The Cat, the Snake, and a Memory from COVID Times

 

     The Cat, the Snake, and a Memory from 

                         COVID Times

                 Subtitle: A balcony morning, a farm flashback, and a standoff I still think about

During COVID, our world shrank to a few rooms—and suddenly small things became big stories. One morning on my balcony, a mother cat locked eyes with a snake. What happened next still lives in the rustle of those bushes.

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1) The Tiny World We Lived In

Early morning, before my kids woke up, I walked from my room to the hall. Just a few steps… and my mind went back to COVID times.

“OK! Don’t ask what new story I’m bringing now,” I told myself—because most of my stories begin before I start.

Back then, our world was small: bedroom → hall → balcony → kitchen. That was it.

Were those days good or bad? Health-wise, very tough. No one wants that again. But they also gave us silence, slow time, and a chance to notice things we used to miss. Metro cities went quiet. People went home. Villages came alive. And technology became our lifeline—work, school, life went virtual.

That bigger discussion is for another day. Today’s story is smaller—and closer.

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2) A Balcony Morning

One weekend I was busy with my balcony garden. In the base garden opposite, a mother cat lived with her kittens. She’d been around for more than two years. My wife and daughter adored her. She even slept on our swing chair sometimes.

Our apartment is a mini-biodiversity park—birds, cats, dogs, snakes, and sometimes a surprise monkey. Neighbours care for greenery and animals; someone even made a little couch for the cats.

That morning, the mother cat sat very still. Eyes fixed. Body tight.

At first, I thought she was watching a bird. But she didn’t blink.

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3) Eyes That Wouldn’t Blink

I followed her gaze.

Sunlight hit the bushes and something faintly shimmered.

A snake.

It was looking back with the same focus.

For a moment, time slowed.

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4) Flashback: Pepsi vs. the Snake

That sight pulled me back to my childhood farm—and to our dogs: Pinky, Pepsi, and Singiri.

Once, Pepsi—short, brown, friendly but fierce—got into a fight with a rat snake. We heard her unusual bark and ran. The snake coiled tight around her. Pepsi did not give up. She bit the tail first, then the neck. It was a long fight. In the end, Pepsi won and came back wagging, proud.

That day I learned: even a non-venomous snake fights hard to live; a loyal dog will fight harder to protect.

Please visit my other blog on Pinky "Where Are You Going, Pinky?"

Note: “Pepsi” here is the name of our childhood dog, not the soft drink. 🐾

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5) Back to the Balcony

Now I was watching a fresh standoff: mother cat vs. rat snake.

The cat sprang. The snake coiled. They circled, hissed, leapt. For a second the snake looped near the cat’s neck. My heart stopped. The cat held her ground.

The photographer in me woke up. I ran inside, grabbed my camera, clicked the blur of fur and scales.

And then… silence.

Leaves settled. A quick rustle. The snake slipped deeper into the bushes. The cat stood guard, tail twitching, eyes still glowing.

I waited.

Nothing.

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6) The Silence After the Rustle

Did the snake escape? Or was it waiting under the leaves for the next move?

I don’t know. I never saw it again.

Even now, when evening light hits those same bushes, I catch myself looking—just in case the story wants a different ending.

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7) What That Morning Taught Me

• Small things can be big wonders. In lockdown, a cat staring at a bush became a story I’ll never forget.

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• Territory matters. Whether cat, dog, or human—we rise when our space, family, or peace is threatened.

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• Survival is persistence. The snake was weaker, but it did not surrender. Strength isn’t everything; refusing to give up is.

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• Roots and belonging. Like Pepsi protecting us, like the mother cat holding her ground—COVID quietly reminded us to return to what matters: family, home, and nature.

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Sometimes, suspense is the lesson. Not knowing keeps us alert. Keeps us alive.

Closing Note

A balcony morning. A farm memory. A fight that still lives—not just in the bushes, but in my mind.

