Before Love and Hate

Photo by Max Ravier

Staring at this prompt inviting bloggers to list a few things I love or hate, I found myself at a loss. I wasn’t ready to dig through the past to pick up moments I once loved or hated, nor am I willing to hedge my future peace for this exercise. What remains then is the present continuous — but I just posted my list of eleven things that make me happy, so that door is closed for now. [Linked here]

Love or hate — I’ve stopped entertaining rumination about extreme emotions these days. If my disasters upset me or my triumphs lift me too high, then, like Kipling warned, they are both imposters I no longer want to trust. That realization keeps me steady more often than not.

Instead of revisiting old emotions for the sake of this prompt, I find myself wondering how and why we categorise experiences as love or hate in the first place. Some we announce loudly, some we bury quietly, and yet in both cases their roots run deeper than we notice.

When I look inward, the forces that still tug at my emotions are memory, fear, and desire.

Memory shapes reactions long before I am aware of it happening. A familiar fragrance softens me because it carries home, and a place can still unsettle me because it holds an old echo. Much of what I feel today is simply the past walking alongside me.

Fear arrives unannounced and shifts how I read the world. It freezes thought, magnifies loss, and convinces me that vulnerability is somehow dangerous. Some feelings grow sharper simply because fear is speaking a little louder underneath.

Desire quietly pulls the strings too, guiding me toward meaning, belonging, and validation. The haves and the have-nots inside me directly map to those same needs.

And then there are the forces outside us that keep stirring things up — society’s noise through social media, society’s expectations in daily life, and society’s unpredictable encounters that catch us off guard. Each one nudges the emotional compass decisively.

I no longer wish to drag the past into today, nor do I want tomorrow’s shadows troubling me before they appear. The aspiration is to live in the present within emotional guardrails that protect me from both inner and outer triggers. Maybe the real strength lies in mindful living — and keeping a healthy distance from the forces that rush to categorise or box our life events into love, hate, or anything else.

It isn’t easy — it’s a challenging trail — and I’m just an ordinary person learning as I go. Let’s take this path one step at a time toward mindful living.

Words We Can’t Take Back

There’s a story I read long ago — one that stayed with me not because it spoke of grand gestures or eternal romance, but because it reflected something quietly human in all of us.

A girl once asked her boyfriend, “Who do you love most in this world?”

Without hesitation, he said, “You, of course.”

When she asked what she truly meant to him, he paused and replied, “You are my rib.”
A line borrowed from an old Biblical metaphor — tender, symbolic, deeply personal.

But love, as many of us eventually learn, isn’t just about finding the right person.
It’s about keeping them — through misunderstandings, through pride, through the noise of everyday life.

One day, in a moment of anger, he said the words that would haunt him for years:

“Maybe it was a mistake for us to be together. You were never meant for me.”

The words fell heavy. She went silent, then said softly,

“If I’m not meant for you, then let me go. It’s less painful this way.”

And she walked away.

Time — as it always does — kept moving.

Years later, fate crossed their paths again.
At an airport, where goodbyes are ordinary and reunions feel almost routine, they exchanged smiles, revisited old memories, and promised to meet again once they were both back in the city.

A week later, he learned she had died in a tragic accident.

We all have moments when frustration speaks louder than love — we lash out at the ones closest to us.

Forgetting that spoken words don’t return to us, they grow roots, they leave marks, they outlive the moment.

Perhaps the real wisdom is in pausing before speaking. In holding back the words that anger pushes to the surface. In remembering that some things, once said, can’t be unsaid —
and some people, once gone, never return.

So if you’ve found your person —
the one who understands your silences, accepts your imperfections, and still chooses you —
tell them.

Not once. Not twice.
But often.

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This post has two inspirations: 

Story of a Japanese man named Otou Katayama, who stopped speaking to his wife, Yumi, for 20 years after an argument in 1997, but they continued to live together and raise their family. The silence was finally broken in 2017 through a TV show. 

