What’s the best advice you’d give to someone younger than you?
Spend more time with the people you love, especially your grandparents and parents. You never know how much time you have left to make memories with them. Don’t take the people you love or the good days for granted. One day, you’ll find yourself searching for that familiar voice, that laugh, and the advice that came from years of experience, and it won’t be there anymore.
And lastly life is too short to leave important words unsaid.
There will be a death in your life that stuns you. You will lose someone, and in that loss, you will feel as though you have lost everything that once made sense. Your future will crack open, every piece of it reshaped because someone you envisioned as such a large part of it is suddenly no longer there. You will think you know what grief is until the grief is yours, until it is a grief so personal that it changes the trajectory of your entire life. And it is in your lowest moments that you start seeing people for who they really are, when you are vulnerable, when you are weak, when you have nothing left to give. A big part of me has chosen distance. I hate social gatherings. I have no interest in being surrounded by people just for the sake of being surrounded. I would rather be with the few people who are genuinely close to me, somewhere quiet, somewhere there is nobody else. I value friends who do not judge me when I am upset, people who make an effort, who show up, and who remind me through their actions that I matter, especially on the days when I question it myself. Grief has made me more selective, not bitter. I simply have less interest in superficial connections and more appreciation for the people who are real, consistent, and present.
If you could rewrite any book’s ending, which one would you choose?
“The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing.”— Socrates
Honestly, I wouldn’t rewrite a book just to give it a happy ending. Happy endings can be comforting, but not every story should end with happiness, closure, or peace. Life rarely does. Stories that embrace uncertainty, loss, or bittersweet endings often feel more honest because they reflect the human experience.
My father was a student of philosophy. When I was younger, many of the things he said didn’t make sense to me. Over time, I realized they were all connected, shaped by experience rather than abstract ideas. There are hundreds of books he collected over the years, filling shelves with history, philosophy, and literature. They are more than a collection to me now. They are reminders of his curiosity, his wisdom, and the conversations we never got to finish. His reading glasses are still there, along with his collection of Persol glasses, exactly where he left them. Sometimes they make it feel as though he has only stepped away for a moment.
My happiest chapter ended the day I said goodbye to him. God, how much he filled my life with love, laughter, and everything I could have ever wished for. Since then, I’ve understood that the longer we live, the more loved ones we lose. Grief is not the opposite of love. It is the price we pay for it.
The only ending we all truly share is death. Until then, life is full of unanswered questions, imperfect resolutions, and moments that can feel empty. That is what makes it real. I think books should capture that reality instead of pretending every journey ends with everything falling into place. The stories that stay with us are often the ones that remind us life is beautiful, painful, unpredictable, and unfinished.
What is your favorite holiday? Why is it your favorite?
My favorite holidays aren’t defined by one place or one trip. When I think about them, I think about my father, my Aba, and the way he made travel feel like so much more than just going somewhere new. He didn’t just take us on vacations, he made us a part of something he truly loved. From sitting by the window on the Pacific Coast Amtrak train watching the ocean stretch endlessly beside us, to long drives from Los Angeles to Lake Tahoe filled with conversations and quiet moments, every journey felt complete simply because we were together.
Some memories still feel almost unreal, like climbing over a thousand steps to reach Mount Saint Michel in France, exhausted but happy, or traveling across Europe from Paris to Zurich and Amsterdam, experiencing new places while holding onto that same sense of closeness. Aba always said his trips would feel empty without us, and now I understand what he meant. It was never about the destination for him, it was about sharing those moments with family, about making sure we were there with him in everything he experienced.
Now when I look back, those memories mean everything to me, but they are also bittersweet. I sometimes think about going back to the same cafés and places just to feel close to him again, even though I know it won’t ever be the same. And maybe that is okay. What stays with me is not the places, but the feeling he created, the warmth, the togetherness, and the quiet happiness of being there as a family. I have already lived my favorite holidays and most of my wish list. I was 29 when I lost my father. He is a big part of me and will always be. I dream of him often and find comfort in that.