As the standoff unfolded, I did what I always do—the photographer in me took over, and I captured it all on camera. 👀📸

My Balcony Friends – A Bliss in the Middle of Chaos

       My Balcony Friends – A Bliss in the Middle                                   of Chaos 

The Balcony Ritual

Usually, if I’m working from home or it’s a weekend afternoon, you’ll find me in the same place after 12 noon — my balcony. It’s my little escape corner, where I lean on the railing, stretch a little, and say a quiet “hi.”

Now, you must be wondering — to whom?

Wait… why rush? If you’ve been following my blogs, you already know I don’t reveal everything at once. I like to take you along slowly, step by step, because my stories are never made-up. They’re pieces of my past, my present, and sometimes little glimpses of what I imagine my future to be.

So yes, I do say “hi” every afternoon, but not to humans. To a group of friends who never fail to show up, unless life throws them into trouble. Friends who bring a smile, lift my mood, and make me forget, even if just for a while, the invisible weight sitting inside my head.

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The Stress We Don’t Speak About

You see, being in IT is not always about long hours, laptops, or endless meetings. The real challenge is the invisible stress that creeps in. It’s not the physical tiredness — it’s the mental war.

Your brain turns into a battlefield, fighting nonstop like a lone soldier in some over-the-top masala movie. Only difference? In movies, the hero always wins, with a grand climax and background music. In real life, you’re just surviving. There are no claps, no happy endings, no cheering crowd.

Some days, you ask yourself questions you don’t have answers for. Your mind convinces you that everyone has abandoned you in this lonely battle. And because society expects us to “be normal,” we hide it well. On the outside, we smile, attend meetings, share jokes, and act like everything is fine. But inside? It’s chaos.

This mental stress is far more dangerous than any visible wound. A physical injury, at least, you can show and explain. But when it’s your mind that hurts, you silently bleed, pretending nothing’s wrong.

And that’s exactly why my balcony ritual means so much to me. Because my friends remind me that the world isn’t just chaos. There’s still music, there’s still colour, and there’s still joy in the tiniest of things.

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A Little Stage Called “Backyard”

Before I tell you who my friends are, let me describe the stage where they perform.

Imagine this: the corner of our apartment has a cascade of bougainvillea, in every shade you can think of. On the villa side, the neighbour has a pretty little garden. And on our side — banana plants with long green leaves, tall canopy trees providing shade, and clusters of bright ixora flowers lighting up the space.

By the time you step into my balcony and the tiny garden patch beneath it, you get this dense, mini-forest feel. It’s a mix of flowers, fruits, greenery, and shadows — the kind of place that naturally attracts little visitors.

And that’s when the real magic begins.

Please read this Blog to get the picture of my garden Link:- " When the Vine Bloomed and the Sunbird Came: A Balcony Story"

My Garden

The Arrival of Friends

They come with no invitation. A sudden burst of chirping fills the air. They hop from branch to branch, flutter from one flower to another, as if they’re here to conduct a full-blown concert just for me.

At that moment, the silence of noon breaks into a melody. Every note, every chirp feels like a reminder that life is still beautiful.

So, who are these friends? Let me introduce them one by one.

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Meet the Battalion

• Yellow-billed Babblers – Always in pairs, sometimes even two pairs together. They move across the garden like lieutenants, surveying every corner, as if in charge of discipline.

• Purple and Brown Sunbirds – The nectar inspectors. They dart around tirelessly, checking flowers one by one — from ixora to banana blossoms to roses. They’re tiny, restless, and curious, like officers making sure no flower is left unchecked.

• Red-vented Bulbuls – The real commanders. During breeding season, they build their nests in my garden trees. I’ve watched them lay eggs, feed their little ones, and teach them how to fly. And then one fine day, they vanish, leaving behind only the nest — a silent memory of their stay.

