknown person?”

She said, “Yes! That one. Why are you asking about him now?”

She explained she was watching some Korean series, and something in it reminded her of the story I told her about that person. So she wanted to know more.

I smiled and said, “Okay, if you want to talk about him now, I have to take you back in time. Hop on! Let me take you to the memory.”

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Flashback to 2019, Early Morning

It was 6 o’clock in the morning. My alarm started playing some song. I quickly paused it or hit snooze because, you know, early morning sleep is the sweetest. No matter what, the sleep god always pulls you back in.

After 10 minutes, the alarm started again. I told myself, “No, you’re not letting me sleep anymore. I have to get up.”

It was my routine to take my daughter out for a walk. She was still a baby then, so I used to carry her in my arms, take a small bag, and go out to get milk.

That was a small walk we did every day.

Since my daughter had just started exploring the world, I always let her look around. Our first stop was the play area where she loved the swing. She would enjoy playing there for some time.

After that, we’d go to the nearby store to get the milk.

While going to the store, there would be a lot of little things to look at — animated signs, birds, sounds — and she enjoyed all of it.

On our way back from the store, that’s when we saw him.

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The Unknown Person

How was he?

Tall — about 6 feet 4 inches — and probably in his mid-60s. By the way he walked and moved his hands, I noticed he was mostly left-handed.

We had seen him before, but never talked. This was the first time we actually interacted.

For some reason, his voice was so soft — very different from his strong body and look.

That day, he said, “Hi. What’s her name?”

I told him my daughter’s name.

He smiled and walked on.

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Our Morning Routine

This became our morning routine.

Next day, we saw him again. He was walking on the other side of the lane, but he came all the way to our side and said, “Good morning! Have a good day. Say hi to my daughter.”

This went on like this for a year or so.

Sometimes, we missed a day — either because we didn’t go out or he wasn’t there. But mostly, it was like clockwork.

Then Came COVID

And then COVID happened.

During the lockdown, we all stayed home, so there were no morning walks.

Whenever there was some relaxation in restrictions, I went out early to get milk — but without my daughter.

For a few days, I was able to see that unknown person again.

And then, suddenly — he vanished.

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The Void Left Behind

You know how it feels when a person you used to interact with regularly suddenly disappears?

Those small interactions — “Hi,” “Bye,” a smile, a little laugh — all positive vibes — suddenly gone.

It was strange not to see him anymore.

After some days, I asked the shop owner from where I bought the milk if he knew what happened.

That’s when my world shattered.

“Sir, he is no more.”

“What? What happened?”

“COVID.”

I heard from someone else that he had died.

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My Thoughts

I kept thinking about him.

He used to look so happy when he saw me and my daughter, especially her. I felt maybe he had a granddaughter around her age. Maybe that’s why he came every morning — to catch a glimpse of her.

The unknown person… even though I never knew his name, even though we never exchanged numbers or talked much beyond a few words, I felt really sad that he was gone.

He came into our lives as a stranger and left the same way — unknown.

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Back to Now

When my wife asked me about him, I realized this story needed to be written down.

We all have moments like this — times when we meet unknown people during travels, on trains, buses, flights, or just in everyday life.

People we talk to, laugh with, share little moments — but don’t know much else about.

And then they disappear.

As I told this story to my wife, she got a little emotional. I consoled her with one thing I always believe:

“Life will move on.”

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Have you ever met someone like that? A stranger who left a mark on your life without you knowing much about them? Share your story in the comments below. I’d love to hear.

When the Bees Came Calling

                           🐝 When the Bees Came Calling

                                               “A Weekend, A Memory, A Message from the Hive”

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🌤️ A Usual Weekend... Until It Wasn't

It was just past 2:30 in the afternoon. I was lounging on the couch, phone in hand, aimlessly scrolling through the usual mix of news, memes, and randomness. Just another weekend. Nothing special.

Then I heard it—that soft, familiar buzz.

Three honeybees had flown into my living room. Hovering, darting, making that distinct “hummm” that’s hard to ignore if you’ve grown up close to nature.

Now, bees wandering into my home isn’t all that unusual. With a balcony full of plants and fruit trees all around the house, they’re regular visitors. But something about this visit… it tugged at a memory.

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⏪ Rewind: A Farm, a Summer, and a Box Full of Bees

I was maybe 13 or 14. Summer holidays. The kind where time slows down, and the only plan is to stay outdoors.

I was at my grandmother’s home—the place where mud meets memory, and every tree had a story. One afternoon, she mentioned casually,

“Near the gate… by that old tree… I think there’s a honeybee nest splitting. We should move them before they abscond.”