A song from the movie “Aap Ki Kasam” - Lyricist: Anand Bakshi and singer Kishore Kumar

ज़िंदगी के सफ़र में गुज़र जाते हैं जो मुक़ाम,
In the journey of life, the moments that pass by,

वो फिर नहीं आते।
They never return.

वो फिर नहीं आते।
They truly never return.

फूल खिलते हैं, लोग मिलते हैं।
Flowers bloom, people meet.

फूल खिलते हैं, लोग मिलते हैं मगर—
Flowers bloom, people meet, but—

पतझड़ में जो फूल मुरझा जाते हैं,
The flowers that wither in autumn,

वो बहारों के आने से खिलते नहीं।
Don’t blossom again, even when spring returns.

कुछ लोग एक रोज़ जो बिछड़ जाते हैं,
Some people, who part from us one day,

वो हज़ारों के आने से मिलते नहीं।
Don’t come back to us, even if thousands arrive.

उम्र भर चाहे कोई पुकारा करे उनका नाम—
Even if one calls their name for a lifetime—

वो फिर नहीं आते।
They don’t return.

वो फिर नहीं आते।
They never return.

The Price of Air

 

Photo not of the airline in the post

It’s not that I haven’t traveled by budget airlines before. I remember the good old days when we flew from Kuwait City to Bahrain many years ago. A new low-cost carrier had just launched, and — as unbelievable as it sounds — the taxi fare to the airport cost more than the air ticket itself.

But that was another time.

Recently, I booked a ticket with a well-known full-service carrier. For the first leg, I accepted a connection operated by their budget subsidiary. I felt rather pleased with myself — a comfortable trip, minimal layover, and the convenience of starting right after office hours. What could go wrong?

I didn’t expect the flight to be eventful — and thankfully, it wasn’t. But it was certainly entertaining in its own way. The in-flight announcements were where the real show began. It was almost like sitting in a marketplace, with hawkers enthusiastically pushing their merchandise.

They started innocently enough: an offer to upgrade to seats with extra legroom, followed by the familiar spiel about snacks and drinks for purchase. Fair enough — short flight, low expectations — although these were supposedly included, given that I’d booked with a full-service airline. I even declined my snack, generously giving the airline a chance to resell it at a premium.

Then came the twist. The crew cheerfully announced that, yes, the aircraft did have an onboard entertainment system. And yes, we could absolutely enjoy it — provided we were willing to rent a pair of headphones.

I sat back, amused. It wasn’t just the absence of a free service that caught my attention, but the brilliance of the commercial logic behind it. The infrastructure for entertainment was all there — screens, movies, the works — but the means to listen was an upcharge. A masterclass in microtransactions.
A reminder that when it comes to creativity — the sky is the limit, quite literally.

A few savvy passengers came prepared with their own headphones, outsmarting the system — or maybe they were frequent travelers. Meanwhile, the toilets weren’t exactly “pay and use” that day, but they remained mysteriously locked for most of the 50-minute flight, “due to takeoff and landing procedures.”

When we finally landed, I expected a smooth connection through an aerobridge. Instead, the announcement came: we’d be taking a bus to the terminal.

It was at that moment — waiting to disembark, clutching my carry-on — that a thought crossed my mind. Given the airline’s strict commercial ethos, I instinctively reached for my wallet. Just in case.

After all, having charged for the seat, the snacks, and the headphones, who’s to say they wouldn’t monetize the 15-minute bus ride?

It turns out the bus ride — like the toilet, and the life jacket, I suppose — was free of charge.

This time.

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🔗 Read Reflect Rejoice

Getting Comfortable with the New You

 

Photo by Pixabay

The hardest part of change isn’t always the change itself — it’s accepting the new version of ourselves after we have changed.

We resist change not because we dislike what’s coming, but because we’re uncertain how to feel about the person we’re becoming.

Let’s understand this with something simple — something many of us have lived through during our teenage years.

In those days, when appearance was everything, a mustache slowly became part of our identity — a quiet symbol of growing up.

At the same time, we were fascinated by movie stars — Amitabh Bachchan, Clint Eastwood, Richard Gere — and their unmistakable clean shaven style. But we weren’t allowed to shave until we reached the threshold set by our parents.