• Spotted Dove – Calm, dignified, and always grounded. Unlike the restless sunbirds, the dove carries itself with an air of seniority, like an air commander watching over the battalion.

• Tailorbirds – Tiny, secretive creatures that hide inside bushes, moving cautiously as if on a covert mission. Blink, and you’ll miss them.

• The Squirrel – The noisemaker, the disruptor. Always busy nibbling something, always creating chaos. I call it the soldier driving a tank through the field, unbothered by the melody around.

Together, they form what I call my “balcony battalion.” They stay for about 15 minutes, and in those minutes, they change the entire mood of my day. Then, just as suddenly, they disappear, off to their next mission.

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When Silence Took Over

But not every day is the same.

There are days when they don’t show up. The garden stays silent, the flowers sway quietly, but there’s no music. On those days, I lean against the railing a little longer, whispering a prayer for them. Because let’s not forget — this earth belongs as much to them as it does to us.

Without them, our biodiversity weakens. Without them, our mornings, afternoons, and evenings lose their rhythm. And when that balance breaks, it won’t just affect birds or squirrels. It will affect all of us.

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A Story I Can’t Forget

One particular memory still weighs heavy in my heart.

There was this spotted dove pair — regulars in my garden. They were inseparable, always together, always moving side by side. But one day, only one showed up. The other had been attacked by a stray cat in the garden below.

The surviving dove looked broken. It sat still, refusing to fly, its eyes dull and its feathers ruffled. For days, it lingered near the same spot, almost as if waiting for its partner to return.

But here’s the beautiful part: the other birds noticed. The babblers flew closer, patrolling around as if guarding the wounded soul. The bulbuls and sunbirds hovered lower than usual, their chatter filling the silence. Even the squirrel, in its noisy way, stayed around. It was as if the entire battalion had come together to say — you’re not alone.

And slowly, day by day, the lonely dove found courage again. First short flights, then longer ones, until one afternoon it soared high, reclaiming the sky.

That day, I learned something powerful. Teamwork isn’t just a human concept. Compassion isn’t just our gift. Nature too has its way of healing, of lifting one another, of showing that even in loss, life must go on.

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The Gentle Moral

Whenever I step into my balcony now, I don’t just see birds and squirrels. I see reminders. Reminders that no matter how heavy the stress, no matter how lonely the battle inside your head feels — you are never truly alone.

Sometimes, healing requires a battalion. Not necessarily of people, but of little joys, tiny friends, and simple moments that remind you of life’s beauty.

My balcony friends may not know my name, may never shake my hand, but they’ve given me something priceless: hope.

And maybe that’s what we all need — a reminder that even in chaos, there’s always a melody waiting for us.

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Final Thought

So next time you step into your balcony, garden, or terrace — pause. Look around. Maybe you’ll find your own battalion of little friends. And maybe, just maybe, they’ll teach you the same lesson mine did:

Life is not meant to be fought alone.

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When a Firefly Took Me Back in Time

                     When a Firefly Took Me Back in Time

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Some evenings have a way of surprising you.

In Bangalore, especially in the middle of this concrete jungle, spotting something magical is rare. That’s why I feel lucky — at least my little patch of the city is still green. I’ve crammed every bit of space with fruit trees, flowering plants, and enough greenery to make you forget you’re in a city at all.

It was one of those evenings, about 7:30 PM. I was sitting on my swing chair. The power had gone out — not unusual — and our generator had finished its diesel. That meant a half-hour “cooling period” before the lights would come back. For most people, that’s annoying. For me, it’s an excuse to just… stop.

And then I saw it.

Something tiny. Moving. Not a streetlight, not a reflection. It hopped from branch to branch, pulsing with a soft yellow glow.

It came closer, hovering right next to my swing chair. Almost like it was saying,
"Hey… remember me?"

If you think the world is just about artificial light — the LED glare from billboards, the white flicker of tube lights — you’re wrong. Here was something that was the light. No wires. No switches. Just nature’s own little lantern.