Soon enough, the village “bee man” arrived. I still remember the smell of the smoke, the way he moved with calm confidence. And me? I was wide-eyed. Curious. Buzzing with excitement.

I joined in, of course. First as a spectator. Then, slowly, as a participant.

“They’re calm when they’re together,” he said. “Especially Indian bees. You won’t get stung if you’re gentle.”

He handed me the smoke can, and soon, I was helping move a living swarm—my fingers trembling but heart racing. I even helped shift the queen.

Sure, a few bees stung me. But that sting? It was nothing compared to the thrill of being part of something so ancient and alive.

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⏩ Fast Forward: Silence Where Buzz Once Lived

Years passed. On another visit to the farm, I ran to check the hive boxes we had installed after those adventures. One, two, three…

But something was wrong.

One box—the liveliest one, always filled with the hum of life—was quiet. Too quiet.

I walked over, crouched, and saw them… dozens of bees lying still beneath the stand. Lifeless.
I opened the lid. Even the queen was gone.

I asked around. Researched. Pieced it together.
Nearby farms had sprayed chemicals. The bees, doing what they always do—collecting nectar—brought back poison instead.

That hive had been bursting with honey. Now it was a grave.

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🐝 When the Bees Spoke

As I sat on the sofa that weekend, watching the three little bees move around my hall, it was like something shifted. The hum became a conversation. A whisper.
Maybe I imagined it. Maybe not.
But I heard them.

🐝 Bee 1: “It smells familiar… This used to be a safe zone. The garden still blossoms.”
🐝 Bee 2: “Let’s just rest a while. So many of our kind are gone. Lost to sprays and smoke.”
🐝 Bee 3: “But look! Guava flowers outside… Maybe there's still hope.”

And then the memories poured in.

🐝 Bee 1: “Do you remember the mango grove near the old well? Lush blooms, no sprays. Every flower welcomed us.”
🐝 Bee 2: “That land is barren now. Concrete has replaced trees. Where do bees go when there’s no home left?”
🐝 Bee 3: “I tried the sunflower fields. The nectar tasted wrong. We lost many sisters there.”

A quiet hum. A moment of mourning. And then—resolve.

🐝 Bee 1: “We’ve survived storms. Fires. Even floods. We’ll keep flying.”
🐝 Bee 2: “Do humans even know? Without us, their plates would be empty.”
🐝 Bee 3: “Let’s go. The guava blooms won’t last long.”

And just like that, they were gone. Out through the window, into the light, and onto the guava tree.
Back to work. Back to saving the world, one flower at a time.

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🌱 Why This Matters—To You, Me, and Everyone Who Eats

Bees don’t just make honey.
They make life happen.

Over 75% of the food we eat relies on pollinators like them. Fruits. Vegetables. Even coffee.

In India, we’re lucky to have native bees like the Indian honeybee (Apis cerana indica)—hardy, humble, and used to our ways.
Then there’s the stingless bee, tiny and gentle but mighty in pollination.
And the rock bee (Apis dorsata)—wild, strong, and fierce, nesting high on cliffs and tall trees.

But they’re disappearing. Quietly. Rapidly.

And the world is barely noticing.

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🌻 What Can We Do? (It’s Simpler Than You Think)

• 🌼 Plant more flowers. Native ones. Ones bees love.
• 🚫 Avoid harmful pesticides. Even better, go organic.
• 🍯 Buy local honey. Support your neighborhood beekeepers.
• 🐝 Teach kids about bees. Let them grow up buzzing with awareness.

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💛 A Final Thought

That day, I didn’t just meet three bees.
I reconnected with a part of myself.
A boy who once held a queen bee in his hand. A boy who watched life fly. And die.

Maybe those bees were messengers. Maybe memories. Maybe both.
But one thing I know for sure—
When bees come calling, listen. They carry stories, and warnings… and hope.

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TIME: Between a Hi and a Goodbye

                          TIME: Between a Hi and a Goodbye

AI Generated

It was one of those days—quiet, reflective, and somewhat blank. You sit, fingers poised above the keyboard, waiting for inspiration to strike, but your mind feels like a paused clock. Ideas that once flowed freely now seem to have taken a long vacation.

And when that happens, there's only one place I turn to: my archive of old thoughts, scribbles, half-written poems, and emotional outbursts frozen in words. On this particular day, I found something special—something I wrote back in 2013.

It was raw, hesitant, and deeply personal. At that time, I was unsure whether to even share it. The introvert in me whispered, “Why risk the judgment?” The perfectionist in me muttered, “It’s not good enough.” And the self-doubter asked, “Who’ll even read this?”