Having good people in your life matters more than anything. People who truly want the best for you, guide you, and speak well of you even when you’re not around. I may not have many friends, but the ones I do have always stand by me. What we share is real and mutual.
Friends are the family you choose. They lift you when you’re down, and being with them just feels right. No filters, no pretending.
It’s important to find People who make you realize there’s nothing wrong with being who you are.
Life is a series of unpredictable events. Nothing and no one is ever certain. Even your own existence might not be there for the things you have planned. The people around you, your friends, they are with you only if they truly value you not for what they can gain. True bonds are unconditional. You should be able to trust someone completely, eyes closed, without hesitation.
We spend so much time planning unaware of what might happen along the way. That is why it is important to live life on your own terms. You only live once. Make sure that when you leave this world you can be at peace knowing you never settled for the bare minimum just because society expected it. Most of us realize this after our mid-twenties and then life becomes a journey of self-exploration.
Make the most of the time you have before it is too late and you are left with regrets. Every moment should be cherished. The only thing we can control is the present and how we face it not the past or the future. Overthinking destroys our present. I do it myself and it brings anxiety. Sometimes all I can do is reach out to those close to me and let them help calm my mind.
Life is unpredictable but it is beautiful. The key is to live it fully, love deeply, and hold onto what truly matters.
A part of me still wakes in the first days after, reaching for a voice the world can’t return.
A part of me still holds the phone, forgetting and remembering in the same breath.
And though that ache never fully heals, it is the proof that love outlives loss— the part of me that keeps going because they’re gone, and because they were here.
Autumn and winter have always been my favorite seasons. The soft sunlight, the early evenings, the cool breeze, and a warm cup in my hands slow the world down just enough for me to breathe. These months wrap around me with a calm nothing else gives.
But the calm has a shadow.
Every year, as the cold settles in, I feel the chill inside me rise. My dadi’s death anniversary on 12th November changed this season forever. And this year, the ache is deeper, because my beloved Aba is gone too. The season I love most now arrives with memories that cut sharper than the wind.
So I disappear. I live on coffee, isolation, and sleep—anything to blur the days. It’s not that I don’t care… I just don’t have the strength to pretend. Only a few close friends know what November does to me. They check in quietly. They understand. And I’m grateful.
But the world keeps moving, while I stay stuck in the same loop of days and dates.
Writing is the only thing that softens the weight. When my thoughts spill out, the grief loosens, even if only for a moment.
12th November 2018 & 23rd April 2025—two dates that split my life in half. My Aba was my dadi’s youngest and her most loved. Now they’re together in the forever realm, and I’m the one left with the ache. This pain is all I have of them, and letting it go would feel like losing them again.
“ But if you knew, you might not be able to see it again tomorrow, everything would suddenly become special and precious, wouldn’t it?”
— Kafka on the Shore, Haruki Murakami
We move through life assuming continuity—believing the places we love will stay, the people we cherish will remain, and the moments we live will repeat themselves. But what if they don’t?
This quote from Kafka on the Shore is a quiet reminder of impermanence. It urges us to see the beauty in the ordinary, to treat today not as another page in a never-ending book, but as a fragile, irreplaceable chapter.
That hallway in your childhood home where the light always falls a certain way. The friend you always assume you’ll see next weekend. The elder who would guide you with their wisdom won’t be sitting at the table again as they did. The lazy Sunday morning filled with silence and coffee. They might not be there tomorrow. Not in the same way.
We often chase big dreams and future plans, but perhaps the real magic lies in the small things we take for granted. Noticing them. Being present for them. Valuing them—not because they are rare, but because they are fleeting.
So next time you’re with someone you love, or in a moment that feels simple and still, pause. Soak it in. Because knowing it might not come again doesn’t make it sad—it makes it sacred.