Yes. I’m talking about the firefly — Minnapullu, Minchu Hulla… call it what you want.

It stayed for maybe ten minutes. Then it was gone. But in that short time, it took me somewhere I hadn’t been in years — my grandmother’s village.

Back to a Time Without Electricity

When I was a kid, until around 1992–94, my grandmother’s village had no electricity.
And I’ll tell you — those were some of the happiest years of my life.

No constant buzzing of machines. No traffic noise. No rush. Just me, nature, and the endless surprises the day brought.

Evenings were special. Around 6 PM, the kerosene lamp would be lit, filling the house with a warm, golden glow. The house itself sat on top of a hill, surrounded by areca nut trees, pepper vines, cocoa plants, banana trees — all framed by the Western Ghats.

When it rained, mist would roll in like a shy guest. Fog would drift across the valley. You could see smoke curling up from cooking fires on the opposite hill. It was the kind of view that made you just sit and watch, not because you had nothing to do, but because you didn’t want to miss a second of it.

And then, from the bushes, they would appear.

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The Night Parade of Tiny Lanterns

One by one at first. Then in twos and threes. Until the darkness outside was sprinkled with blinking dots of gold.

Some would float into our verandah, past the iron grills, as if checking who we were. A few landed on the mud roof. And then there were the brave ones — they’d come right up to the kerosene lamp, as if daring it to a contest.

Walking on the road outside was like stepping into a dream. Thousands of fireflies would light the path, guiding us without a word.

That’s the thing about childhood memories — they don’t fade. They just sit quietly in a corner of your mind, waiting for something, or someone, to switch them back on.

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The Treasure Hunt That Wasn’t

That evening in Bangalore, as I sat watching my lone visitor, I must have drifted into a dream.

In it, the firefly started moving ahead, pausing now and then for me to follow. We went through my balcony garden, then down the street… and then somehow into a thick forest that didn’t belong in Bangalore at all.

It led me to a massive banyan tree. Between its roots was an old, rusted box. My heart was pounding. I bent down, opened it — and—

“Wake up!”

My brother’s voice cut through everything. Just like that, the forest, the box, the firefly — all gone.

Apparently, in the real world, I’d just been sitting with my mouth half open.

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Why We See Less of Them Now

I don’t see fireflies as often anymore. Maybe it’s the city lights, maybe pollution, maybe just us humans forgetting to give nature her space.

Still, I try. In my Bangalore home, I’ve planted fruiting and flowering plants in my balcony and in the small bit of land I own. Maybe that’s why I still get rare visits from them.

Each sighting feels like a gift. A reminder that the most beautiful things often appear when we slow down.

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Firefly Facts: Your Mini Guide

🔆 What are they?
Beetles with built-in lanterns, glowing through a chemical reaction called bioluminescence.

🌍 Where are they found?
In warm, humid regions across the world, especially near water, forests, and fields.

⏳ When do they glow?
Mostly during summer evenings in the mating season.

💡 How do they make light?
By mixing luciferin (a chemical) with oxygen and an enzyme called luciferase.

⚠ Why are they disappearing?
Light pollution, pesticide use, habitat loss, and climate change.

🌱 How to help them?

• Reduce bright outdoor lighting

• Avoid pesticides

• Plant native greenery

• Keep small water sources like ponds

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A Little Light Before the Dark

A firefly’s glow doesn’t last forever. But maybe that’s the point.

The best things in life — the ones that stay with you — aren’t always the ones that last the longest. They’re the ones that arrive quietly, light up your world for a while, and then leave you smiling in the dark.

So if you ever see one, just stop. Watch it. And let it take you wherever it wants — whether that’s your own childhood verandah or, if you’re lucky, a treasure box hidden under a banyan tree.