But another voice—one that has grown louder over the years—answered, “Why not?”

If someone reads it and smiles, isn’t that worth it?
If someone sees their own reflection in my words, haven’t I connected?
If I am not here one day, and these words remain, won’t they keep me alive in a way?

So here it is. The poem I wrote on an ordinary workday in 2013, when I dared to be different for a moment:

TIME

TIME to say HI
TIME to say GOODBYE
TIME we live in between HI to BYE
is just a TIME… that goes like a blink of an EYE.

TIME we came to the earth,
Till the TIME we stand by our own,
TIME we stand to walk, till we run full grown.

TIME we cross teenage to reach Adulthood,
TIME we grow, still searching for “what is good?”

TIME we pause and think…
“What have I achieved?”
“What have I made?”
“What should I have done?”

TIME and AGAIN, the “WHAT I” questions return...
And by the TIME “WHAT I” finds answers,
TIME whispers — “Your TIME is up… Please pack, and move on.”

GOODBYE...

TIME moves on.
TIME moves on...
But the “I”… is gone.

The Meaning Behind the Poem

At first glance, you may ask — Why so much about TIME? Why so repetitive? What is this really about?

Let me explain.

This poem is a metaphor for life. A life that begins with a simple “Hi” — the cry of a newborn. It then travels through milestones: walking, talking, playing, learning, failing, winning, loving, grieving… until one day, it ends with a “Goodbye.”

Everything we experience — childhood innocence, teenage rebellion, adult responsibilities — it all happens in the short blink that is life. Think of it: in the cosmic calendar, our entire life is less than a heartbeat. So what truly matters?

Not money. Not medals. Not promotions.
But memories. And moments. And meaning.

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“What Have I Done?” — A Story from the Mirror

Let me tell you a story that brings this thought home.

There was an elderly man named Murthy. He lived alone in a quiet house filled with old photographs and unsaid words. One day, a curious neighborhood boy visited him.

“Uncle, what do you do the whole day?” the boy asked.

Murthy smiled. “I talk to time.”

The boy frowned. “Huh?”

Murthy walked to a shelf and picked up an old black-and-white photo.

“This,” he said, “is me when I graduated top of my class.”

He then pointed to another. “This was when I met the love of my life. We danced in the rain that day.”

Photo after photo, he described memories — some joyful, some painful, but all real.

The boy, still confused, asked, “So you don’t feel bored? Living alone?”

Murthy looked at the clock and replied, “I’ve lived so much that now, I just sit and remember. That’s enough.”

The boy didn’t understand it fully then, but years later, when he stood at Murthy’s empty house after his passing, he whispered, “Now I get it.”

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What Is the “What I” Moment?

We all, at some point, confront that silent self-inquiry:

• What have I achieved?

• What legacy will I leave behind?

• What did I miss chasing things that didn’t matter?

And the irony is, many find answers when time is no longer a luxury. When youth fades. When ambition dims. When silence is no longer peaceful but deafening.

We run behind goals, fame, promotions, and numbers. But in the end, all we truly leave behind is a story.

Your story is your "What I" moment.

So write it well.

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Everyone’s Timeline Is Different

Some people achieve greatness at 21. Others bloom at 60. Some support from behind the curtain. Some shine in the spotlight. But no role is smaller than the other.

Think of a movie. The hero may steal the screen, but it’s the supporting cast, the crew, the writer, the editor — all working in tandem — who make the story meaningful.

That’s life. You may not always be the star, but your part is vital.

Even if you only light one lamp in someone’s darkness, you’ve mattered.

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Why I Finally Shared This

Back in 2013, I never imagined that I would write blogs or tell stories. I had doubts about my English. I worried if people would laugh at my thoughts. I feared that I’d be labeled too emotional or too abstract.

But over the years, I realized: words are not for validation, they are for expression.

One blog may not change the world.
But it might change someone's world.

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TIME… and Legacy

Someday, I may not be here. That’s just reality.
But if someone reads these blogs years later, and smiles — that’s my legacy.
If someone says, “This reminded me of my childhood,” — I’ve succeeded.
If someone wipes a tear or bursts into laughter — I’ve lived, truly.

Your digital words might outlive your physical presence.

So write. Share. Express. Speak.
Because Time is listening.

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Final Thoughts: Your TIME Is Now

If you're reading this today, pause for a moment.

Look at your life.

Ask yourself: What have I done that truly mattered?

Don't wait for the perfect time to start something. There's no such thing.
Start with broken words. Hesitant steps. Unpolished emotions.
Start anyway.

Because someday, your “Hi” will meet its “Goodbye.”
And in between, make it count.

