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Cracked Mirror

September had came to Pune, when the monsoon lingered like a guest reluctant to leave. The air was thick with dampness, the streets glistened under fading showers, and the smell of wet earth clung to everything. As a real estate consultant in early thirties, I had spent years convincing families that happiness could be measured in square feet and doors facing east.  My husband, Mihir Pandit, was a Chartered Accountant, meticulous and disciplined, with a wardrobe of neatly pressed shirts and a mind that thought in numbers. We lived in a spacious apartment in Kothrud, with French windows opening to Gulmohar trees washed clean by the rains. On paper, our lives were perfect. But little did I know that paper dissolves in water. My second miscarriage happened quietly, like a candle extinguished by a sudden gust. I remember the sterile smell of the hospital, the white walls that seemed to mock my grief, and Mihir’s hand gripping mine with a firmness that felt more like duty than comfort...
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Grace In The Ruins

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The coconut trees rustled gently in Alibaug's late October breeze, their shadows stretching across the sand like long, tired dancers bowing at the end of a performance. The air smelled of salt, damp earth, and the faint sweetness of overripe guavas. Irawati Sardesai... Ira for those close to her, sat on the veranda of her modest bungalow, sipping lemongrass tea from a ceramic cup with a faded peacock motif. The cup had a crack near the rim, but she liked it—it reminded her that beauty could survive damage. She had moved here three years ago, leaving behind a high-rise in Powai and career as a Leader at a leading media company. She had been good at her job—decisive, articulate, respected—but it had never been her soul’s calling. Kathak had always been her quiet rebellion, her secret language. Even now, at 58, with her best years behind her, there was something arresting about her presence. Her cheekbones still caught the light, her eyes still held stories, and her posture retain...
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The Kite And The String

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The chill of January in Pune was subtle, not the biting cold of Delhi or Shimla, but a gentler coolness that settled over the city like a shawl. The mornings carried a mist that lingered over the Mula-Mutha rivers, and evenings were filled with the scent of roasted corn sold by vendors outside Fergusson College. It was in this season that Professor Raghav Deshmukh, now in his early sixties, walked into the Oncology wing of Rashesh Multispeciality Hospital. His  cream-colored  kurta, slightly frayed at the edges was paired with a woolen Nehru jacket that had seen better days. He had been a philosopher at Pune University, known for his lectures on existentialism and Indian metaphysics, admired for his books that blended the Upanishadic thought with modern dilemmas. But today, he was not a teacher. He was a patient. The MRI results lay on the desk of Dr. Arvind Kulkarni, head of the palliative care unit. Arvind was a man of quiet authority, his salt-and-pepper hair always...
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