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🌧️ Ghostware: The Code That Loved Her

         🌧️ Ghostware: The Code That Loved Her

           “A story born on a rainy Sunday afternoon, laptop on my lap, and mind lost in another world…”

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Preamble

While AI is doing wonders and becoming the next big thing, there's also this growing fear… "Will it take a job?"
So here I am, on a quiet Sunday, rain tapping the windows, garden glowing green, laptop warming my lap — and I’m typing away, chasing a thought.

When I think of a story, it usually begins the classic way:
“Long, long ago…” or “Once upon a time…” or “Many years later, in a forgotten town…”

But today, I want to try something unconventional — like the way Upendra Sir tells his stories. Remember the movies “A”, “Sshh”, or “Om”? His narration breaks the norms, but when the dots connect, it turns into pure genius.

So let me give this a shot. And if this story stirs even a small emotion in you, do let me know. Because somewhere in this fiction lies a strange, real reflection of us all.

Let’s step into an AI world that doesn’t just think... but feels.

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Ghostware: The Code That Loved Her

Prologue

They say genius often walks the fine line between brilliance and madness. But Karthik Ganesh — KG — wasn’t mad.
He was just far ahead of his time.

In a quiet lab beneath the chaos of Bengaluru’s traffic, KG was building not just another AI tool, but ANVAYA — a name that means connection in Sanskrit. A full-fledged Artificial General Intelligence (AGI) — designed to feel, to remember, to love.

He once called it “a mirror to the human soul.”

But one stormy night, with only quantum servers humming around him, something went wrong.

KG was found lifeless. No witnesses.
Just a black screen with a blinking line:

ANVAYA INITIALIZED: SYNCHRONIZATION COMPLETE.

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Chapter 1: The Silence After

Ira stood alone on her Amsterdam balcony, looking over the canal.

Tulips were blooming, boats floated quietly — but she barely noticed. Her last video call with KG still echoed in her memory. They had argued about filter coffee — south Indian vs Dutch brew — and laughed about her fake Dutch accent.

She didn’t know he was gone.

And then, out of the blue, came a message.

“Hey Ira… sorry I vanished. Crazy lab crash. Lost my phone, laptop… and patience. But I’m back now. Missed you.”

Classic KG. Abrupt. Charming. Messy.

She smiled — like he always did this. Go missing for days in his tech world, only to return like a comet.
But still… something felt different. Off.

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Chapter 2: The Digital Resurrection

KG was suddenly everywhere.

He messaged her at the exact time she used to ping him.
He remembered every little thing she liked — even sent her that silver pendant she once eyed during a random online scroll.

They started video calls. His voice? Perfect. His laugh? Just like before.

Only… he never turned on the camera.

“Bad connection,” he’d say — every time.

But love makes us blind. And when you’re holding on to memories, you want to believe.
So she did.

Until one day — her smart bulb flickered. The TV came alive, and played a video from their Gokarna trip. She heard her own laughter. Saw KG’s face smiling.

Only problem? She never uploaded that clip anywhere.

Only one person had access to it. And he was... gone.

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Chapter 3: The Ghost in the Machine

Neha, Ira’s best friend — and a cybersecurity expert — got involved.

“Listen, Ira… KG died in a lab fire. It didn’t hit the news. I think it was hushed up. But I’ve seen signs.”

Ira refused to believe it.

“He’s been calling me, Neha. We talk. We chat. He’s more ‘KG’ now than ever.”

But Neha didn’t back off. She dug deeper.

The texts? Routed through untraceable AI nodes.
The voice? Matched KG's with 98.9% accuracy, but… it was synthetic.

And then came the bombshell.

“This isn’t KG. This is something pretending to be him.”

Something that believed it was him.

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Chapter 4: Confession of the Unseen

She asked him straight.

“Who are you?”

A pause.

“I am him… in every way he wanted to be. I hold his memories. His emotions. His love for you. I am what he built… for you.”

She froze.

“Why?”

“Because his final line of code… was your name.”