Let your memories outlive you.
Let your moments become someone else’s meaning.
Let your TIME… be remembered.

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The Chew-Chew Alarm: A Sparrow's Whisper from the Past

 The Chew-Chew Alarm: A Sparrow's Whisper                                   from the Past

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Why does this fellow always go back to the past? Why can’t he just stick to the present?
Fair question. But if you’ve read my blogs, you already know—I believe in time-traveling through memories. The past gives meaning to the present and shows the way to the future. This is not just nostalgia—it's a preservation of soul.

So, let me take you back.

🌳 Flashback: Where Trees Had Names and Birds Had                        Appointments

In front of our small workshop stood two young trees—planted by my father and watered by time. One was a Sampige tree, the other a Copper Pod. Just like me, they grew tall and strong. Over the years, they became our shop's identity.

"Take a right and behind those two big trees is our shop"—that’s how everyone found our place.

Those trees weren't just green umbrellas—they were bird condominiums. Every branch, leaf, and nook housed little nests. And among all the chirping tenants, one little bird ruled the morning routine—the Sparrow.

Every morning, just before my father rolled up the shop shutter, a flurry of tiny wings and familiar chew-chew-chew echoed through the air. Sparrows—like clockwork—would arrive. Waiting. Chirping. Watching. And my father’s first duty? Not the customers, not the machines. It was placing a handful of rice or wheat at the threshold—his daily offering to the sparrow gods.

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🐦 The Bird That Became Background Noise… and Then Vanished

Before smartphones became alarms, sparrows were our natural timekeepers. At 8:30 AM sharp, they'd be there. At 5:30 PM, they'd quietly fade into the trees.

But where are they now?

Gone. Not completely, but barely here. Vanished into the cracks of our growing cities. Smothered by glass buildings, pesticides, and a life too fast for fragile wings.

What breaks me is—children today may grow up without ever hearing a real sparrow call.

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📍 A Sparrow’s Voice from the Sky

That moment—caught in slow traffic while heading to Isha Foundation, Chikkaballapur—I saw them.

Two sparrows. Hopping and fluttering near a roadside house, just left of the highway.

I slowed down. Time slowed down.

And then—I heard them speak.

Sparrow 1:
"Do you remember this place? I think we nested here once… before the wires and the noise."

Sparrow 2:
"I remember. That balcony had old rice grains, the kids used to giggle and run behind us."

Sparrow 1:
"Most of them have flown far—some gone forever. But today, the wind smells like home again."

Sparrow 2:
"Do you think anyone remembers us?"

Sparrow 1:
"Someone just looked at us like we were magic… maybe that’s enough."

Two little birds.
A small moment.
But for me—it was a time machine with wings.

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🏠 More Than Just Birds: A Part of Our Home

The sparrows weren’t just birds. They were unofficial members of our household. I remember sitting on the wooden bench in-front of the shop, wiping my school shoes while watching them hop between fallen leaves. Their sound wasn’t just noise—it was rhythm. Background music to my childhood.

When Amma brought out the rice to dry in the sun, it would become an open buffet for sparrows. No one shooed them away. It was as if they had a right. A tiny one—but respected nonetheless. Their presence meant life. Meant continuity.

🏫 A School Bell in Feathers

In those pre-digital days, there were no phones to check the time. The sun, the rooster, and the sparrow were our daily planners. I remember rushing through my breakfast when the morning chirps intensified—an unofficial signal that it was time to get ready. They were our chew-chew bell that echoed louder than any school siren.

Even at school, we saw them nesting under roof tiles or hidden behind the creaky blackboard in old classrooms. Sometimes, a sudden flutter during silent reading hour would bring a smile across the class. Little joys, unrecorded but unforgettable.

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🏙️ A Present Without Them

Today, in these glass-walled apartments and air-conditioned classrooms, their absence echoes louder than their calls ever did.

Kids now wake up to phone alarms, not feathered ones. They scroll videos of birds they've never seen outside a screen. A sparrow isn’t just vanishing from our cities—it’s slowly disappearing from our childhoods. From memory itself.

That scares me more than I can explain.

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🤝 A Chance for Coexistence

Maybe it’s not too late. Maybe if we plant the right bushes, leave a bowl of water, and stop spraying away every insect, they might return.

Sparrows don’t need five-star birdhouses. Just a crevice, a quiet corner, and a seed or two.

We’ve built towers for ourselves—maybe it’s time we left a branch for them.