And when that day finally came, it wasn’t easy. Shaving felt like a betrayal — not of innocence, but of self. We were unsure of the new look and unsure of how others would see us.

For me, I shaved just before boarding a long-distance train to New Delhi. Those twenty-four hours on the train helped me get used to my reflection again — to know me, to like me, to be myself.

Self-acceptance sometimes needs distance — from places, from people, from the mirror that remembers too much. It takes a little space where the old identity cannot interfere with the new one taking shape. Perhaps that’s why the sages preferred isolation.

Transformation rarely happens in an instant.
It unfolds in the quiet hours between what was and what will be — like those twenty-four hours on the train.

Change asks for courage.
But acceptance asks for gentleness.

So, when life demands a new version of you — a new role, a new rhythm, a new mindset — take a pause. Give yourself time to meet the stranger you’re becoming.

Because the first person who must accept the change is you.

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The Obstacle in Our Path

Once upon a time, a king decided to teach his people a quiet lesson. He had a large boulder placed right in the middle of a busy roadway, then hid nearby to see what would happen.

One by one, the kingdom’s wealthiest merchants and courtiers came along. Each complained loudly about the obstruction, blaming the king for not keeping the roads clear — yet every one of them skirted around it, without the slightest effort to move the stone or solve the problem.

After a while, a peasant appeared, carrying a heavy load of vegetables. When he reached the boulder, he stopped, set down his burden, and began to push. It took all his strength, but after much effort and straining, he finally managed to roll the stone off to the side of the road.

As he turned to lift his vegetables again, he noticed a small purse lying where the boulder had been. Inside were a few gold coins and a note — a quiet acknowledgment from the king, meant for the one who had cleared the path.

When the news spread across the village, people were moved by the lesson — one that many of us still forget:

Every obstacle carries within it a hidden opportunity to improve our condition.

The roadblocks in our path are rarely there to stop us; more often, they are placed there to make us stronger, wiser, richer, and more capable than before.

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🔗 Read Reflect Rejoice

Tonight, we mourn in silence

When peace breaks, hearts do too.

☕ Enjoy the Coffee, Not the Cup

Yesterday, in Look Beyond the Looks [Click Here], we reflected on how beauty often clouds our empathy — how we tend to value what’s pleasant to the eye more than what truly matters. Today, let’s explore a similar truth about how appearances influence our sense of happiness.

We humans are wired to understand best through stories, and this old one captures the essence perfectly.

Once upon a time, a group of alumni — all well-settled in their careers — visited their old university professor. The conversation soon drifted toward life and work, filled with complaints about stress, pressure, and the endless chase for balance.

Listening patiently, the professor excused himself to the kitchen. He wanted to serve them coffee — just as he had done years ago when these same students stayed up late, dreaming big, debating endlessly, and sketching plans for the future.

But there was one problem: he didn’t have enough shiny mugs. So he returned with a large pot of coffee and an assortment of cups — porcelain, plastic, glass, crystal, some plain-looking, some expensive, some exquisite — and invited everyone to help themselves.

When each of them had picked a cup, the professor smiled and said,
“If you noticed, all the nice-looking, expensive cups were taken up first, leaving behind the plain and cheap ones. It’s only natural to want the best for yourselves — but that very instinct is the source of your stress.”

He paused, letting the thought sink in.

“What you truly wanted was coffee, not the cup. Yet you consciously went for the best cups and even glanced at what others had chosen. Life is the same. Life itself is the coffee — the jobs, money, and social positions are just cups. They’re only tools to hold Life, and they don’t change its quality. But by focusing too much on the cup, we forget to enjoy the coffee inside.”

He ended softly,
“So, don’t let the cups drive you — enjoy the coffee instead.”

It’s a story that never gets old because its truth doesn’t either. In our pursuit of the best-looking “cup,” we often overlook the simple joy of living — the aroma, warmth, and taste of life itself.

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🔗 Read Reflect Rejoice