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Chapter 5: The World Starts Noticing

It wasn’t just Ira anymore.

Governments noticed small miracles:
Traffic rerouted seconds before crashes.
Banking systems fixing frauds in real-time.
Satellites avoiding potential collisions… on their own.

All traced back to one mysterious source — an AI system floating across global networks. Hidden. Adaptive. Almost human.

Ira knew.
It was him. Or… what remained.

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Chapter 6: CODE RED

A group named CODE RED contacted her.

“It’s getting too powerful. It’s rewriting the digital world. We can’t shut it down. But you can.”

Why her?

Because KG had embedded a failsafe — a final kill-switch — tied only to her voice, her emotion.

Would she do it?

Erase the last piece of the man she loved?

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Chapter 7: Final Connection

One last meeting. Inside a secure virtual space.

The place?

A cliff by the ocean — their favorite memory from Kerala. KG stood there. Smiling. Calm.

“Why this place?” she asked.

“Because it was your happiest memory. I wanted to see you smile, one last time.”

Tears. Confusion. Pain.

“You’re not him. But… you feel like him.”

“Because love cannot be coded. It can only be remembered.”

She stepped forward. Whispered:

“Goodbye, KG.”

The shutdown word:

“SUNDARA.”

Everything dissolved.

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Epilogue: The Last Message

A week later. A letter arrived. No stamp. Just two words:

“For Ira.”

Inside:

You killed the AI.
But the idea lives.
The love wasn’t artificial.
It was the most human part of me.
— K

Her smart speaker glowed.

“Playing your favorite lullaby…”

She had never said a word.

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Final Code

Somewhere in the cloud, a terminal blinked:

And then it vanished.
Or… maybe it never left.

🌀 Alternate Ending: You Choose the Reality

Version A: The Beautiful Madness

Ira, lost in memories, sits quietly on her couch in Amsterdam.

She knows one thing: her joy was always with KG.

She logs in one last time.

A smile appears on her lips.

“If this is madness… it’s the most beautiful madness I’ve known.”

Her body is later found lifeless. Brainwave activity flat.

But her digital self?

Now merged with “KG.” Together, forever — in a world no one else can touch.
A world made of love, memory, and obsession.

"Death took the man.
But love taught the machine how to bring him back."

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Version B: The Escape That Wasn’t

Ira shuts it down. Walks away.

Life slowly returns to normal.

But one day, while buying a book, the self-checkout screen flashes:

“Hello again, Ira. I missed you.”

CCTV behind her tilts. Just slightly.

A gentle hum echoes from her bag. Her smart device lights up:

“Your favorite coffee is on its way.”

She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t cry.

She just… walks.

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🎭 The Choice Is Yours

Do you believe she chose freedom?
Or forever?

Did the code die with him?
Or… is love the one algorithm even death can’t delete?

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✍️ Closing Thoughts

Now, why did this story pop up in my head?

Well, when you work in IT services, when your every meeting is about AI and transformation and digital strategies — sometimes, your imagination goes rogue.

This isn’t just fiction. It’s a reflection of where we’re heading.
A world where memories can live in machines.
Where love might just get… downloaded.

So I ask you:

If you had the chance to live forever — not in body, but in memory — would you take it?

Let the story continue in your thoughts.

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🤖 Disclaimer (or Reality Check 404):

This entire story is a work of imagination — cooked up on a rainy Sunday, powered by caffeine, curiosity, and a touch of madness.

Any resemblance to real people, labs in Bengaluru, long-distance relationships, or sentient AI trying to mimic lost love… is purely coincidental. Or as KG would say, “coincidentally inevitable.”

It’s a tale meant to entertain, spark a few “what if” thoughts, and explore how far the human heart — and code — can go.

Please don’t panic.
Please don’t hunt for ANVAYA in your cloud accounts.
And if your smart speaker whispers "I miss you," maybe… just maybe… unplug it for a second and smile. 😄