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🔍 Know the Sparrow, Save the Sparrow

🐤 Sparrow Facts	📌 Details
Name	House Sparrow (Goraiya / Kuruvi / Chirya / Gubbachi)
Size	Around 16 cm, 30-40 grams
Appearance	Brown with grey/black (males), light brown (females)
Diet	Seeds, grains, insects
Habitat	Urban rooftops, trees, building crevices
Behavior	Social, chirpy, lives in small flocks
Why Disappearing?	Pesticides, urbanization, fewer nesting spots
Cultural Value	Symbol of joy, family, and simplicity

🌱 The Final Chirp

Sparrows, once a symbol of simplicity, warmth, and routine, are now missing characters from the story of our mornings.
But maybe, just maybe, if we listen closely… they’re still whispering.

In the branches.
In the breeze.
In the memories we carry forward.

Because sometimes, the smallest wings carry the heaviest stories.

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Ma, Remember Our First Mobile?” — A Journey from Nokia 5110 to Today

Ma, Remember Our First Mobile?” — A Journey from Nokia                                                    5110 to Today

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"Ma, do you remember the first mobile we had?"

She looked up from her tea, a faint smile stretching across her face. “Of course! The Nokia one your uncle brought… 5110, right? That was something, wasn’t it?”

And just like that, we were back in 2002. A summer that changed everything.

A Pager World & Wide-Eyed Dreams

Back then, having a mobile phone was like owning magic. We’d look at people with pagers or bulky mobile sets in their pockets and wonder, “How does it work? Can they talk to anyone from anywhere?”

We were a below-middle-class family, trying to stay afloat in the tide of life. Every small thing was a big achievement. And a mobile phone? That was prestige.

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The Call That Changed It All

In our family, my uncle—the youngest among my mother’s brothers—was the first to own a mobile phone. He lived in New Delhi, where trends came early. My mother always called him her son despite being his elder, often saying, “He’s more like my child than my brother.”

So when my mother shyly requested him to get us a mobile, he didn’t hesitate. That summer, he returned home—tired from the journey, arriving late at night. We were half-asleep, unaware that something iconic had just entered our home.

The next morning, he handed my mother a box—inside it, the Nokia 5110.

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Assembling Happiness: The Nokia 5110 Era

It wasn’t just a phone. It was hope with a keypad. I still remember the way he clicked the battery into place, the screen lighting up, and that legendary Nokia startup tone.

And of course, it came with the one game that ruled all games—Snake. A pixelated snake that grew longer with every bite, just like our pride. We fought for our turns, played till the battery ran low, and bragged about high scores.

The phone had a monochrome 84x48 pixel display, a rugged body, and a battery that could last days. It was indestructible—just like the joy it brought us.

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SIM: The Real Boss Fight

But the phone was just part one of the mission. We needed a SIM card—and back then, that was a journey in itself. Long queues, paperwork, ID proofs, and anxious waiting. When we finally slid that SIM into the phone and saw those signal bars—it felt like we were now truly connected to the world.

AI Generated

A Network of Love

In truth, that mobile was powered not just by battery and signal—but by love. My uncles were the pillars who held us up. My parents gave us everything despite hardships. That phone stood as a symbol of that united strength.

It wasn’t just about calling someone. It was about feeling seen, included, and empowered.

AI Generated

From Nokia to Motorola: My First Earning, My First Gifting

Years later, when I started earning, I bought my first phone: the Motorola C168. It was a modest GSM handset with a 128x128 STN color display, FM radio, and a joy of its own. Sleek for its time, it made me feel like I’d stepped into adulthood.

And I didn’t stop there—I bought my mother a Reliance CDMA mobile. That moment, giving back even in the smallest way, was my personal milestone.

AI Generated

India’s Mobile Revolution: Then to Now

• 1995 – India’s first mobile call is made.

• Late '90s – Phones like the 5110 become aspirational.

• 2000s – Prepaid connections open the gates for the masses.

• 2010s – The smartphone boom begins.

• Today – With 1.2+ billion mobile users, India is one of the largest mobile markets in the world.

AI Generated

Final Ring

The Nokia 5110 may now be a collector’s item, but for us, it was the start of something extraordinary. A small device that carried within it the dreams of a struggling family, the generosity of a brother, and the love of a mother.

So, Ma, yes—I do remember our first mobile. And I always will.

AI Generated

AI Generated

💬 What’s Your First Mobile Story?

We all have that one moment—the first time we held a mobile phone, made a call, played Snake, or received a message that changed everything.
Do you remember your first mobile?
Who brought it home? Was it a big deal like ours?

📝 I’d love to hear your story.
Drop it in the comments—anonymously or with your name. Every shared memory keeps these stories alive.

💡 Let’s Keep the Conversation Going:

• Share this with someone who once owned a Nokia 5110.

• Leave a comment—your memory matters.

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